Tag: Spoken Word

Spoken Word

Beauty From Ashes // Spoken Word Ed.

Rebekah EckardLeave a comment

One of my dearest friends, Bobbi Jo Brooks made a painting for me last year entitled Beauty From Ashes. We spoke a lot about the themes of the painting and I fell in love with the painting and everything it represents. When she presented it to me, we talked about me one day writing a poem to accompany it. A year later, I finally managed to capture some of Bobbi Jo’s ideas in words. The fruit of that is displayed below.

For more of Bobbi Jo’s work, go to her website bobbijobrooks.com

https://youtu.be/idkQ8ANf7i4

Beauty from Ashesby Rebekah Eckard

If you stand far enough away,

you’ll only notice the gold and white running down my body.

I shimmer in the sunlight and dance in the shadows.

You call me beautiful. Lovely.

As Pretty as a Painting.
I am a work of art,

not meant to be admired but experienced.

Come closer and touch me.

See for yourself what I truly am.

Run your fingers along my skin,

and find that I am not just a shell.

There is more to my story than what your eyes can see.

 

I am not a blank canvas.

Underneath my beauty there is a past.

There is always a past.

It’s only when you get close enough

that you begin to see the bumps and bruises-

the accumulation of ash that lies beneath

Years and years of failed perfection

Heaped upon the burning fragments

Of unmet expectations, hopes dashed from the rooftops,

falling short in all the ways I wanted to succeed.

Yet the artist took me as I was.

My bumps and bruises not a hindrance

But a foundation to be built upon.

Color and paint poured over and over

Soothing my enflamed wounds.

Making wonder from the darkest parts of me.

I can feel these new elements forever changing who I am.

Not hiding, but transforming.

Ash glittering into gold.

Ridged landscapes smoothing into porcelain.

So you see beauty where once was brokenness.
Yes, I am more than a pretty picture.

I am a living, breathing story

Echoing throughout time.

Ashes to Beauty.

Death to Life.

Come closer and see for yourself.

Come closer, and see yourself.

Spoken Word

Jupiter

Rebekah EckardLeave a comment

As mentioned in the video, one of my goals for this year (as well as continuing to work on my children’s novel, “Aedaliegh of Arceldör“) is to write seven poems based off of the book by Michael Ward, Planet Narnia,as well as the Chronicles themselves.

The first piece, entitled “Jupiter” ,  is based off the first book Lewis wrote “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.”

Enjoy! And hopefully, there will be more to come soon.

https://youtu.be/x3NBMy6P608

Jupiter

The world has been drained of it’s color like hope from our souls.

We stay huddled in our houses, scared of what the woods might hold.

We’re are covered in white and frozen in fear,

too scared to raise our voices- too scared the trees might hear.

Still, we grasp at ancient words and hold fast to the hope

of a king that is coming, breaking through the snow

They say when he comes, all will be made right.

They say when he comes, we’ll dance unhindered in the light.

And at the sound of his name, our hearts begin to beat

like an army of warriors being woken from winter’s sleep.

Do you hear the red robin’s song echoes loudly through the trees?

Behold the brook begin to bubble like joy overflowing from the deep.

Shoots are springing from the ground as snow fades away.

Look there, the sun rising red as day begins to break.

Frozen rivers part and blossoms release their blooms

as if all of creation felt our longing to be renewed.

So we shed our winter coats like a profession of faith,

trading our fears for swords there along the bank.

Our faces glow red with the warmth of the sun

as we bow before the king- the one who’s finally come.

King Jupiter you are- The king above all kings.

You roar with laughter and reign in magnanimity.

You are lion-hearted, and yet saturated in peace.

You are joviality and song-  the very picture of Spring.

But winter has followed us and she is staking her claim.

She points out all our failures, our follies, our mistakes.

She tells us we’re not worthy to dance in summer’s sun,

but her voice is overshadowed by the king declaring “come!”

Thunder claps over us as cold collides with warmth.

We shiver at the shadows, yet still we raise our swords.

And just when darkness seems to swallow us whole,

we look up to find the dawn rolling in, igniting hope.

Like the morning sun spreading slowly across a field,

our king descends, proving he both conqueror and shield.

