{Still Saturday}

There are times

when the strings

are

invisible

And what I feel

is

ensnared

But

the

Truth?

Is that

I am

swinging

in an

act of

suspended

trust

And

just now

the Sun is peeking

round the clouds

And I explode

into

slivers

of 

light

Brave Words: I Believe

The years, they begin to stretch a little thinner with each turn of the calendar. There is always a slight pause at the realization, an imperceptible shake of the head, a quick tightening along the jaw bone.

And then the resignation and the practiced patience. The deep breath and the tight smile. Perhaps it is habit or even a feigned fortitude. Whatever it is, it pushes forward.

It must.

But this year’s turning almost undid me. It swelled loud and frightening and red and there was a hemorrhaging of questions and unknowns. There was fear. The cinch of my belt was acute and there was an ache deep within my belly.

And I found myself asking, no, begging, the question:

On how thin a line can one continue to balance?

But hidden within the possible answer was where my biggest fear actually lurked.

What if the answer was hidden in the hard truth of

giving up

and

giving over

and

giving into?

++++++++++

I'm sharing my story of unbelief over at Kelli Woodford's place today. Kelli has been hosting a series on Brave Words and here are her words on this series:

"Writers see more clearly when they can cover an experience with words. Not to hide from it, but so that what is truest and perhaps most important about the experience is made manifest to eyes blind in all other directions.  This is my reason for writing this series. 
In it I hope to allow the courage God places in our hearts access to our tongue. That in looking at the many syllables of Truth, and how they differ for each of us, we can also learn to speak them bold when surrounded by the cacophonic glare of lies.  That we can recognize how God is speaking His courage through us more often than we know.  Oh, so much more often than we know."

A Moveable Feast

Six sets of hands circled round me

the day that I entered that very fine house

and I was petted and loved on

my head was ringed with kisses and toasts were made to bless me

and I suppose that it was there that my story began

Mine was a childhood gilded

I know

for days stretched long and full and calm

and I sailed my boat upon placid waters

but, somehow, there was always a knowing

and I longed to string those days

on ribbons of silk

one upon the other

and tie them around the necks of the lonely ones

who hid in corners

so that they might know what home smelled like ...

I am writing over at SheLoves Magazine today and I would love for you to follow me there to keep reading my poem on this month's theme of Home.

Join me? Yes? Then follow me here.

Adagio: Vernal Light

So much time passes, so much of life happens

but all along

our hearts have been gathering. 

Words.

Because we can't help but gaze and wonder, pause and reflect, garner and store ...

And then, in the appropriate passage of supernaturally appointed time, we come together, each of us with hearts and souls bursting.

And we craft poetry from the overflow of our lives.

Adagio: A Poetry Project is a collaboration between Elizabeth Marshall and myself. Born from our love of word dances and the lyrical that infuses the world, we came together to weave words. We continue to partner, to write poems, to spill pictures and to, hopefully spin beauty. 

For this installment, Elizabeth and I desired a photo prompt. We chose to use a beautiful photo from the work of Kelly Sauer, who uses her camera "to make art out of life." Kelly also blogs at La joie, La vie. All that she touches radiates beauty.

Vernal Light

Hope hangs her head, long and low
Prays for light to pierce the dark
days
buried in the blur of time, gathers
pearls, drops of faith cling
to ray on ray of radiant
Hope, bows to birth
love has found her way

Vernal light glimmers golden on
pearled edges
as days lengthen and clocks spin
and the wisps of honey covered
minutes
blow airy and light
billowing curtains and hearts
alike

We cannot see frail and broken
made of bone and flesh
we  still hold to doubt and fear
but tender is the soul infused with hope
for it
holds new mercy rising on the orange blaze, promises
to take us with her
as she dreams

There are shadows, still
but brighter is that which
slants across her face
than that which seeks to rule the world
When there are only dark days
piled one upon the other

That is the promise of the
bloom
an emerging efforescence
that causes hands to lift
and eyes to shine
while their glint burns bright
upon the field

Look for signs of tender hope
when wrinkled lines curl gentle on the edge
of lip and eye, blue no more
the bird has made her
nest of
new
fragile eggs
laid in trust
hold gentle as you breathe out dread
and winter’s gloom is carried off
light breaks open
claiming hearts and souls again

+++++++++++

Elizabeth and I are grateful, too, for Lisa Leonard at Lisa Leonard Designs whose jewelry is shown here on the model’s neckline.  The photograph used in Vernal Light was selected  from  a collaboration between Lisa Leonard and Kelly Sauer. Again, thank you Kelly for generously allowing us to partner with you. You can find more of Kelly’s work at Kelly Sauer.  And you can follow her blog and her art through words at Joie de Vivre.

Brokenness is a Portal

The morning begins simply and purposefully. The boys and I eat breakfast, clean up dishes, make beds … all of it completed with, seemingly, contented airs. First one thing is finished, then the next, and the decided and determined course of slow and steady becomes a rhythm that breathes joy into the mundane. I pause, midstream, and see this with eyes resolved to frame the plain, every day moments for what they actually are: glory come down.

I breathe deep, knowing that this must be my practice.

Stopping.

Breathing.

Beholding.

Over and over and over.

World without end.

As our routine and ritual plays out, we gather on the sofa to read aloud. As we are drawn deeper into the story and questions arise, we pause and discuss, compare and contrast. For one cannot traipse and footslog their way through the dominion of elves and dwarves. No, this territory must be revered and respected. Inevitably, however, when opinions are shared, a boy forgets to extend that same respect to his brother and words begin to fly like arrows. Voices rise. Emotions flare. And in a single moment, the morning that was wrapped in gold burns hot and I am left with hands dripping dross.

I stop.

I breathe.

I remember.

This is a practice...

++++++++++++++++++++++

Would like to continue reading?

Then, please join me over at Emily Wierenga's place for this week's Imperfect Prose

where I am guest posting and bleeding brokenness all over the place.

pieces of me

The ordinary glow of common dust in ancient sunlight

stops me short

this morning

The flecks that have fallen

from the daily

walking scratching cutting caressing

shaking still shouting silence 

Caught for a moment

in light that has been

falling for

ever

And in the seeing

I begin the embrace

the giving up

of all the days

the fears

the utter unknown

the that which is coming

and the what that has gone before

the Holy Ghost fire

and the blackened embers

all of it

shed across surface and air and time

pieces of me

settling

drifting

floating

awash in the morning air

hung and revolving through stillness and quiet knowing

the Ancient of Days

mixing with the leftovers of my own days

falling like manna

across and over and in

my

today

Glory