Take Your Poet To Work Day

Well, seeing as my home is the center for the majority of my work AND getting out to a coffee shop, much less a decent one, in my town is nearly impossible, I chose to just invite Rumi to my very own kitchen table. 

It seemed more than fitting, actually. This is where my boys and I gather for our Poetry and Tea Time ritual and this is where all the big, juicy conversations take place. 

So, I poured Rumi some strong coffee and offered him some Piroutte wafers. Clearly, he enjoyed them. 

And, just like that, Rumi is part of the family.

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Linking up with Tweetspeak Poetry for 

Take Your Poet To Work Day

Of Things That Have Been

I finger them mindlessly most days,

These tokens of thanksgiving.

In some familiar corner of my brain I am

aware of their weight and

the anorexic string that

keeps them connected to a well

untended.

But something has shifted

inside of me and

I can’t remember

how to see.... 

To keep reading this poem, please follow this link

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I am writing today over at my beautiful friend Elizabeth Marshall's home, 

Poetry & Prose Through A Lens of Grace.

She extended a gracious invitation to several of her friends that write poetry and I am honored to be included in that circle.

Elizabeth and I have a history of mingling words and images and stirrings of the heart.

Together, we created Adagio, a writing "pas de deux" of sorts where we wove our words together to pen poems. 

Quite a bit of life has happened between that last project and now, as well it should have. But we are both very excited to join together again in the new year. It is our hope that you will journey with us.

After your leaving

The days spin silently

and I am vacuous

in their wake

mindful of the practice

of living

but bereft 

nonetheless

 

I was not aware 

the depth of

minor rituals

and how our speaking them

to each other

pulled taut

at my sacred spaces

hemming me in

behind and before

The morning sun

falls flat 

stretching just long enough

to find the dirt smear

on the tile

I rub it halfheartedly with my toe

but nothing changes

Today

however

I heard about the hummingbirds

how they have returned

seeking nectar 

how they eat just enough

to fuel their flight

each minute

So I retrieved the feeders

their red bases 

faded from so many days

in the sun

and I filled them to the brim

sweet and dripping

A small but mighty

offering

The land of the living

is full of such sacraments

evidently

Soon I will walk

stronger 

Until then

I will just gaze upon my

Ebenezer

 

On the passing of my mother

She is from a white clapboard house with a wraparound porch, claw foot tub and Dove soap smack in the middle of Macon, Georgia.

From the streets of Madison and Carling, up and down Coleman Hill, where she walked to Whittle School and the Public Library, and boldly asked for a library card at the age of 5.

She is from playing under fig and pear trees, soft scented pines and shiny leaf magnolias, red clay staining her bare feet and the smell of paper mills filling her nostrils.

She is from Berry and Sallie Belle, Wiley, Sister, Doris, Roger and Jimmy.

She is from strong as oxen Shero aunts who farmed cotton and worked in pants plants in Wrightsville, Georgia.

She is from the Depression and Tuberculosis and a family that took in folks who were down on their luck. From fish on Friday and First Street Methodist.

She is from picnics on Stone Mountain, Finchers BBQ, NuWay hotdogs and LaVista Catfish.

She is from poise lessons and perfect posture and words dripping honey sweet from her mouth.

She is from a hair-brained idea involving a midnight double date rendezvous to Aiken, SC, a half drunk justice of the peace, and a 4th of July celebration that included one very busy rotating fan.

She is from moves to Indianapolis, Indiana and then St. Louis, Missouri that took her from her beloved South.

She is from north of the Mason Dixon line where she took it upon herself to soften the edges of every nasal accent in the Midwest.

She is from bacon grease on the back of the stove and dog bowls at the back door
and champagne bottles that toasted births all lined up in a row. She is from Boston Ferns and summer deck parties.

From coffee and cherry chip birthday cake and hands that smelled like onions.

She is from chuck roast in the electric skillet, onion soup mix brisket, Jello salads, massive pots of spaghetti, liver and onions, green enchiladas, asparagus disguised as green bean casserole, sweet tea and Hallelujah banana bread.
She is from “I love you a bushel and a peck” and “Gimme some sugar” and, perhaps most famously,  “Tim Smothers, you will nevah, nevah, evah drive that Aspen Station Wagon again!”

She is from Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass, the Johnny Mathis Christmas album, Dionne Warwick, George Carlin, Flip Wilson, Bill Cosby, Cheech and Chong, Fiddler on the Roof, James Taylor and that Classical Music in the background.

