My Kids

As many of you know, I just got back from working at summer camp. I've been wanting to write a poem about camp for a long time, but there were too many feelings, memories, and moments to capture in one poem. Besides, everything felt really cheesy. I was attempting to write an essay on camp, when the first two lines of this poem popped into my head, and I knew I had the beginning I was looking for. I don't know if I successfully steered away for the cheesy, but I think the poem accurately captures not only my feelings about camp, but also many of the memories I have from there.

I hope that there is some universal truths captured in this poem as well that will resonate with you even if you've never worked at a camp before. Without further ado, here is the poem.

My Kids
By Melody Beerbower 8-24-2019

I call them my kids,
But they're not really mine.
How could they be?
There are too many of them.
Eight in a cabin
Three cabins a week
seven weeks of the summer
Four years in a row...
How could they all be mine?

I've forgotten many names,
Though there's always an Amaya, a Britney, a Kailey,
I do remember the dark brown eyes
The hazel, the green, the blue.
I remember the smiles, the pouts
The long red hair, the bright blue weave,
The blond braids, the prickly undercut
The zig-zagged cornrows.

I remember their skin as dark as charcoal,
Coffee beans, coco,
Light as caramel, yellow as the sand on the beach,
Olive, tan, pale, pink as a sunburned cloud.
I remember the bruised, the scared
The smooth, the ashy, the hairy, the freckled.
I remember then much shorter
The year before.
They always insist on coming back older
Than they were.

How could they be mine?
They all have families.
Dad in jail. Mother on drugs.
Or was it the other way 'round?
Lots of grandmas who love them,
And grandmas who don't.
Aunts and cousins
Step-brothers and half-sisters
Older siblings who are more like parents,
And close friends who are more like family
Than those related by blood.
Biological, adopted,
Fostering, homeless

I wonder what they will remember...
A skinny white girl with a big smile,
A little too energetic,
Who wore strange costumes and was always singing,
Who taught them about God
And how to forgive. 

Will they remember the buzz of the fan on hot nights
When I stepped into the cabin
To scold them and sing them to sleep?

Will they remember the cold lake water
That splashed their face
As we dashed in holding hands and screaming?

The Bible verses sung with raspy voices
Worn out from cheering?
The picnic table talks
Where they spilled their frustrations
And we discussed how Jesus would react?

The thunk of an arrow hitting the target for the first time.
The joy of capturing tiny toads.
The smooth speed of slipping down the water slide

The simple fireside stories
Spoken as the sun turned the lake and sky
A deeper orange than the fire that flickered before them...

What makes you belong to someone?
Is it traced through the blood:
Mother, father, sister, brother?
Is it based on the authority they hold over you?
Caregiver, guardian,
Teacher, correction officer.
Or is it more?

I was responsible for them for a week.
I've been called Mama.
And teacher.
Been cussed at,
And told I was hated,
But I loved each one of them
And so 
I call them my kids--
Even though I know they belong to others
Even though I may not see them again.
And it's ok,
Because I know who they truly belong to
And He is able to care for them better
Than I even could. 

Hope you enjoyed. Don't forget to pray for the kids in you life, even if they're not really yours. :) 

Walk Like a Penguin

Hi everyone! 

It has been way to long since I posted, but this cold weather and a certain info-graphic has inspired me to write another parody.  

Here is the graphic:

(I've seen if on Facebook and someone I know said it's up at their work. Couldn't find copy right info on it though. Basically someone else made it, not me.)

Here is the song it reminded me of:

And here is my parody:

(I wrote it in basically one day as soon as I thought of it because I had to write it first before somebody else did!)

Walk like a Penguin

By Melody Beerbower  1-29-19

Tune: Walk like an Egyptian

All the cold winter days of gloom,

We have to walk through the ice and snow.

If you move to quick (oh way oh)

You’re fallin’ down like a domino.

All the weather men on TV

They say the cold just won’t relent.

Cold, walking folks, (oh way oh)

Could break their hips on the slick cement.

Science guys with their suits and ties say

“Stay home, stay home, stay-ay-ay hooooome.

Or walk like a Penguin.”

The drivers have to scrape their cars.

They’re spinning out as they hit black ice.

Forgot the milk (oh no no)

How do you think they make it from rice?

All the school children so sick of books.

They like days off, just wanna stay in.

When the bell rings (oh way oh)

They’re walking like penguins.

All the kids of the school age say,

“No school, no school, no-ooo-o school.”

Walk like a Penguin

Your center of gravity should be

On your front leg, not the back.

Winter’s hard you know (so much snow)

Make it better with this life hack.

