Christmas

I had the honor to write and read this Christmas poem for REAL, in Pataskala, Ohio for their Christmas Eve service. It came swiftly, softly and with great joy. Though the story is one that has been recited and replayed with each passing year, there’s a special refreshed holiness that fills when mediating on the birth. Such a gift.

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december 24

by Regan Smith

This newborn baby’s eyelashes, 
finer than the straw which supports His back, 
gentle, like the moonbeams on that birth night.

They bat out dirt from the eyes
that see incredible miracles performed. 

These soft hands outstretched with tiny fingers, 
are laid on the sick, who become healed;
His whole life to prepare 
these growing hands
to become pierced. 

Swaddled in strips of cloth,
wrap the little baby’s body, 
full of life; 
long sheets of spices and linen, 
used to envelop His dead body; 
only to be folded and lay idle within the vacant tomb, 
uncovering His death-defying resurrection. 

For this resurrection of grace and glory, 
is the same glory that descended 
on this starry night, 
on this humble birth. 
This holy birth.

For our whole, complete, 
full salvation–lacking nothing, 
was born in the bright eyes of this pure baby, 
conceived to be a sacrifice. 

And with the East star’s shine, 
descending onto earth, 
such softness and compassion ensued, 
as God Himself 
was birthed into humanity, 
woven into this gentle baby. 

For this birth, 
doused in divinity, 
was only the beginning
of our everlasting life. 

Warmth + Gratitude

n o v e m b e r 1 7

A candle flickers in my peripherals, with its fragrance filling the air. Lavender. The same scent steams from my—laced with peppermint leaves. The warmth swirls within my mouth as I relax in to my chair. My eyes are met with a polaroid photo that I pinned to the wall. It’s of my mother and I at my brother’s summer wedding. Even the polaroid photo catches the radiance in her smile. 

I’ve always wanted to emulate my mother, and at a young age defined success as being a mother with many children. But I’ve grown to recognize that it’s her bright spirit I long to mirror, how she illuminates every scene. 

I step into deeper, digressing thought. My features are a fifty-fifty blend of her’s and my father’s. I love that. So perplexing how genes can mix and fuse and swap and join together. God never misses a moment to showcase His artistry.

I see my mother’s strength, and recognize that it’s fortified. It originates in her intimate encounters with The Creator. She’s an incredible showcase of her strength, for it’s in her nature. Her strength is her speaking openly, sharing words, hurt, her testimony–all to help and relate to others–meeting them where they are at, only to bring them to a higher place, bringing heaven down for us to dwell within. I’m so thankful for her golden heart.

During the trip for my brother’s wedding, we visited the California sand dunes. I stole this time to be still within the present, hiding away in the divots between the dunes. Here, I wrote this poem. 

My Mother

Eyes lining each petal, 
the soft and vulnerable centers, 
taking notice of every bundle of hydrangeas, 
black eyed susans and hummingbird sage. 

Your mind sketches them in charcoal, 
paints them with acrylics, 
writes them into a book, 
with a matching movie,
while treasuring this time. 

Your eyes
brighten by the ocean, 
by the mountains, 
by the coming-of-age of the brother of mine. 

Your heart is always heavy for others, 
but forever increases in capacity, 
unbroken by burdens, 
free like the swallows skimming over sand. 

My face is beginning to resemble yours 
with the passing years–
cheekbones prominent,
my almond-shaped eyes.

I pray that my spirit’s maturation, 
does the same.

• • •

n o v e m b e r 2 2

I retreated from the warmth beneath the bedtime covers and was greeted by the morning. Its light gently descended out across our home—spilling across the carpet and cabinets. My body was bathed in peppermint as the cool air brought a refreshing bite to my skin.

It’s Thanksgiving morning. Ricky is in the bathroom—water-on, water-off—brushing his teeth in preparation for his work day.