She is from You Are My Sunshine and Everything Is Going to be Alright.

She is from “To Thine Own Self Be True” and “It’s Your Mama.” From “All Is Well” and “It Is What It Is Grandma” and “Live Well, Laugh Often, Love Much.”

She is from dancing jitterbugs across linoleum floors and slapping her knee at every guffaw.

She is from birthday cards and notes in school lunches and throwing kisses and standing at the door until your car was out of sight.

From “psspsspsspss” and “chum on” and “doodlebug” and “Honey Bob.”

And forever and ever and ever, she will always be from shooting stars and fireworks and every smile shared by those that loved her best.

 ++++++++++

There you have it. The world as we have known it, all the days of our lives. We were molded and shaped and created from that celestial brew of whimsy and joy and strength.

We have never known ourselves or our world without our mother in it.  I am here, my brothers and sisters are here, because of her.  We are who we are, because of her.

Our mother was a curator of a welcome life.

To live in the orbit of our mother was to always be invited, received, entertained, accepted.

But perhaps above all, to have known my mother was to have been loved.

Her life was a lesson in loving.

What she taught us all was to always run hard after love. In all circumstances, by every means necessary, even when we screw things up or we do the exact right thing--we need love to be what is standing between us and everyone else. When love is what we choose to weave in among the fibers and snags of our everyday life, when love gilds the edges of tired joy or stretches across the chasms of unspoken fears then we become Love lived on purpose and that breathes life and one can catch glimpses of glory come down.

In the wake of my mom’s death, we are sad, yes. We feel carved out and empty and the truth of what we are left with actually aches in ways deep and long, yes.
But this, too, is also true:

There is still life, despite the loss.  There is still love in the world, despite the severing.  There is still light, despite the darkness.

And that gives me hope.

Because, if it is true, that we are who we are because of our mother...
then it means that this whole dance, all of the goodness and light spun dizzy with all of the defiance and angst, all of the ways that we continually fall down and help pick each other up, all of the beautiful and mundane, the fascinating and the trivial, the whole and the half?

It's part of us too, now, tucked away in the obvious and secret places, planted in soil made rich with her love and care for us.

It is through loving and singing with our own children or grandchildren, by partnering with kindred souls or living alongside people that challenge us...all of it ripples on and on and on.... people are continually made and remade because we are in their lives...which means that our mother lives on.

And I pray that one day, when the pictures are pulled out and the chronology of our becoming is on display, the one thing that will have leaked out all over, dripping from the corners of our eyes and the edges of our smiles, is the amazing truth...

that we were loved by her.

Here

I’m cooking dinner and

only because the days are getting longer

does the light still filter in

through the clouded window that

needs replacing

The pane is nearly opaque

but not muddled enough

to keep my eye from catching

the fluttering of a bird at the feeder

repositioning himself

to find more seed

While I cut broccoli

the baby sits on the counter

flapping his arms

like the bird outside

screeching with glee

drool dripping like honey

from his mouth

the bud of a tooth peeking

out from swollen gums

I set down the knife  

and sip my wine in the pause

while through the tilted glass I can see

the edges of the room stained

crimson and swirling

catching light

glowing

The rest of this poem can be found over at Elizabeth Marshall's beautiful blog

Poetry & Prose Through A Lens of Grace

where Elizabeth weaves wonder and whimsy on a regular basis.

Elizabeth and I collaborated on Adagio: A Poetry Project,

an experiment in writing across the miles, twining words and heart thoughts together.

You can read those pieces here, here, here and here. 

I am so very thankful for the opportunity to share, once again, with Elizabeth.

The Folds of Grace

photo credit

Some days just ring hollow
as if all the hopes I’ve thrown long and wide just
swirl round and round
slower and slower
from the weight borne upon them

And then there are days
that the black bird returns
flash of red upon his wing
his call creaky like an old iron gate
causing me to squint upwards
into the still bare tree limb in silhouette
the strengthening sun finding new fire
behind it

Some days roll in atop the
pink foam of fitful nights
and the sandy grit bristles hard
against the murky glass
leaving an etched line that will take
hours to polish out

The rest of this poem can be found over at SheLoves Magazine where I am writing today. Follow this link and join me there? I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments, either here or there.