If you want to learn how to walk right

Just watch the penguins cross the ice

They waddle, yes (oh so cute)

They never fall down (‘cept once or twice.)

Document’ries show how they win

And Cumberbatch can’t say “penguin”

And Eskimos (oh way oh)

They march in a line like penguins.

All the news in recent issues say,

“Stay home, stay home, stay-ay-ay hooome.”

Or walk like a Penguin.

Walk like a Penguin…

Be careful out there on the ice! But for today, probably just stay inside. :)

P.S for those who don't know the Cumberbatch reference check out this link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jrdSPDWxelY

The Value of Tears

I wrote a little monologue about pain last year. I found it recently and composed it into a poem. The poem doesn't cover all my thoughts of pain. You can probably read too much into it, or too little, but I hope this poem brings comfort to some who are hurting.  

The Value of Tears

By Melody Beerbower, composed 10-19-16

It is not a great comfort to know,

when you are truly hurting,

that there are people

suffering worse things than you.

Either it makes you ashamed

that you should be heartbroken

over such a “small” thing,

without doing anything to relieve your hurt,

or it makes you suffer twice over

that there should be more pain in the world

than that which you now feel.

There you wobble

between pain, shame, and hopelessness,

so consumed with one emotion that you believe

surely you cannot feel another.

Yet there is another. And another.

And yet one more—

all tumbling upon you,

each burning with the same intensity as the first,

until you are sure that your heart will burst

with the pain and confusion of it all.

But your eyes burst first,

spitting out the betraying tears.

Tears you must hide,

for what right have you to cry?

What right even has your heart to break?

Your troubles are small. So, so, small.

And others, others have the right to cry.

Look at all they have suffered!

A thousand indescribable tortures.

And here you are with your little trials,

and your little pains—

Will not tears lose their value

if they are spent on such things as these?

Yet who has measured the value of tears?

Can they do more

than water the thorns that brought them forth?

Still there is One.

One who counts the tears.

One who gathers them into His bottle.

He knows their value,

for did He not know their sting?

Yet He does not name one of greater worth

and one of less.

Each tear that falls,

falls not to water death but life,

for death is dust, but life is soil.

And when at last pain loses

its strangling grasp on our hearts,

He is there to dry the tears,

reminding us that one day there will be no need

for the salty rain to water the earth,

and on that day, instead of bursting with pain, 

our hearts will burst with song.

Why Girl

This is a poem I wrote loosely based off of one of my campers this summer when I worked at Camp Beechpoint. It is written from her perspective talking to me.

Why Girl
by Melody Beerbower, Aug 3, 2016

Girl, 
Why you lookin' at me?
Don'tch ya know I don't want you to see
All the things I've built up walls to hide.
There aint no way I'm lettin' you see who I am inside.

Girl, 
Why you smilin' at me?
Don'tch you know it's only angry scowls I'm used to see?
But you always be doin' that cheerful smile,
And it jus' gets to me after awhile. 

Girl, 
Don'tch you go touchin' me!
I've been touched by others, you see,
In ways that makes me scared to accept a friendly touch
On shoulder or hair--it's just too much. 

Girl, 
Why you always talkin' about Jesus Christ?
How He died for us and wants us to be nice?
Jesus loves me so you say,
But you're the only one I've seen  live that way.  

Girl, 
You know I accepted Jesus the other night, 
But I don't know if I did it quite right. 
It's hard to follow when my friends lead me astray 
Maybe I can just try another day...

Girl, 
I hate this camp. And I hate you. 
I hate all you say and all that you do. 
I tell you I want to go home right today, 
But really it's because I just want to stay. 

So Girl, 
Don'tch you give up on me.
Keep on smilin' and loving and you will see
Little ways I'm showing you
How much I care because
Girl, I do.

Math Problems

School is well on its way, and so I thought it fitting to dredge up this poem from the past. I dedicate it to anyone who has ever struggled with a math problem.

Math Problems

By Melody Beerbower, 4-30-14

A thousand numbers scrawled on the page.

A thousand lines scribbled in rage.

I floundered and figured,

Struggled and scratched,

Differed and divvied,

Minused and matched.

I added and altered,

Combined and collected,

Rounded and reasoned,

Subtract and subjected.

Finally I rested, resigned, and reflected,

Trying to reach the answer expected.

And still it simply wouldn’t come,

And that’s when I decided that math was dumb.

P.S. I don't actually think math is dumb. There are just times that it makes one feel better to lay the blame on the math, even though we know it is never wrong. 