I read a while, and take Rollie (our little min-pin mix) outside. The frost has melted away, but the air is still pure. I think that’s my favorite trait of the end of year months, that morning’s renewal bleeds into later within the day. It’s free from the scorching, harsh heat, not weighed heavy from humidity. 

I brew some tea and refill the vase that holds goldenrods and peach roses. They were waiting for me in cellophane wrapping when I arrived home from work earlier this week and have since expanded out their petals to full-bloom. 

I fold laundry, the little load of white shirts, towels, socks. I dwell on the day’s purpose–the day of giving thanks. I name all things I’m thankful for, regardless of size: 

The overflow and outpour of Love, and how it spills and splashes about. 
The husband who kisses me before leaving our home for the day. 
My family who generously shares in conversation, despite our coast-to-coast distance. 
These quiet mornings, gifted with the intent for my mind to rest. 
These warm and freshly folded linens.

My heart is full, soul soothed, and my mind is in a posture of gratitude. 

• • •

n o v e m b e r 2 4

The moment I began writing affirmations, the sun debuted for the day. My skin, my shirt soaked up its warmth. After a few seconds, it withdraws, idling back behind the clouds. This cool, autumn afternoon, is to be spent sipping on a muggy coffee drink. 

I move onto the second string of affirmations, and the sun peeks out again. It’s an honest moment, and my hand and pen become a dancing shadow on these bright white, lined sheets.

This simple gesture has shed light on the significance that saunters about. Fullness.

A Hero in Flames

This is the second post of Jane's on this site, with her first being White Stag. This next poem, A Hero in Flames, took my breath away and poured inspiration into my empty cup. A while after writing this poem, Jane found that she is officially cancer free–a miraculous work of God that deserves ceaseless celebration.

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a hero in flames

by jane claudio

If I was to die
It would be with the reflection of the mountains in my eyes
I would die with sun-pink cheeks
And a mouth full of blackberries

I want to die while my heart is still a greenhouse for hope
All my wild dreams as seedlings in egg cartons
Reaching toward the window

I cannot die yellow and hungry
I will not die in sterile air

But I would like to die
While the fireflies are still glowing
Morse coding their poetry for a cynical earth

I would like to die like Joan of Arc
With dignity and urgency and stubbornness
As a watercolor portrait in the night
A sight to behold, a hero in flames

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Photo by Keeli Faith

Jane Claudio is a cancer survivor in Nashville, Tennessee. She uses writing as a cure for loneliness and a magnifying glass for the beauty we experience every day. She is also shares her words through songwriting, with her work being accessible at www.nightbirde.com. 

Strongholds

Marya Layth is an author I stumbled upon through an acquaintance. She is the author of More Than Bread, stunning poetry collection that I acquired through a free Kindle promotion, and then promptly ordered a paperback for both me and my sister. She is a creative of several mediums, words being one, but also illustrations. With a myriad of talents, we welcome Marya Layth to share her beautiful words that will be included in her upcoming poetry collection, releasing 2019, Hadal and the Daystar.

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Strongholds

by marya layth

Hail Marys rain from my mouth
as I write about the storm
I was born to bear.

It drowns the parts of me
still learning
how to swim.

So, I hold on to this poetry like driftwood,
because it is stronger than I will ever be

and carries this twin tempest with a grace
I always seem to just fall short of.

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Marya Layth is a writer and artist driven by the desire to fill empty spaces with meaning—an obsession that leads her to the blank page and canvas time and time again. Marya has found refuge and strength in creativity since childhood; using it as a means to combat chaos and a tool to express the power of love.

Her words can be found on her Instagram, with her art soon to be accessible through her environmentally-friendly shop, The Poetic Forest.

Tiger Lilies and Love Letters

Cheyenne Raine is a contributing author to Introspective Collective. We often email each other alternatively, with this poem landing in my inbox. I received it on a particularly rough afternoon, one in which didn't conform to time's calculated temperament. I retreated to a separate room during my work day, and soaked in the words. I cried honest tears from the genuine love stitched into these letters. I pray they speak to you, as they've spoken to me. 