Saving Daylight

I caught sight of it as I passed the window yesterday
down the driveway thick with mud and gathered puddles
Three birds in silhouette
the afternoon sun flooding them from behind
taking a bath

My lips curled skyward
and I stood motionless
for five whole minutes
Because
the audacity

The day before that
you pretended to be Huck playing in the bulrushes
and you brought me handfuls of cat tail fluff
my palms opened to the offering
and you glowed

The dark earth, moist with thaw
has begun its heaving heavenward
pushed from below
until, split open like the body
it becomes broken

Then, today
I turned that last corner out of the woods
and came up on the lake
glimmering with a thousand
salvos of light

And I'm clutching all of it
with an unbecoming fierceness
hell bent on gathering glory
as if it wasn't raining
right round

This Mortal Coil

The words pierce through the late morning light that hangs
drowsy and dust filled and glistening
and just like that
there is no way to breathe

Instinctively I fly to touch him
memorize his lips and jowls and fingertips
trace the shadow of his profile
hear the cadence within his chest
be sure of him

Whenever Death runs past
a vale of tears cuts a gorge
right through the center of
all that was known or promised
and we become wild and frantic
for life

I eventually settle and draw in
what is left of the day
seizing moment after glorious moment
like a greedy beggar
my heart keen on wanting it all

As the sunlight stretches long across the room
I feel the pull of weathered thread
that winds then meanders then weaves itself
through the fingers of all my loves
The one that holds us fast to earth
and to each other
has weak spots

I know this
yet I want to pull all the tighter
draw in the goodness so I will have it
always
entwine the bright colored thread fast
around the faded one
to keep it from shuffling off
this mortal coil

In which there is Poetic Justice, for God is a Poet, but there is also Mercy

I am honored to open up space today for the words of Anita Mathias. Anita and I first connected in the comments section of a piece I wrote for SheLoves. A few months later she asked me to write a guest post over at her place. Clearly, we share an admiration for each other's words. Please join me in welcoming Anita to 

A Lifetime of Days.

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Even while Esau was out hunting his father’s favourite wild game, Jacob and Rebecca slaughtered and cooked two choice young goats-- which Jacob served to Isaac, pretending to be Esau, stealing his blessing.

A cruel deception.

And, uncannily, years later, in his own old age, Jacob’s sons sold his favourite son into slavery, dipping Joseph’s precious robe in the blood of a slaughtered goat, claiming he had been killed by a wild beast.

Tricked with a goat, just as he had tricked his own father with a goat.

* * *

The seeds we sow, we reap, measure for measure. They lie dormant in the earth, sometimes for years, then yield their harvest.

The good we have done yields blessing, and the evil we’ve done conjures shadowy forces against us.

And that’s scary if we have sown bad seeds, have said and done less than luminous things, things we are now ashamed of.

* * *

But we do not live in a mechanical universe. We live in a just universe, shot through by mercy like a golden cord.

The law of sowing and reaping is the deep magic from the dawn of time, in C. S. Lewis’s phrase.

However there is a more powerful force still: the force of mercy, unleashed by the willing victim who bore in his body the punishment for all the bad seeds we have ever sown.

And so mercy triumphs over justice. The deep magic from before the dawn of time.

Jacob recovers Joseph; Esau was, in fact, blessed.

* * *

For myself, I want to sow good seed for the rest of my life.

But the bad seed I have sown? The things I am ashamed of? The things I did because of my small, bewildered, wounded heart?

I confess them.

I ask God’s forgiveness. I ask Christ’s blood to cover them.

And I step into the waterfall of mercy, the mercy that triumphs over justice because the One who loves the world is good.

I ask him to let all the bad seeds I’ve sown, which are still dormant, die.

And I ask him for grace to overplant much good seed to crowd out the bad seed.

And I ask him, the ultimate genetic engineer, to somehow, even now, change the DNA of the bad seed I’ve planted, and bring good from them.

And I place my life and future in His hands.

(Photo credit: Jenny Downing)

_____________________________

Anita Mathias is the author of Wandering Between Two Worlds

(Benediction Classics, 2007). She has won a writing fellowship from The National Endowment for the Arts, and her writing has appeared in The Washington Post, The London Magazine,  Commonweal,  America, The Christian Century, and The Best Spiritual Writing anthologies.

Anita lives in Oxford, England with her husband and daughters. She blogs at Dreaming Beneath the Spires. You can find her on Twitter @anitamathias1 or on Facebook at Dreaming Beneath the Spires.