And we can but simply watch as his beauty mingles with his wrath.

Conquering what we could not, he is the king we always lacked.

He calls us before him and crowns us with new names.

We are Gentle. We are Just. Magnificent and Brave.

We take our place beside him and to this great joy we cling:

We are no more than servants; we are no less than kings.

Spoken Word

Ink

Rebekah EckardLeave a comment

Surprise, Surpise. I wrote another poem* about my tattoos. I read it at a friend of mines party this week and thought I’d share it here. One day, I’d like to be one of those spoken word artists whose words pour out from their mouths slowly like molasses, full of body and rich flavor. Until then, I’ll hold tightly to my phone and say one too many “um”s before I start. We’re all learning how to be creatives. We all learning to speak boldly and look people in the eyes as we say “yes, I’m an artist.” 

*I wouldn’t really call it a poem, more of a “rhythmic rant.”

If you’re in Berlin, stop by “Art on the Terrace” and join our little creative community. 

Spoken Word

One Day

Rebekah Eckard2 Comments

I’m supposed to be writing a paper for school right now. While as I was typing out my outline, I was reminded of a poem (or rant) that I started working on this past summer. It just never felt like the right time to post it. But as I was writing my paper on the same topic, I just got really excited reading it through (and also I’m procrastinating) so I’m posting it now.

It was inspired by a conversation with my friend, KG, way back in July when sunshine and warmth were things that existed.

 

image-7
“Keep your fork, the best is yet to come.” -Southern Proverb

 

 

I want to sprint

straight on towards the horizon,

never turning or falling backward.

So that the pounding of my feet on pavement

will match the beating of my heart.

And I will stick up my chin and run into the wind-

one foot in front of the other in a perfect line.

But right now my feet are too swollen

from this dead weight that I bare

and so I find myself looking out the window

dreaming of a day when I’ll be able to leave this chair.

 

I want to speak.

I want to sing.

I want words to flow out of my mouth like poetry-

strong like a tide and loud like a waterfall.

But every time I try the words don’t come out right.

I just can’t…

I’m not able to…

Well the words, you see…

So I’m left typing on this computer screen

hoping the click-clack noises of my keyboard turn into a symphony.

 

And I want to see

right past those dense clouds and into eternity,

but my eyes are too weak to see the lines in own hands.

Like a blind man trying to find his lover in a crowd

I am always looking, always searching.

I strain my eyes and I put on glass lenses,

but everything always comes out distorted.

And so I walk home alone, and dream of a day

when I can once more look up at the clouds

And see ships and castles instead of another overcast sky.

 

Just tell me to pick up mat.

Send an angel to touch my lips with coal.

Rub some dirt in my eyes.

I’d walk to Siloam or to the ends of the earth

If you told me that I’d be able to touch the hem of your robe.

 

Like the trees in a storm, I am groaning for the sun.

Groaning for the day when this body will be made new.

When I shall run unhindered to your side.

When I sing of love without a stutter.

When I shall see beauty without having to look through fogged glass.

Come Quickly.

Oh, please come quickly.

 

Aedaliegh of Arceldör · Short Stories · Songs · Spoken Word

Stomp ( A Folk Song)

Rebekah EckardLeave a comment

Okay,y’all. I need your help. Below you will find an excerpt from the (children’s) novel I’m working on. It’s a scene I’ve been playing with for a while, and simply can’t figure out how to make the *stomp* part work in print. So, I would love and appreciate your input and ideas on how to best convey what I see and hear in my head. This is group effort, so y’all chime in.

bonfire-painting
Nikolai Astrup’s Midsummer Eve Bonfire, 1912.

 

Tonight, it was the Gehimni people who were given the honor of entertaining. More than twenty Gehimni men and women ran around the fire, hollering and making noise. It snowed in the Gehimnis for nine months out of the year, and so most of the bed had long beards that covered the majority of their face, and the women wore long skirts made of animal skin with all kinds of braids strung about in their hair. Suddenly, the Gehimini performers stopped running around the fire, and the women took their spots in a circle on the ground. A man began to strum a mandolin, as the others began to stomp their feet to his rhythm. The men threw their knees high up in the air only to bring their smashing back down with the force of a ten horses. Each of the Gehmini men fell in sync with one another until one man threw his head back and howled at the top of his lungs, Ooooooooooooohhhh, and the other men followed his lead.

