No One Has Time For This

No One Has Time For This

Story

Gathered up

As a rising first-grader gathers fists full of fireflies glowing like the French’s mustard yellow porch light on my neighbor’s stoop two doors down to the left

Gentle clutch made to save the beating wings in a Mason jar, pierced with a Phillip’s head screwdriver

Air holes, a sign of breathy hope to hold them over ’till Wednesday

Caught on a summer Tuesday

One ordinary  South Carolina mid-summer’s night in August after the dust had not quite settled

November is too far gone while being too far off

Our collective attention shifted from Georgia peach ice cream, churned to the speed of slow, wait

Leaving no one to stop and  listen

To a cackle of words about washing fresh Bantam chicken eggs, under the tepid water, after the gathering, before the delivering

 An act of gifting

To my neighbor

The other one, who always has time

To listen

To a story gathered from salty remembering 

For the ones who have lost interest 

In politics and platform diving during the summer of our collective malcontent

Practicing Spontaneous Hospitality

One of my favorite places on the internet is Gracetable.org where I am honored to be a contributing writer. I am privileged to be one of several writers share this writing space and community.

If you know my writing home to be “poetry and prose through a lens of grace” there is a little piece of prose there. Today. One I chiseled out from the hard stone places of my heart. I know, there has been  poetry only here for a good long while. Follow me to Gracetable where I am wrestling with the idea of practicing spontaneous hospitality. What an honor to have you there. (Click here to go there. See you at Grace Table.) Spoiler alert. I think you may like it there as much as I do.

I did not need to offer a physical place at my table, an elaborate meal, or a cleverly designed invitation. I was invited to give the gift of my time. The gift of myself.

Another of my favorite writing homes is my own tiny letter, “A Quiet Place For Words.” Why? Because it is so quiet, off the beaten path and interactive. The format is my favorite, a letter from me to you, written every few weeks to subscribers. Well a favorite, along with my beloved poetry.

What joy to interact with subscribers. The newsletter is going out today. Have you signed up. Come pull up a seat. (Click here to subscribe there). Of course it is free.

Thank you for reading. Always.

peace and grace,

e

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A Gatherer’s Tale

 

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A Gatherer’s Tale

He dropped me off. Left me on a single slice of earth. Drove away in a watery wake. His back spoke a silent goodbye, good luck. I saw no one ahead or behind. Only the Oyster Catcher and the others. I had time. Space in all its facets, wet and dry. Solitude dominated the landscape. The sea, a metronome of well-timed lapping. The wind filled gaps of silence. Held me in his absence. Peace sat on her throne. Ruled the high seas. Reigned over me. While I began my gathering. The shoreline gives more than it takes. And offers more than the tangible. I heard cryptic murmurings to choose this and leave that. Pick this one and pass up that one. My small bag now filled with a story that would be written later. When puzzle piece meets puzzle piece. And the mystery makes more sense.Than not. I rinsed off my treasures with water, not from the raging sea. But from my quietude of fresh desire. To connect the dots of fractured wisdom passed from sea to me. Distanced myself from that slice of where I’d been. And read only what was in front of me. A dot dash dot, Morse code message made from collected things. Every symbol formed a word. Conjoined me to the shore, to tell me more of the world I’d gone in lonely search of knowing. I left parts of the story on the hemline of the world. They would wait for another day. But only if the tide has mercy. And lets them live to tell me more. He picked me up. And let me bring my bag of gathering home. Once heard and told, the stories never let you forget. The lessons they behold.

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Not Beethoven’s Ode To Joy

 

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Not Beethoven’s Ode To Joy

Nestled away from the throngs of discourse
(Still in earshot, every one )

Off shore
Where the peacemakers still
Come and go
Singing their muffled songs
Blended  harmony
Paul’s Epistle, the First One
And Ludwig’s musical composition
In the key of love

Ravenous scavengers of joy
Refuse to give up
Hungry for crumbs of hope
Cast wide their wholly nets

Old as dirt, new as momma’s milk
Music heals the wounded heart
Notes or not
Flat or sharp

Upon the raging sea

Twenty Sixteen is split right in two
Broken in halves and thirds and fifths
Thirsty for joy, parched for peace
We need more
Odes to joy

It is hard to beat the masters
Paul and Ludwig raise the bar
High and holy

But for the old salts
With graying hair, weary bones
And raspy throats
Worn out rope
Tethered to what’s left

Who never tire of amazing grace
Refuse to abandon a sinking ship
Or give up weary attempts
At writing their own

Ode to joy
Or at least
A hat tip to Ludwig

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