Jenny Knipfer–Author

Writing to inspire, encourage, and enjoy

For sometime, I’ve been thinking, I want to write a poem again, needed to write one. Poetry has always helped me truly express what is inside, more than anything else. So today I tapped this out on my iPad, and I can say I feel much relief over having gotten it out. Maybe you can relate to something in it.


The sky is gray,

With no sun piercing through

An eider down,

Now dropping white,

As if tiny feathers from heaven


The clock ticks

My ears ring from age and medication

The highway drones in the distance 

All else is quiet

Except my mind


My thoughts swirl, 

Stirring my heart,

Urging me to release them

On the page

Or burst with the pain of their burden


The written word stabilizes me

In black and white 

But yet no rigid platform,

Rather running together, 

Like fluid paint on a tilted canvas,

Morphing with my e-motion


Words move us

They spark,

Set everything in motion

Give life

Or kill


Or tame


Words hold power,

The mightest of magic

Instilling hope,

Spurring us on, 

Or feeding our fear

Until we dread life itself


The coin can flip,

On tomorrows

And their supposed mercies

Pain holding the sun,

Captive at the horizon

Each new day,

Another fresh torture

Instead of a blessing


Courage, where are you?

Have you hid from me,

Never to return? 

Or perhaps you are used up,

Like a spent battery? 

But batteries can be recharged,

Can’t they?


What can charge this heart again?

Or should I say whom? 

I know, 

It’s Him, as it always is…


I have no power to hide,

To run away 

To manufacture courage on my own,

or speak it into being


Yet, I weary 

Of asking, pleading, begging 

For relief,


Anything but facing

These alien spasms,

Tomorrow all over again


First contorting me,

Then stiffening me, 

As if they could snap my very bones,

This foreign power, 

Sieging war,

Taking up residence

In my body.


I want it gone,

I want it out,

I want to know it no more,

But yet it remains,


Like yeasted bread dough,

A festering wound,

A weed, or

A cancer


What good can this pain produce?



The Bible tells me so,

But can it be?

Why must it be? 


Too many questions,

Not enough answers,

I long to go back,

To the start of the equation,

To the beginning,

But life can never be,

What it once was


All I can conclude,

Can put my trust in,

Is that God knows more than I do,

Sees more,

For I am so shortsighted

So small-minded 


I do not fear the end of my story,

No, I welcome it, 

The process, however,

The slow shedding of this skin

This disease 

Terrifies, cripples, blinds, mames 

With fear


But I name you, Fear

I call you out

With my sling and stone,

Pauldry, though they may be


God fights for me

You don’t stand a chance


Be gone, 

Come what may,

I choose

To fight, to believe, 

In victory,

A hope I cannot yet see


And every day after that



I now realize

Is where courage 

Truly begins—

At the end of me

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