I’ve seen the mountain tops and I’ve gaped at the sea,

but never has this wanderer beheld a beauty such as thee.

I’d scale the mountains tops and sail across the sea,

if you’d be waiting for me with a white dress and a ring.

 

Yer nose is as pointy as the snowy peaks,

and yer eyes are more emerald than the evergreen.

I know I ain’t much to look at, my darling sweet,

but I got heart a gold somewhere underneath.

 

My heart when it saw you went *stomp stomp stomp*

And my lips started singing this horrid song.

But my dear please know that if you love me so,

I’ll sing this song to you until we’re grey and old.

 

I’ve got a house here in these woods, I bet yer Papa would be proud.

‘Gotta fireplace and a porch that goes all around,

but I’m stilling miss something, perhaps a spritely frau.

So what do ye say, will ye marry me now?

 

The women sitting on the edge of the crowd jumped up and joined arms with the men, and together they danced a polka around the fire. They weren’t the best of singers, but that didn’t stop every single man and woman from singing, or rather yelling, at the top of his or her lungs. If only they would sing on key, they’d be quite good. The entire camp was mesmerized by them, and they joined in with the stomping and clapping with just as much vigor as if they had known the songs their entire lives.

 

Darlin’ let me dance with you until this night ends.

Yes, come a little closer. I don’t mind those hairs on yer chin.

Yer back is strong from plowing and I sure do love yer apple pie.

Oh, you’re the only woman who could ever catch my eye.

 

My heart when it saw you went  *stomp stomp stomp*

And my lips started singing this horrid song

But my dear please know that if you love me so

I’ll sing this song to you until we’re grey and old.

Yes, I’ll sing this song to you until we’re grey and old.

Also, would English speaking children know what a “frau” is? Can I use that word in a “fantasy” novel?  Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions?

Spoken Word

An Almost Love Letter to Myself

Rebekah EckardLeave a comment

I did a thing tonight. I went to this {amazing} meet up where I talked with another writer and we just sat in silence and wrote. Most days, writing is a solitary task, but tonight I got to sit at table with someone as we each did our own thing.Yes, it was a dream come true.

We started off the night by doing a little creative exercise where we wrote a Love Letter to ourselves. I knew before I started that my self-depreciation wasn’t going to let me get more than one or two lines in before hijacking the bus, but I thought it’d be fun to see where things go. And I was pleased to see that at the end of twenty minutes, I’d actually liked what I’d put down on paper. Was it a love letter? Pssshhh… course not. But it was close (kind of).

Truly thankful for the opportunity to be an introvert with other people and develop our craft together. Til next time, Athena.

You are bold.

I’ve always loved that about you,

except when I hate it.

So, I guess it just depends on the day.

I remember when you were a little girl,

you would come home crying

because you had opened that mouth of yours just a little too much.

Opened your heart just a little too much.

Let them see you just a little too much.

And people didn’t always like what was hidden beneath those fire red curls.

So, your tears would fall hard on journal pages

where you could say all you had in you and no one would ask you to stop.

How many time did you beg God to make you like all the other girls?

Quiet and graceful- a southern belle in modern day.

But you were from Iowa, so there was never a chance of that.

Fifteen years later, I hate to tell you those prayers weren’t answered.

You’re still that girl who says more than she’s supposed to,

always clamping her hand over her mouth half way through a sentence.

Fifteen years later, I hate to tell you that you’re learning to love it.

You’re learning to look people in the eye, and tell them what you’re thinking

That you’re learning the when’s and the how’s so that people actually listen.

That you’re learning to make them listen.

And yes, you’re learning to say I’m sorry,

because sometimes you do say the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person.

But sometimes you also say the right thing.

Sometimes you say thing that the world needs to hear.

Sometimes you say the thing that one little girl needs to hear.

And maybe when she’s ten years old, she won’t come home crying

begging God to make her someone else.

Because when she looked at you-

hands raised in the air realizing just how wonderfully crafted she was-

and said so matter-of fact-ly,

“Ms. Bekah. I’m pretty. And smart. And funny. And Awesome.”

