Prose: Creating…Like Him

Now that school has started I have had to delay several different writing projects I have been working on. Several of these projects, short stories, poems, and more non-fiction pieces, that all fit in the theme of this blog and the overall mission of my writing, “to point up.”  However, with class and assignments and the little time I have to work on my own personal writing that is specific to this site, I am afraid there will be a shortage of posts. But, do not fear (as if you really would), for I have thought of a simple solution. Every so often I will post something that I enjoyed writing for a class. So here it goes, two pieces, one a creative description of the mountains, and another a “Thing” poem. Try and enjoy them for the content, lyrical quality, form, or craft (I am trying to paint or make music with words). Don’t forget, in a way they still point up. Remember that although the inspiration for these pieces comes from something human or of earth, the desire to create comes from God. If you enjoy what you read…go and make your own art in the likeness of your creator.  And like Him be satisfied with it.

It’s a Magical World

Only the most skilled master of art can capture the beauty of this place in all of its mystery. How do you draw silence? How do you make a mountain glare down invitingly and ominously all at once? How do you paint without lines and only two colors—white and blue—capturing snow and ice and frost and glaciers and everything else? This is a world of nothing but contour. But, I have seen it mastered before. Pure white pages, soft blue shaded strokes arcing back and forth—and friendly banter between buddies—harmless tiger and mischievous child.

That is this place, frozen in time, soft and innocent. Dusted in powdered sugar. Trees blown on by the frigid breathes of great frost Giants, trapped in awkward frightened poses, horizontal icicles covering their bodies and limbs. They might have smelled of Christmas, the fresh pine tickling your nose had they not been turned to icy stone. But, here—it may not have mattered, Jack Frost has been nipping all morning as you walk, and licking you with a cold wind and reddening your cheeks and nose like Rudolph.

It’s a magical world up here at the greater elevations; but a few get to see the secret beauty and the terror, hear the stories that this place hides.

It is the coldness of a cloud that you breathe in on your tongue. The air is filled with fresh spring water snowflakes that melt in your mouth and cling like crystals of sugar on old men’s beards and shine like chandeliers in dark hair.

For those who rarely walk to these heights, it is a delicious treat. It is the nostalgia of sugary cereal and Saturday morning cartoons, but instead of seeing life through a window of Technicolor, you see life in surreal scenery, your eyes windows that make all things illuminated, reflecting back not just objects—but essence. Trudging, your steps muffled in the snow are childhood snow days of old, and school is canceled—the feeling is innocence—and it is all too familiar.

The mountain, from far off, with its creamy white slopes and hills, black granite spires and chunks of dark rock and moraine piles, once seemed a bowl piled high with Cookies ‘N’ Cream dessert—but now as you are near it is a big brooding bully above, beckoning you come and brawl. And only a few—you—can stand up to it.




I recall standing on that shelf for so long.

The suffocating plastic

That held me in place,

How it made me sweat.

The Irony—me—being as sharp as I am,

Couldn’t even escape.


Long ago I found a happy home.

I would run through anything

Like it was warm and soft.

One’s I could make two,

Two’s—fours, four’s—eights…


But I was never meant for the warm or soft,

Like butter.

I am cold and durable,

I run through nothing…I cut.

Easily through everything, I cut, like God splits seas.

Meat off a bone, or a chicken’s throat,

I slice One’s and make threes.


Given away though in Good Will,

Undervalued I was, finding a half-priced home

Far, far away from my forged intent.


Often in a dark drawer I hid,

Listening to vicious slurs and sounds,

The smashing and shattering

Of my friends flying against walls.

In the dark I hid,

There, not wanting to shine beneath

Incandescent whites and reflect back

Evil stares and sins in my shiny face.


But I was unsheathed in heated words.

I was held high, glaring in anger…

…Two’s I make ones, one’s—dead.


Of course, I am not in control of me.

My handle is my bit,

And whatever hand handles me,

They make me what I am…

I am a maker of dinner,

I am the opener of presents,

The gutter of fish and Samurai,

I am a murderer.


I welcome your thoughts!


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