An Elegy to Rhyme

Here is a playful poem which I wrote for my Creative Writing class. For that assignment, we were supposed to write an elegy and were not allowed to use rhyme, so naturally, I combined those two items and used them as the basis of my poem.

An Elegy to Rhyme

By Melody Beerbower, October 24, 2015

O Crutch upon which I once leant,

Like a cliché, I thought that if I employed your beauty

Everyone would know what I

Was striving to express.

Should not the language of poetry be ethereal and fine?

To reach this high standard, I thought I must position

Echoing syllables at the end of every

Row of flowing, twisting words.

Without you, O Thread of Continuity, coupling together my mismatched ideas,

I trembled to ponder that my oft prosaic scribbles

Might not, at last, be classified as poetry.

In this fear I labored like a dutiful scribe,

And yet enjoyed my labors

Believing that this was the one thing

To which I must adhere with vehemence

If I were to obtain the ultimate essence of Poetry.

But, alas, ‘twas not so…

Woe, poor Words of Echoing Stem!

And Woe to me!

In a crippling stroke of heartlessness,

You were wrenched from my grasp

And I was pushed forward to find my stumbling way without you.

For I have been forced

To bury your archaic beauty in the tattered notebooks of Junior High.

And now at last the time has come to say

That I can see the reason

For this parting.

How oft dist you bind me in straightjacket form,

Forcing me with ghastly rigidity to twist my sentences

Into convoluted knots the very kindred of that ancient entanglement

Which only sword could rend asunder—  

All of this in order to satiate your voracious appetite

Like that of a toothless lion fruitlessly pursuing its prey.

Time and again, in short poems and long

You coerced me to choose words that were simply

Inferior and lacking in the depth and power I sought.

Loosed from your unmitigated structure,

I no longer have to squint at list upon list of miniature words in a dusty volume

Hoping that I might manipulate one to resemble my intended meaning.

I am at last free to select with care that word which epitomizes my thoughts

And brings them to life.

And yet…

Yet, at times…

I still long to call you back,

And hold in my fingers the steadiness of your polished symmetry,

And catch in my ear the echoing of your familiar cadence,

And know in my soul the thrill of that flawless word drawn from the stars

Slipping, unforced, into your stringent frame.

But alas, O Wiley Duplicator of Sounds,

Who doth both repel

And draw me in

It is my lot that I should’st endeavor

To make this separation last

For the rest of my time here

That I might grow stronger by your absence.

A Once Secluded Psalm

This is another poem I wrote for my Creative Writing class. It is an epistle poem. 

A Once Secluded Psalm

By Melody Beerbower; October 28, 2015

Dear God,

Sometimes I go to the woods

Beside a stream carrying autumn leaves on a gentle journey

Over sleeping rocks and silent sand.

There is no one to fight with there,

No one to disturb my restful contemplations

With crude language or sexual speech.

Instead I marvel at the nature

Which You have designed so intricately—

The thread-like veins of the Maple leaves

Spreading out like miniature streams and rivers;

The seeds that cling to my clothes with Velcro fingers

Until I pick them off and drop them to be planted in new soil.

Each thing I see is a testimony to Your wise design.

Sometimes I sit under University Hall’s stone arches  

In the cool shadow of the domed ceiling of limestone, 

And sing to You the old hymns that I love:

Be Still My Soul and What a Friend I Have In Jesus.

When the Gothic arches echo my voice

Sending it back fuller and purer than before,

It is not hard for me, in that moment,

To praise You.

And when the fog swaddles the trees in an opaque blanket

And nearly drowns the bell tower above me

In its misty damp,

Then, yes then, It is easy for my voice to speak Your name

And for me to know that You are surely here,

Creator, and yet creating still.

But when at last the electric bells compel me to start another round of classes,

Just as the fog scatters from the harsh rays of the sun

So, all too often, my trust and peace flee

In response to the bitter voices of people who surround me.

Once more I am afraid to speak of You.

Instead my voice joins in the battle of words

And the emptiness of deceit.

Those who do not believe dare to speak Your holy name—

In disgust, in rage, in flippant indifference

And still I—who regards the very sound of it as precious—

Remain silent

And pass by with down cast eyes

Pretending not to hear…

Forgive me O God,

And teach me to love you more!

Lock in my heart the peace and trust

You showed me by the shore.

I cannot merely stay beside the stream

Nor remain in archways of stone,

For You have called me to live my daily life

Here in this world

Surrounded by the people

You’ve taught me to love.

Strengthen me in the times of solitude

That I might proclaim You in times of strife

And make a once secluded psalm of praise

The psalm of my whole life.