In the Child’s Whisper My Savior Calls

“Dedicated to Fay Josephine and Ireland Bradi; whose tiny fingers, soft eyelashes, and quick smiles, helped these words flow from my heart.” 

In total darkness I stand.

Earnestly searching, for what has awoken me.

At the stable, I find myself wanting to enter.

While the world hides under the cloudy skies

a star twinkles and twirls

and finds itself shinning brightly,

farther into the stable.

A hush of breath escapes my lips,

as I attentively come around the corner.

For I worry that the




will awake the child.


The light shines around him, and I am puzzled.

Why here, why will it not go farther?

This quivering, innocent child, why does it stop upon his face.


The child who now,

it’s little fingers could barely grasp my hand.

The child who soon,

will take mankind in it’s embrace.

This child, while dozing softly in his mother’s arms

is the Messiah.


Carefully but certainly I shake my head,

knowing that I cannot present myself to him.

I have no cloak to cover my dirty shoulders;

to hide the misery I have seen, and the tragedy I cannot leave.

I have no hat, to hide my unwashed hair;

nor are my thoughts and actions so pure.

I have no animal to present,

nothing worthy of something

I know is far better than myself.



I cannot move.


selfishly I do not want to,

from his tiny smile

that touches the far corners of my heart

that had never felt such warmth,

beckons me to stay.


Suddenly, I’m not alone

and others clamber around him.

I’m shuffled to the back,

and know my exit is here.



Let the little children, 



I stumble and look about

but the hum of the voice continues.



All who are weary, 




Looking up at the star,

now understating why I’m awake.

I walk forward with my drum,

striking it to the beat of my pounding heart.





Let anyone 







Father’s Face


A father’s hand perfectly fits across a child’s face.

To hide away her fears;

fears of the realities she will endure. 

fears of the unknown when you let her go. 


But for now, a father’s hand fits perfectly

 over a child’s face only to love her. 


Loving her as she twirls, in her big tulle skirt.

Loving her as she walks into the arms of her prince. 


But for now, a father’s hand fits perfectly 

over a child’s face only to give her peace. 


Peace when she cries at night, between the thunderclaps. 

Peace when she has decided to leave, to make her new home. 


And when the child has grown up, her father’s hand is now smaller. 

His shoulder’s that once held her high in the air are frail. 


It is her hand that cups his face

hiding his fears of leaving her 

giving him peace to say goodbye

 and always loving even after he closes his eyes. 


She entered the shop at a half- past two, the shop closed at three.

She was quiet and cautious; trailing her fingers over the fabric.

I asked her if she needed help, and she declined, averting her gaze.

She was a striking creature; angular features, tiny emerald eyes barely seen because of her

long luscious bangs.

Her porcelain skin, contrasted with her ebony hair.

She was tall.  I imagined if we were dancing, she in heels, we would be eye level.

She looked in my direction and in that moment I saw her.

Longing and desperation for something to be okay.

The bell clanked on the door frame, and she was gone.

The only thing that remained was the fragrance of lemons.


She came again at a half-past two, and the shop closed at three.

She paused in the doorway as if I kept her from entering.

Alas, I stood at the desk waiting for her, I smiled.

She looked around, and once again I asked her if she needed assistance.

No, a velvety voice responded with a sad smile.

Why, she smiled, I still wonder to this day.


Her red nail polish caught my eye.

“Are you sad?” she asked.


Her internal thought process and her question, had me in mind;  an invitation perhaps,

but then she was gone.


To this day, when I see  lemons, I can’t help the sad, smile on my face.



Photo credit: Pintrest
Editing by Beth Kenow 
Lemons by Victoria Kenow 

The Old Man in his Pick-up with His Pipe.

The days are getting shorter, the moon was anxious to rise. But before the sun sat, the old man in his pick-up was buying flowers for his girl. He drove down the pebbled streets, his pipe securely clenched between his teeth.  The smoke slide out the window and the wind took him back…

To the porch,

where he stood

proud but still

with flowers freshly picked behind his back.

