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 








It has been FAR too long since I have written a poem, just because I could. I have written several poems for my classes, that were required and needed to be a specific length, form, and rhythm. However, this poem is just a poem that I wanted to write.  However, I am stuck on the title of the poem. I was once told that the title of a poem is the invitation to a poem for the readers. If you have any suggestions, I would really appreciate it. For now, we will just call it, untitled.



Still, the clock hands

won’t move. Sound yearns

through the silent walls.

The hands stand still.


Timid, the light sways

in the room. The absence

of dark waits patiently.

The light fades.


Still, long forgotten are the notes

that played songs and stories

lingering on the laughter.

The piano collects dust.


Bare, the oak mantle stands

proud. But there is no

audience to entertain.

The room is bare.


Still, there were memories here

that haven’t been erased.

Perhaps just swept into a corner

waiting for the spring breeze.

To shake the memories, awake.



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 

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

a dance to dance

in honor of the rain to come tonight and follow tomorrow. 🙂

Oh the rain

to fall so steadily

upon my window still.


And as the

lighting strikes against each thunder clap

There is yet a dance to be danced!

A little putter to start the beat and vigorous wind

to bring up the pace. The lightning always leads.

1,2,3,4. 1,2,3,4.

And as any good dance partner the thunder follows in the next

heal toe, heal toe. Sharp powerful moves, quick like the

fox-trot but intensity like the tango. 1,2,3. 1,2,3.

Yet through all the dramatics the rain intervenes like a calming

dance parter.

The dance is momentary arranged to a soft waltz.

Light and airy as it glides down from the window.

The dance shall continue into the night.

And when I do fall asleep I shall remember the song,

“I could have dance all night.”


oh the dreams I shall dream.

Today I am a Wildflower


Today I am a wildflower. 

                        Blowing in the breeze

                                          with not a care in the world. 

I am curious about everything.

And excited to see where the day takes me. 

I  am noticed

                 but not searched after.

                                     For most see me as a weed.

A pretty, but still something that

                                  crowds the flowers planted by the planter. 

But I do not mind.

Because I go where the wind blows.

       I twirl and

                    move effortlessly.

Because what is not to love about the day?   

I go with almost every color and though it might get cold I have strength to grown on the toughest soil. 


in my tiny corner

I reach for something small

just a paper if it be that

and some lead to scratch something


for if I don’t

I very well will go insane

in this tiny corner

I have become acquainted with


what shall I write is

yet  is the mystery

for it I continue to write about

my surrounding..


what then will I do when I find myself in a dark room

with nothing to see but the fuzzy shapes

so precise and small

you can’t even describe them.


however, even silhouettes can be seen

and they have the biggest secrets and stories to find

I could still write about an analogy or metaphor

but how fun are they, and who is to say I am good at them.


I would rather stare outside

continue to let the words spill out,

talking in circles and use improper grammar

just to keep the most skeptic or lose-fitting reader engaged


Because that is what I write.

Not that I need something from this

for I have all I need, my corner, and paper

and on a day when fate might smile,

some lead to write something down.


Isn’t it better to be satisfied by a small corner

when my bones shall ache, but my body kept warm

Where my mind is free, and my soul could fly.

Then to be diss-satisfied by a larger space

Where my fat hangs out and my body slugs around

That my mind be in a daze and my heart to move slower.


Nay, I shall stay where I am, feel what I can

figure out what I do 

I shall live in my being

learn from my corner, and when fate doesn’t smile

I sill won’t worry instead I will  be content in my corner.

If flowers could cry


Deep in the ground

rotted in love



growing in the promise of another day

Above the surface


Bursting with color

the flower blooms



Yet something holds it back. 

The waters not of the weather


Something more deep

Down in the root


something snapped

and out came a liquid

That crumpled the flower

and let it fall


casting only dropped flower petals

a hollow feeling


that no one can help

sorrow and tears


Not in fear or frustration


but a lonely solace 


that can’t be fixed.


The time is coming


the time is coming


the time is coming




                 I WANTED it to