I Found A Poem

In the recesses of my documents saved on my laptop, I discovered this bit of writing. It doesn’t have a title, but if it did, it just might be called “Sorrow.”
I’m not sharing this poem now because I am feeling particularly sorrowful, I just thought it actually sounded kind of nice.

It’s not every day you come across old writing that’s not horrible!

Well, maybe my poetry class next semester will be the true judge of that….



Time doesn’t heal

Open wounds

Scaled over

By scars


To the touch

Of words



From the pain


The brain




To feel again


Though empty

Full of memory

Of times


Glistening eyes

No amount

Of silence

Can disguise


We exist on


Of past time

Of how we

Pass time

We carry on


For our journey


We will never

Be the same

You and I

We will never

Cease to cry


But smile

Teary eyed

At the ones

We have left

To love


(Photo by my wonderful brother Ben Haws)

Fall Semester Philosophy

Questions, questions, tell me why

Every day I see the sky.

Sometimes pink, most times blue,

But she won’t tell me what to do.

Rain, rain, never far,

Tell me of the sun, my star.

Does he know the hour when

I won’t be seeing him again?

Flower, flower, while you’re here

Sing to me a song I’ll hear

Through the night while I don’t sleep

Flower, tell me, will you speak?

Mirror, mirror, in the night

Who am I without the light?

When darkness creeps hard and cold

Tell me, will my soul grow old?



Did I say that?

Some things you just don’t expect will ever come out of your mouth.

Like someone else’s hair, bitter ocean water, or a clump of grass, but mostly we don’t expect certain combinations of words to come out.

“Don’t pour milk on your head.”

“Stop licking the table.”

“We don’t play ‘bathroom’ outside.”

“We don’t eat books at nap time or ever.”

“Everybody has arm hair.”

“Did you color this other kid’s arm?”

“Stop clogging the sink with paper towels to make it overflow into the floor.”

This, of course, is not an exhaustive list. I’m sure other strange things have issued from my mouth that I have since forgotten.

What inspired all theses words?

One word:


I love them all dearly, and I can’t believe it’s been six months now that I have worked as a preschool teacher. Every day is a roller coaster of adventure full of tears, screams, hugs, and giggles. Often I come home exhausted, but I always come home with stories.

I leave you with one last word:


Snow Day

Sugar sifting through the sky

Meets the earth and turns to lye.

As it speeds without a sound

Icing coats the cold, hard ground.

Cherry noses press the glass

Crossing fingers for “no class.”

Dusty blue shadows of trees

Sway in the minty breeze.

The moment that the word is out,

Finger crossers jump and shout.

On 3 socks, 2 shirts, 1 hat,

coat, and boots from the door side mat.

Go fetch the plastic sled to play.

There’s something magical the 1st snow day.

Safe to Shore

In the writer’s group I’m connected with, I just wrote a fun little short story for a challenge.

The challenge was to play a random song from your music and write a short story inspired by it.

I just finished mine.

I present to you my short short story inspired by Rend Collective’s song “My Lighthouse”. (To listen to the song, click here.)

     In the darkness my head beats against an angled crag. Suffocating saltwater plunges into my open mouth burning and biting. I cling to the rock with cut hands coughing my lungs out. A wave beats me again scraping my nose against the rock.

I hear someone scream off to my left. My own voice is too drowned for noise.

My food is gone.

My violin is gone.

My life is gone.

I hardly fight for air. Why bother?

The water lifts me in a wave only to send me tumbling against another rock.

Someone is crying – wailing.

I float on my back, tempted to close my eyes to the inviting darkness. My watery eyes blink.

A golden light beams from somewhere.

People shout. Something about a lighthouse. Something about safety.

Water covers my head. The light quivers before my open eyes, but it grows brighter.

I smile, feeling one with the water.

     If this is how I end, then let it be.

I close my eyes.

Something forces my head above the water. Next my shoulders are held up. Firm hands pound my stomach. I erupt with water coughing and gasping. The air stings my rasping throat. Water still swirls around my waist, but someone holds me up.

Someone warm.

I keep my eyes closed. The light is so strong now, so close – I can smell it.

“There now,” a deep voice beside me says. “I will carry you safe to shore.”

The firm arms wrap around me and hold me close. The troubled sea beats against him, but I can hear a faint melody in the distance.


Violin music.

