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.

With Eyes to See

It has been a long time since I've posted something on my blog. I had high hopes when I started college that I would have many things to post, but 'twas not the case. I didn't do much writing other than school papers, which, though some were interesting to write, I will not post here because they are not quite lively enough for this blog. Last semester, however, I had a Creative Writing class which gave me a jump-start on some material to share with the world. And without further adieu, here is the first of three poems I wrote for that class.

(This is a picture I took of U Hall which sorta sets the mood to my poem.)

With Eyes To See

By Melody Beerbower, September 8, 2015

Raindrops fall from a charcoal sky,

Liquid spheres of sorrow

Turning the world to grey.

They dampen the heads below them

Bent close to examine the pavement

With barren eyes.

Crooked cracks disfiguring the sidewalks

Traveled by too many feet

Capture the rain in miniature rivers

And drain it onto the blacktop.

Men and woman hurry along

Passing each other like dignified trains

Gliding by,

Each with a separate track.

In the swirling mud at their feet

A sparrow lies

Struggling in a tangle of filthy string.

The shoes of earthy brown tread close

But never once do crush it.

And never once do the downcast eyes

Have sight to see

Its plight.

A man approaches, with head bent low

And eyes half-closed against the wind,

Clutching a paper cup of coffee.

His heavy boots splash through the mud,

One tan shoe lace trailing behind

As though it lacks the strength

To keep the shoe securely fastened.

As he stretches his foot out in perfect stride,

Right over the place the sparrow lays struggling,

A stranger bumps his shoulder

Pushing him stumbling

Backward and knocking the coffee from his hand.

The dark liquid mingles with the rain,

No different from the mud bellow.

As he bends to retrieve his cup,

His wayward gaze

Is pierced the sparrow’s eyes.

Trickling in their dark depth,

The yearning for life and freedom grows.

The sparrow lays still

In the man’s work-worn hands.

As carefully he peels away the string.

People pass on either side

Like water around a sturdy rock in a swiftly flowing stream.

Finally, the string falls away,

And curls up in the mud at his feet,

Next to the languid shoelace.

With one soft stroke to the Sparrow’s head

And one to the wing now free,

And one last look into its eyes

He lifts his hand, palm outstretched,

And releases the sparrow into the grey.

The man watches its flight toward the hazy sun,

As the dark screen rolls away.

He squints his eyes

As it is swallowed up

In the newly-discovered brightness.

Someone stumbles against the man

As he stands with his gaze in the sky.

He catches their arm and points aloft

And says in awakening awe, “Look, man. See.”

The next man turns his face briefly to the sky,

But the sight holds him there.

He nudges another beside him and points,

And so it continues and on down the line

Until along the street people are stopping

To gaze upward,

For a beautiful rainbow has replaced the rain.

Even though the rainbow slowly begins to fade,

The people are still talking to one another.

They resume their walk,

But their eyes are no longer on the ground below,

But wander about in the warmth of the sun

And all because one man rescued a sparrow

And turned his broken gaze above.

Everyone Knows It's Amy

Time has come once more to do a birthday post. This time it is for my dear sister Amy. She has waited a long time for this moment--for the time when I would write her a song. Well Amy, here it is. Happy 17th! (And yes I know I'm a day late. I was waiting until she returned from her retreat.)

For those of you who do not know the tune, here it is:

Everyone Knows it’s Amy

By Melody Beerbower with Help from Jeannette, February 14, 2015

Who’s trippin’ down the steps of the stairway

Eager to tell something new that she’s learned

Who’s popping up in everyone’s picture

Everyone knows it’s Amy

Who’s wandrin’ through the aisles on a Sunday

Smilin’ at everybody she sees

Who’s reaching out to tickle the children,

Everyone knows it’s Amy

And Amy has gorgeous eyes

That brighten up all our lives

And Amy she always tries

To be a help

Who’s scribbling down the start of a story

In letters too small for people to see

Who’s drying pans with her little sister

Everyone knows it’s Amy

And Amy has gorgeous eyes

That someday will capture guys

 But she’s too young to form ties

For right now

 

Who’s trying out the schemes of her sister

Bumping her head and scraping her knee  

Who’s folding up a mountain of laundry

Everyone knows it’s Amy

And Amy has braces too

To make her smile look brand new

Improving it’s hard to do

Because it’s so bright

Who’s waited years for a song to be written

All about her with lyrics by me

Who will be thrilled to finally have one

Everyone knows it’s Amy

But Amy has another song

She’s hated it all along

To sing it now would be wrong

Let’s do anyway…

 Amy what you want to do?

 I think I could stay with you

 For a while, maybe longer if I do

Who’s reaching out to whop on my noggin

Mad and upset pretending to be

Who cannot hide the curve of her smile

Everyone knows it’s Amy

And Amy makes a real good friend

I could make verses again and ‘gain

But it’s time for this song to end

So that’s all for now

Writing with Hope

What is the point of a story if it does not bring hope? What is the point if all a story brings is sadness, hardship, despair, and evil? Is not the world full enough already with those things without us adding to them? If you want to see evil, if you want to feel pain, look at the world around you. It does not take much looking to see the suffering. It does not take much looking to see the evil. Why must we create more of it in our stories?

And yet, there is a place for sadness, and evil, and pain in tales that we write, for it can bring change and healing. Without it, the stories would be lifeless, mere platitudes, yes even a mockery to those in pain. For life truly is full of all those things. So how can I speak out of both sides of my mouth then saying we must not write evil and yet we must write evil? 

It is the evil without hope that I write against. Stories must end in hope--even if just a glimmer of it--for stories show us life. And to give up hope, is to up life. 

For a christian especially there is hope, even in death--especially in death. It is sometimes the privilege of  stories to reveal that hope in our lives, or to recall it to us when it grows dim, and we seem to have lost it. 

If it ever comes to a point where our stories lose all hope and happy ends, it will be a sad world indeed to live in... 

But ah! Where is the hope in that? 

I do not despair for I am sure there are others like me who still hold dear the happy endings of their childhoods and wish to see them return. And perhaps, perhaps I might have a small hand helping them once more bring hope to our world.