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Tiger Lilies and Love Letters

a bundle of tiger lilies fall asleep
when the moon rises.
i do believe you would like
to rise, early, with me,
and walk outside,
barefoot and sleepy–
to see how the sun's fingertips
slowly open up the orange petals.
they open so gently, light spilling
into their core.

i wish that i could gather
more than tiger lilies
and fresh sage, for you.
i wish that they could be tucked into brown paper bags
and kept fresh on a road trip to you. left at your doorstep
with the smallest of letters that whispers:
today you are a bundle of joy, to me.
so, here is a bundle of joy, for you.

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Cheyenne's books are available on the 'Books' page with a link to order on Amazon (charcoal thunderstorms pictured), and she's currently working on a special bilingual poetry collection! 

San Francisco in July

Towards the ending weeks of last month, I went out to San Francisco for a work trip; after work hours I wandered on-foot into local bookstores, hiked upon hills, came across community gardens, and watched out onto the city. I was fully entertained, though requesting dinner reservations for one.  

I remember how I use to pull away from solitude, how it was a space to abuse my body and cycle the cognition my mind would stammer about my existence. I didn’t know then what I know now, as time and age often matures into a sweeter standing.

Present day dwellings, solitude is an opportunity to take an unfiltered open-eyed look at my intentions and actions, the habits that my mind instantly acts upon. This is the act in which has enabled me to grow comfortable with being alone, for this practice is one that I try to often pulse. I find enjoyment in analyzing how and why I react to circumstances, and its realignment. 

Since I was away for a little over a week, this ensued as a fluid flow throughout the trip's duration. Several traits that I didn’t know that I had surfaced to eye-level—both the beautiful and the brutal. 

I discovered that I love on others more than I think that I do, and that I always aim to stay in a state of stillness. I also found that I had subconsciously linked the contrast of my life from yesterday to today as a currency to salvation; a fraudulent thought that had been utilized to chip away at forgiveness for myself for the past few months. 

I’m sitting next to myself, a mirror—black kerchief folded and knotted around my neck, brown hair slighting spilling over my shoulders.

My heart is pooling in grace and mercy, forgiveness and favor. I will always be in a state of gratitude, giving thanks for conviction, and the stillness that softly speaks truth. 

• • •

j u l y   2 3

Misson & 18th

I sit among the street vendors
selling soggy dried books and soiled t-shirts, 
we engage in conversation. 

I look out and watch; 
each passerby
engaging in this air, 
traveling towards their next destination. 

The younger man with
baggy jeans, and black sunglasses
tugging at the collar of his shirt. 

The older woman crossing the street,
pushing her daughter in her stroller, 
dodging the street’s cracks and holes. 

The ‘clean fuel bus’ slides across the skyward strings, 
holding several hundred hearts a day, 
their heads jounce in unison
to the awry asphalt. 

The stranger wandering, 
not familiar to a smile, 
though we smile anyways.  

Melted posters paper-mâché 
the sides of the telephone poles, 
and wooden walls are covered
in metal diamond patterns,

akin to all, 
foreign to none.

• • •

j u l y   2 5

Atop a red rocked hill, 
overlooking San Francisco in July, 
where cities and sky intertwine; 
pastel houses stacked, 
buildings climb high. 

The wind is heavy here, 
eager to even take this pen and paper away, 
to have me only captivated by its whirl, 
for it has a jealous mind. 

City shaded, 
fog rolling in, 
dust becomes unsettled. 

Neither weak are the mountains
nor my bones; 
the red rocks
and my blue blood.

• • •

j u l y   2 7

This week has been
gold purified by fire; 
tried and tested— 
results revealing, 
conviction gentle, 
grace abounding.

Nothing on this earth
can touch
or take away
your obedience.

We will always be guided to light, 
as long as we open our eyes.