The promising lines on a napkin
scribbles on a (clean) Kleenex
start of a sonnet next to publicity
of a discount shop,
even an outburst of rage under a receipt.

From the time I kept a pencil in the toilet:
poem-attempts were made on toilet paper.
All of these crumpled scraps lived
in a box, waiting patiently until
today.

I looked, read, discarded and threw away.
Why could I not simply say
"This is good" and work it out?
This stupid doubts,
this insecurity.

In my advancing life
I had so many chances.
Sad to admit I threw
a
w
a
y

so many.

God found me, and I found Him
He loves me, and always did
although I was not aware.
It never is too late. I know that now.


Marjon van Bruggen
29-08-20