Posted in Poetry

Beauty. Growth. Enjoyment.

I am buried deep in the darkness of the earth. The ground and all the creatures in it are my home.

Rain water washes in and around and beneath me causing me to spit and choke. I am lonely, bitter, and afraid.

The rain has bloated and swollen me. I feel pain. I feel like I’m bursting out of my skin. I feel the discomfort of being pushed and prodded. I cry and moan and scream out for someone, anyone, to help me. I close my eyes, and wish for death.

And then there is light. I feel growth and birth and warmth. The Gardener applauds my arrival. I am the first. Slowly to be joined by others just like me who have made this long strange journey upward.

I felt at first as if I were moving downward in the earth. I had no sense of direction. I wonder how I found myself in this beautiful place.

Suddenly I have friends all around me laughing and rejoicing that they too have found that they weren’t dying at all – but living.

As if that weren’t enough, I find strength and care and protection from the Gardener who thought enough of me to put me in the ground and water me until I became something of beauty; something to be admired; something that He made just to be enjoyed. It was for His pleasure I was created.

Stretching my hands towards Heaven in praise, I give thanks for this day.

As a child outstretches their hands towards a loving parent, I too, reach for you who love me.

You admire me daily and remind me that I am a beautiful sight to behold. That I am precious and worth the effort it took to plant andwater and wait.
Sometimes you prune me, and it hurts. You cut branches off of me that are killing me, and carefully watch to see that I am not tormented by pests. It pains, it stinks, and it is unpleasant. It is for your pleasure.

I long one day to feel at my base the strong cut that means you are bringing me into your house to be admired: I long to die so that you might be satisfied with my beauty and fullness and fragrance. To be taken up with you into your house forever where I can bring glory and honor to you forever and ever…Amen.

Melissa Fairchild (c) 2006
Excerpt from:

Daybreak In My Soul

Posted in Poetry

Vulnerable. Poetic.

I am a writer. More precisely, I am a poet.

I always have been.

11-year-old me would stay up well past lights-out hiding under a blanket with a flashlight, paper, and pen to write. My friends were all reading Tiger Beat Magazine, the Babysitter’s Club series and anything by Judy Blume. I was reading Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. I read Psalms and Proverbs. I loved Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge, and my favorite poem (still) – She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron.

I even have a whole poetry book I self-published in 2006. It is absolute smut, but the rhyme schemes, the dactyls, the couplets, the iambs, and the enjambments are spot on.

Every rhyme scheme I studied, I tried. Except Haiku. That’s just silly.

But the poetry you see me post nowadays is few and far between. It is far less in volume than what I actually write.

Today I asked myself – why is this?

Why don’t I share?

Here’s why: because writing (especially poetic writing) is me at my most vulnerable. It is raw and an exact picture of what is happening in my heart. I’m afraid if you really saw my heart you might reject me.

I wrote the pieces for my book at the end of a year of death, divorce, and losing everything except my kids. And I mean everything.

The reason the poetry in my book is mostly smut is that I wrote angry and afraid and embarrassed and ashamed and vulnerable.

There’s that word again – vulnerable.

I just got to thinking about this today and about how I hide myself away, but hiding a talent is like hiding my little light under a bushel – NO! I’m gonna let it shine – even if the 3 of you are the only ones who ever read it. I’m tired of pretending and hiding my great big heart.