I Am From

I am from bacon grease on the back of the stove
and dog bowls at the back door
and champagne bottles that toasted births
all lined up in a row

I am from the yellow house with pink shingles
and creaky wood floors
and one full bath
for seven people

I am from a family that didn't expect me because it was already full up with teenagers
and long haired boys on motor bikes and girls almost grown up and leaving
but it was also full up on love
and
so I am from babysitters and ice cream buyers and we love you so much

I am from the kitchen
with the worn wooden table and ash trays full to the brim
and coffee cups strewn about half full and kissed with lipstick

I am from Tree City USA full of stately elms
that grew so tall and wide they pushed sidewalks aside
and shaded generation after generation
until a disease infected them all and they slowly disappeared forever

I am from playing under water locusts and china berries and blue spruce
and climbing that one ginko all the way to the top
knowing that heaven was that much closer
because I dared
I remember that tree's
long gone limbs
as if they were my own

I am from Ghost in the Graveyard and Kick the Can
I am from Truth or Dare and lightning bugs

I am from church on Sunday and everything in order
I am from Mama and Daddy and "Aint" Alice and Uncle Roger

I am from damaged bread and honey buns and bear claws left for trash
but rescued by a hard working man who knew treasure when he saw it

I am from "Give me some sugar!" and "stand up straight"
and "You are my sunshine" sung in two part harmony

I am from The Gateway to the West and baseball and frozen custard and thin crust pizza
I am from Atlanta and Emory and Chick-Fil-A and Jimmy Carter and pot liquor
But I am also from Germany and England and Scotland and Prussia

I am from black-eyed peas and turnip greens and fried corn bread and peach cobbler
I am from apple pies and sauerkraut and fresh honey dew
and a cup of hot water first thing in the morning

I am from Meme and a house that always smelled of creamed corn
and bacon and Dove soap and Brach's candy

I am from Grandma whose short legs and generous jowls
now look at back at me in the mirror

I am from the Jim Crow South
and Whites and Coloreds

I am from rural Ohio
and soybeans and corn
as
far
as
the
eye
can
see

And now I am from three boys and a man
and a dog whom we call Stinkerpants all crammed into an ancient house built of stone
I am from writing down the stories with my eyes wide open trying to drink in all of the glory
before I fall asleep

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One of the many reasons that I love being a part of SheLoves Magazine? Synchroblogs like this, in honor of Heritage Day in South Africa. This is my offering for the "I Am From" prompt, an opportunity for folks around the world to share more about who they are and what has shaped them. We would love for you to join us. You can link up your own poem here. And while you're linking up, be sure to read from the amazing collection of stories already gathered there.

Luster

Blue
Full Sturgeon
Green Corn
Grain
and
Full Red

I, too
drape myself in names

Time may cause the cloth
to hang and shift
but the form that
pushes out from beneath
is still true
even when it is dark
as
pitch

Luster
that is your secret
for you are
diligent and faithful
and
your reward
is radiance
the kind that illuminates
shadowed
shapes

Perhaps
I should take heed
and observe
that the changing of garments
without
a vision

Is not the same
thing
as the slow march
of time
across the sky
as the music
of the spheres
sparkles
glory

++++++++++++++++
Linking with Emily for Imperfect Prose

photo credit: Tim Fields on Flickr

Foretaste

"In the right light, at the right time, everything is extraordinary."  ~Aaron Rose

The daylight has shifted, quietly
and now it gently wanes.
Days are still warm and locusts still drone
but the world is tilting
and we adjust our steps
despite ourselves.

I watch as the sunlight
crackles through the emerald leaves
and the swaying shaking boughs
are clapping
right out
and I know it
down deep

That this dripping delicious daylight
is but a
foretaste...

You can find the rest of my poem over at SheLoves Magazine today. 

Would love to have you join me there.

Art

It's difficult to conjure up the memories
of how
exactly
I felt on that day
of which way my stomach
flipped
or how quickly my heart
pounded

But now
I do remember
that I woke calmly
and watched the early sun angle its way
through the glass
and
I realized that
I would no longer have to wake
alone

and
to that
I smiled

When I woke this morning
you were already up
quietly making coffee
or
walking the dog
or
reading in the big blue chair
Moving through the house
like whispered love
curling around corners
and
hanging full in the air

I know
now
that I had no idea
back then
what making love
over a lifetime
would mean

One always hopes
for promises kept
and
memories made
yes

But this
every
day
making
love

It is art

paint on canvas
wet clay on spinning wheels
fiber twisted and mounted
notes strung on staves
steps counted and flung
art