Warmth swells in my heart. My hair begins to feel dry.

The music outplays the waves now, and I hear people dancing.

“Here we are,” he says leaning down and dropping my legs.

I don’t want him to leave me. I don’t want him to let go.

I don’t even know what he looks like. His warm hands take mine.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he whispers. Then he twirls me around.

We dance in time with the music with wet sand under our feet. As the last note plays and the people clap, he leans down and whispers in my ear,

“Trust this promise: I will carry you safe to shore.”


Well, at Least I Survived…

To be honest, my year hasn’t been all sunshine and roses.

Also, to be honest, I don’t really like roses because they smell kind of bitter and then poke me with thorns.

So actually you could say this year has had some roses.

The prickly, wild kind.

Not the pretty ones all tied up in bouquets with tissue paper. Honestly, I think those kind of flowers are a waste. In a few days they dry up and you have to throw them away.

It’s like watering a vase of money and then tossing it into the compost pile (but this isn’t really supposed to be about my nonromantic commentary on flowers – it’s about my year of roses).

The prickly, wild kind of roses have been through rain.

(And no, I didn’t draw that. This person did.)

They stretch out ridged against the wind and uncurl their petals in the morning.

I’ve been struck by a few thorns this year.

Frisky in April.

Grandpa in June.

Even graduation is a kind of thorn.

The end of the familiar and threat of change pricks in its own way.

A bit of fear learning something new as school begins, and the shock of a collapsed lung.

Not mine. My Grandma‘s.

They re-inflated it, but I still breathe a little heavier.

I can’t tell you how scared I’ve been this year.

Scared of unseen thorns as I wade in the darkness of a secret garden.

Not the sun shiny one with the boy who talks to animals, but the one left for dead.

The undiscovered one.

The garden of my life.

Along with the thorns and wild, prickly roses, there are puddles of cool, reflective water.

I love puddles.

Just this Sunday, I stepped in some puddles with my black, rubber flats I wore to church.

Puddles are miniature adventures.

This year has had many miniature adventures.

Like the late night Goodwill run for an ugly Christmas sweater.

Like the neighborhood sledding hill.

Like the kids that came to my cabin to sew.

Like the novel I finished this year and won semi-finalist (and no, you can’t read it right now!)

Like the dance I made for 5th and 4th grade girls to exercise to.

Like the hugs from across-the-country-friends I’ve only known online.

There are also some “puddles” I’ve kept to myself this year, because they are my miniature adventures.

Honestly, I don’t think you’d be too interested. And that is ok.

My year has had puddles and roses.

As I keep walking in my secret garden, I’ll explore and feel and see.

And who knows what I will find.

And what will find me.

(This post is dedicated to my Katie. You know who you are.)


A Puzzling Secret Message

As an avid reader and hobbyist writer, I’ve come to realized that my everyday life is mundane and extraordinary at the same time.

No, I don’t go on dragon killing adventures in Middle Earth in real life, but some days I escape lava, disable evil robots, and shrink to two inches high – while babysitting of course.

I’m not the heiress to an enormous fortune, nor am I in a poorhouse washing bottles.

A novel about my life would be downright boring, because I avoid conflict at all costs, and any good storyteller knows that conflict drives a story!

This December, however, my life became a little more exciting. A mysterious letter with two stamps arrived from my “Secret Santa”.

Now, I had signed up for a Secret Santa letter writing thing with some of my writer friends so I knew something would be coming, but the enchantment and mystery only increased from there.

When my first letter arrived, I filmed myself opening it, and I had to continue after that.

I have come to realize that I have very strange reactions when I am excited about something.

I guess it all started back when I was 10 (or at least that’s when it first was documented).

I opened what was at the time my favorite movie:

a recording of Stratford, Ontario Theatre’s “The Pirates of Penzance”.

I am known as a very enthusiastic person…if you haven’t picked up on that already.

The second time around for my puzzle letter, I had my friend and Mom help me out (with some commentary from Dad).

And then lastly we come to the end of my puzzling saga in which I whip out several musical and movie references.

(Those of you who know me personally know that 87% of my vocabulary is quotation. )

This was a wonderful pre-Christmas journey! My life doesn’t have too much excitement – except for the excitement I bring into it myself – so this was a fantasmigorical thing to look forward to!

Now, whenever I feel that my life is uneventful, I can re-watch my excitement and wonder.