The past few day have been a bit cumbersome to say the least. Although my Christian heart knows better than to worship false idols, I turn to my worry dolls. For those who don’t know about worry dolls, they are hand-made out of wood and thread and are about the size of a fingernail. You see, In Guatemala where they originate, small children take these dolls and delegate one of their worries to each doll. Then, they put them under their pillow at night and gather them back up when they awake in the morning. It is said that these dolls will hold all of your worries while you sleep. Since I am a stressful person and tend to worry about everything, these dolls are a good use to me. It feels so nice to put all of my stresses away for the night, to tuck them in safely, in return for a refreshing start to my day. If one big worry can be contained into such a small object, perhaps the worry should not exist at all.

When I turn to my dolls, I tend to give them the same worries. I feel as if they are continuously confronted with deja vu. This thought reminds me of a poem I wrote a few months ago. I one has a constant worry that is never resolved, why is it there in the first place. It is time for me to let go of things that aren’t in my cards and make a play on the ones that are.

Deja vu

If life is planned

or pre-conceived notions dictate

the way we live, me and you and everyone

day to day encounters

lack coincidence no second guessing necessary

each occurrence lay before me

acted out, a play of blind participants

every moment happening

as it should be.

If our lives are programmed no glitches assumed

Yet perfection’s effort aimed too high

Whom then shall I fear?

Have you ever tried to explain a deja vu? They show up in the most random places!

Embrace strange occurrences, they’re going to happen anyway.

Cheers,

-B

As November comes to a frozen end, this poem from my ongoing portfolio seems fitting. Originally written for a upper-level poetry class in the fall of 2007, I have revised this piece several times until I managed to capture the feelings that lie within the meaning of COLD.

A Chilly Remembrance

The Forgotten Cold

Crackling against the bitter night’s breeze

Spitting embers like an erupting volcano,

A small yet roaring fire preserves the gazer’s warmth

During the unforgiving truth that is November.

The flaming tips of golden fire neglect

Waves of heat one might enjoy.

Making this eve more bearable than last,

Hopes the frostbite lay dormant in this depressing

Season of the hibernating sun.

Nostrils flare with the intake

burning woods,

Which now, just a haze

Veiled beneath the snowfall,

Apart from the glowing comfort,

The heat of the fire.

Breath cannot be seen, in thanks

To this pyramid of birch,

Dwindling its glow on a temporarily

Warm night in November.

MS