Before you
before us
I didn't know
I was an artist
not really

But this morning
when the day dawned
and
you were still there
something opened wide

Making love
over a lifetime
will do that to you

Emerge

My arms circled round your neck

this morning 

like a garland of hope

and although I thought it better

to refrain from

pomp and circumstance

I secretly imagined that I was

knighting you with

strength and fortitude

and

ringing you with

joy and hope 

Because I know

sweet one

that you are riding into 

both

battle

and

revelry

in the days ahead

Even on good days

there is a struggle within

That inner conflict

between

who you want to be

and

who you are

and all of it

swirling round like a storm

of 

angst

But you were made for glory

you

who are so meek in heart

Here and there

I get glimpses of

the ways that

fire has been forged

in your bones

deep and hidden

It emerges

when it must

and 

your face shines radiant

from the effort

That is the image

I will carry with me

these long days

when you are apart from me

I will cross my heart

and hope

with the saints

that you will hear the song

placed inside you

when you were but a whisper

to me

The song that was sung over you

by the One

that imagined you into being

and knows you by heart

Photo credit: Swirl Abstraction by Matt on Flickr

Night Work

photo courtesy of liz west on flickr

There is that cool breeze that blows atop the blankets
so unusual for this time of year
and we keep wide the windows at night
grateful for the way it pushes away
the heavy scent of labored sleep

But the truth is
you are not sleeping much
and although I can't help myself
the sleeping, that is
I am aware that your
dark hours have cast you as a sentinel
and it makes my dreams
all the more muddled and tangled

For the moon hours
they are for renewal
and the night fairies
they are known for their gifts
of sand and ebony glitter
all of which
remind us that work
is being done in our stead

how I long for you
to lay down your hammer and anvil
if just for a night
so that you could be carried
to the other side
and so
you could wake
groggy and gritty

and yesterday
it could be but a vague memory
having been carried off
by the fay folk
and now hidden
in the mist

Tilting towards joy

It came
while sitting at the table, writing
that shudder
cloaked in folds of warmth
and
pulsing light

a triumphant
twirl
that claimed
my body
for
life

And I felt you

Until then
I certainly knew
of
you

For I had been
carving out
space
in my deepest places
where your
heart
might find its rhythm
and
your limbs could make
silent ripples

But
it was in that moment
that the universe tilted
towards joy
and I smiled
knowingly

And now
there is this
swelling
rising
fantastic
growing
And you are always
before me
now

My walk is a bit slant
these days
proof that the angels
touched my hip
and I am
overcoming

And my face splits
with grace light
as I create
with God

Yes
I know you
little one
You are mine


-------------
Photo credit: swirl by Ben Salter on flickr

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.

Poetry is like bread

Poetry is like bread

to me

these days

And I need it 

in the pantry

close at hand

For there are storms howling

outside my window

bleaching the landscape

and

driving me inward

deeper into the

center rooms

and even the crazy quilt

isn't enough to

drown out the

loudness of my mind

so I reach for

bread

because it is all I can stomach

for now

and

it

is

enough

 

Love poem #1 (although there have been others)

The pink and purple bled through the clouds this morning

color wicking on every strand of vapor melting across the sky

and I knew it

inside of that moment

but I also knew it

that night in our youth

when minutes stretched far and wide

and you reached through fear and longing

to hang your heart on a hook

that bore your name

or

that time when heaven cracked open

and rained grace and fairies

on the both of us below

twice

but then again

it happened just a week or so ago

You and me

gazing past the present reflected in our eyes

for a moment, seeing a future

that made us cling wildly

to the rock

that we had become

it is every day

really

all gathered up

one by one

and in one
alone
I know it

my whole life long

On love

There's a part of me that wants to tire of all this 

the not knowing, the taut glances, the silent fear

For I didn't envision

a gaping chasm between hearts

when I grabbed your hand late that night

Then, all I saw was the light from your eyes

And my youth mistook it for

the end of darkness

How could I have known

that the dancing flames 

lighting our long path

would cast shadows 

long and deep? 

I didn't think about the days when

one of us would be in front

slicing the tall grass with dull blade

while the other followed, crunching seed heads.

Nor could I have imagined the circles

our feet would trace

to avoid the center line

But the truth remains

You push me past the usual loving

And I would have never been content

in the knowing of that

in the beginning