His hand clenched, talking himself out of

a knock, when  the door swung open.


swayed back and forth in her newly stitched dress.

Her hair attempted to be pulled up,

but the wind took her back…

To the diner

where she first saw him.

Pouring coffee

on his lap.

She blushed and he winked.

The old man got the flowers on the corner. The leaves were falling, and they crunched under his footsteps. It was cool outside, and he had to turn on the heat quickly, as his hands gripped the wheel. The wind that pushed against the door, took him back…

To the sun setting and the harvest finished.

To his dusty left-footed boots

That made him trip and fall in love with,


who sat on the back porch, held him close

against the wind,that took her back…

To that night, when she said I do,

and he did too.

Lasting 70 years of young love.


The old man in his pick up with his pipe,

the Autumn breeze so  cool and kind.

Taking him home, to his Rose.

Eyes of Everything

A rough area

stained in bright colors.

Chalk imprinted on

small joints, lead forward

careful and intensely creating a masterpiece.


Standing proud, hands on hips

while the elbow, hand and forehead

have pink and yellow and orange smudges.



dirt from falling

after running too hard, and

the grass clippings sticking to

sweaty knees and joints.


Only to finally find

defeat in exhaustion.

Droopy eyelashes

slowly dragging feet.


Hot summer days

finish best

with sweet dreams.





Maybe, Just Maybe

I was a finalist in the unpublished poetry competition at the Oregon Christian Writer’s Conference in Portland, Oregon. Although i didn’t win, I was very blessed by the experience. Thank you God for the trip, not only as a writer but as a daughter. I had a wonderful week with my Dad. 🙂 Below is the poem, Maybe just Maybe, I hope you enjoy it. 🙂

As I look up,

        is someone also looking down?


Wrapped in a cocoon of fog

the clouds roll in, and

lock away the outside world.


Like rice, that is thrown at a wedding,

the snow falls upon my face and stick to my lashes.


Inclosed in this day,

not a worry to remember.

Only sweet thoughts of the past

and the urge

to stick out my tongue

and let the snowflakes

melt in my mouth.


As the trees sway, in the late winter breeze

the snow descends, spiraling to the ground.

Perhaps we are shaking

that those who look down

see still figures, captured by magic in a snow globe.


Maybe on this day, we allowed someone to surface back,

back into those treasured moments, of childhood.

Maybe, just maybe.

By Victoria Kenow

Little Girl

It is strange to think I have lived on this earth

this circular planet for the last 20 years.

I thought about explaining what I have gone through…


the Presidents, the major events good and bad

the births, the weddings and the deaths that have happened.

But I am going to be a little selfish, and I won’t feel bad.

Because this poem is a birthday present to myself.

Instead I am going to talk about a little girl…


I am not that little girl who

danced her little heart out

in a beautiful red dress

at her cousins wedding,

all of being only being two years old.


I am not that little girl who

would play indians with her brothers

and hid in the tomato plants

pretending she was Pocahontas.


I am not that little girl who

every summer would swim in the pool

and go out as far as she could

pretending to be a mermaid.


I am not the little girl who

would get all dressed up and

have tea parties with her cousins and sister

sipping on water, and pretending to eat plastic donuts.


I am not the little girl who

could fall asleep anywhere,

and not get scolded, because

I was cute, and I sucked my thumb.


And as I remember back, my childhood

I will always smile, and I won’t look back in vain.

So many people tell us, that we haven’t lived,

until we get out into the world.


But I think, no. Actually I know they are wrong.

Because my childhood prepared me

for the next steps in my life.


There is no greater stress

than owning a hotel with your

sisters, and cousins

while having three or four kids

under the age of five.

But that is pretended.

We imagined conflict,

oblivious to how crucial it would be

and at the end of the day, everything was okay.


I don’t really know how Maria and I

got through as mom’s with all the injuries

that happened with our dolls,

but we always made it.


And do you know how much money is involved

when every time your  Betty Spaghetti’s

continue to break their bones

when their bungie cord snaps

while camping?