You pulled her close and whispered in her ear what you never said to yourself

“Yea, baby girl, and don’t you forget it.”

Spoken Word

The Sky Has Already Fallen

Rebekah EckardLeave a comment

The sky has already fallen

and I don’t recognize this new horizon.

Now my mind may wander but it cannot comprehend

this cataclysm that so easily wrecked my plan.

 

Like waves in the ocean the mountains fell,

left me trying to climb up the swell.

But every solid hold I grasped poured out from my hand.

I’m a fish out of water, a foreigner in this land.

 

The mountains I once called my home have fallen into the sea.

The sidewalks that once lead me to you have cracked beneath my feet.

Now there’s an ocean between us and it’s sink or swim it seems.

But if you ask me to come to you, I’ll meet you somewhere in between.

 

Could you build a bridge across this divide?

Pull me out of this rising tide?

For I know that I must cross this ever shifting sea,

It’s just that right now I’m afraid of stepping in too deep.

 

Yet with each step I take towards this new sunrise

I’m getting closer to the fusing of you and I.

And suddenly we’re in the middle, far from either shore

Must I choose between what lies behind me or before?

 

 

 

 

 

guest posts · Uncategorized

Guest Post #2: Emilee Rogers

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I’ve known Emilee for almost two years now. I met her at an after school program I worked for my first year in Birmingham. I always knew I liked her. She just radiates cool, but in that non-threatening, “I could be friends with her” way. We share a passion for telling kids about Jesus, and as we recently discovered, a passion for writing. Her vulnerability when she writes in truly heartbreaking, but in the best kind of way. When she writes, I feel what she feels. I see the picture she is painting with her words as if I had experienced it myself. And when I read this poem of hers, I knew I had to post it on my blog. While reading it, there were numerous times when I said, “YES! that’s exactly how I felt. that’s exactly what I would do.”And I’m challenged to be just as vulnerable in my writings as she is in hers.

Thanks for being my friend, Em, and for reminding me of the beauty found in opening our hearts and minds to others.

The Big, Tan Couch 

In a small room there’s a big, tan couch
threaded together by people’s secrets
cleaned week after week with their tears.
Painted on the walls are my thoughts.
Why do I think this way?
Why did they hurt me?
Why do I care?
All the why’s and why not’s
woven together week after week
woven in one big, tan couch.
In the pillows are my sobbed confessions.
How many times I’ve thought of ending it all myself.
How many barriers I know I have up.
How many people I wish would just stay.
How much I want it to all just go away.
I always grasp the blanket drape it over my legs and arms.
I subconsciously think it hides me hides me from vulnerability.
I want the thoughts to leave.
I want the questions to stop.
I want the curiosity to end
for peace and quiet to replace it.
I avoid eye contact
at least when I’m crying
I never thought I could cry this much.
My voice croaks and she can’t understand me.
I fight the urge to look at the clock.
I don’t want her to know that I just really want to leave
that sharing this is unbearable and uncomfortable.
I spill my heart week after week, minute by minute.
tick tick tock tock tock tick…still broken.
I seep into that big, tan couch. and blow into the tissues each week.
the couch is where my secrets lay and if it’s up to me,
its where they’ll stay.

Emilee Rogers is a wearer of beanies in the summer, a paper airplane maker, and a recent graduate of Samford University. For more of her writings, visit her blog where she posts way more frequently than I do.

Spoken Word

Wind Turbines

Rebekah EckardLeave a comment

This past fall, I drove by myself to Chicago. It’s my second time doing this, and I think I-65 might be one of the most beautiful drives in America.

When I came to Illinois, it was past 10pm and out of nowhere come these bright red flashing lights. It’s eery. And they go for miles and miles and miles. But on the way home, I always meet those same wind turbines with the early morning sun, and it’s sheer beauty. Just look at those colors. The feeling I get is completely different, even though I’m looking at the exact same thing- only the lighting changes.

So, out of that thought, I wrote this poem, cleverly titled “Wind Turbines.” Making a movie was never my intention, but I had some footage from the drive that I thought would make a cool addition, so that’s kind of how this all came together. If you’re a film person, I apologize in advance. 🙂

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=01bM91jvHQI