I bend to be formed,
not torn or broken
but tempered by heat,
a fire so hot
the white is all
You see of me.
I said “change” and “grow”
and I’m bent so low
this shape of me
is screaming--
melting brass in Your
hands, forged by
tools so strong
I fear the breaking.
But I'm bound to bend,
be shaped, sheared
shown anew
the sound of me,
the shine of me,
gleaming glory.
Yes, choosing to bend
not break,
become the beautiful
breath of sudden sound
built by your Spirit (breath)
living notes
played through me
a golden song borne on the wind....
~~~~~~~~~~
Oh, yeah, I like this, Jody Lee! Wonderful metaphore!
ReplyDeletewhew...nice intensity...the molding, making and refining of us def comes with some bending and maybe even a bit of screaming...smiles.
ReplyDeleteI felt like I was watching a ballerina.
ReplyDelete... especially love final stanza. Beautiful.
DeleteLaurie that is the nicest compliment I've ever been given about a poem. I am quieted with thanks.
DeleteI felt the strength in your lines... nice
ReplyDeleteI read your poem aloud, as I REALLY liked the sound of the words you chose! And, the final stanza was breathtaking.
ReplyDeleteWow. The first stanzna is so powerful. The white hot image is great.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful poem...it's one I want to keep and pull out when needed...
ReplyDeleteThe fire is our conscience. And to some the heat is terrible. The conscience can be terrible, and it will, to some, be an eternal fire. To think of it mending you, as you do, is nice, of course. But I prefer to have it like a camp fire. :-)
ReplyDelete