    Good thing we made movies about them,

    other wise I don’t know how they would pay

    all those hospital bills.


And with later years

the dolls were replaced with

babysitting jobs, and responsibilities.

Lemonade stands became actual jobs

and the barbie drama became high school drama.

And even the many careers we managed as kids, allowed us to think about college.


So, yes I am not the little girl anymore.

I can’t play dress up all day, and put on gowns and tiaras,

nor can I be an international spy, fiddling all the clues.

But I will always keep that little girl apart of me.



I wouldn’t be me,

without her,

without my sister,

without my cousins

without my family

without my friends.


So you see

I am really not being that selfish

more that I am thanking everyone

who had a part

in that little girl

and now…


to the young lady I have become.


An Older Brother

As I stared out my cloudy window 

The rain drops plunking down 

Hard, crisp, sounds splattered 

On the roof, the tin roof they pound. 


Once reflecting back

On the 80 years, I’ve lived

The thin smile barely bright

Yet, my heart is so light


When the clouds roll in

when the sun doesn’t shine

my feet want to leap

in the big wet puddle


The tender spot in my heart

is pulled by one person

He never seemed to cease

for making me special


 He threatened my boyfriends

some his own friends

He pushed away my bullies 

and wiped my tears they gave


He taught me things the world didn’t

Football, basketball, and an occasional  poker game

Nothing was sugar coated, yet he always was by my side

He was that kind of person, never changing. 


My wrinkled face crinkles a bit

Tears of remembrance, slide quickly down

For the best man I knew

I am talking of course

of my older brother 


So, I do continue to watch

maybe later I will go outside

Smell the scents of the air

taking time  feel him near








~the distractions I needed~

In a simple moment

a precious boy grabbed a book


The two large words were know to many

in the pew he sat. 



Quickly, with no thought he opened the great book

He pulled himself up and placed the book on the pew in front


His tiny hands grasped 

the large book

Try as he might,

he dropped the book twice

With a loud thud it fell


Dismayed his parents grabbed it, and handed it to him, 

Each time a warning was given

how I prayed he wouldn’t drop it again. 


A third time he placed the book in front of him

The words were upside down

Yet, he kept searching through the pages. 

Earnest eyes, glued him to the pages. 

Try as I might, my focused was not on the sermon

But rested on the little boy, who found happiness in the book


Once we were to rise with our hymnal

He also sat up quickly

His arms hugged the book,

But a last it fell with a, thunk. 

His mother grabbed the book and put it away.


My frown matched his. 

For here was a little boy

With his dress shirt, crocked tie

not yelling or crying 

but contently looking through the pages 

of the bible. 


The boy would surly get over it, however, the image was imprinted to me. 

This little boy sat, so calmly, he found this new book as a treasure. 

For about 15- 20 minutes, the little boy sat and looked back and forth through the pages. 

How, often do I pick up my own?


Deep down, my number isn’t that high

This little boy was a light to me, to show me who I am. 

I pray the faith inside him, would grow strong and true. 

That one day he would hold the book, and drop it still. 


Because his actions stayed with me, 

He wasn’t disgracing many, just the ones that needed it, 

The ones who saw Jesus through a child’s faith.

The wetness of their tears


Maybe the rain today

is really the tears of those who died


Maybe the rain today

is  the tears of those who lost someone


Maybe the rain today

are tears shed years later


Not all day

But long enough

Each of us is effected by the rain


It is wet and cold

Enough to wake us up


From ourselves and remember

Those who gave their lives

Those who fought for others


The rain continues to pour down

It creeps into the cracks


The ones we don’t expect.

The rain, a reflection of tears.


Today, 9/11

We wait for the sun

the sun to pull away the clouds

To dry the tears, put away the wetness


I remember,

So I don’t push away the rain


I welcome the tears, the coolness

Because it isn’t something I can just brush off.


Tomorrow will happen soon

But right now, my heart yearns to give comfort


9/11 families, victims, bystanders.


Prayers to you all…. I won’t forget…..I promise