▶ New Poem One Day I Will Write A Poem by graceappears

Sharing a bit of poetry which I recorded on Sound Cloud many moons ago.

As I head off on a brief journey up into the woods and hills, I am anticipating the time I will spend with my mother. Dementia has hijacked so much and yet there is still joy. There is still beauty.

And poetry remains. To be excavated, dusted off, writen, savored and read.

We will read hers. We will read Milne.

We will crawl into the waiting arms of poetry. A refuge in the storm. A card catalog of now and then.

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https://m.soundcloud.com/graceappears/new-poem-one-day-i-will-write?utm_source=soundcloud&utm_campaign=share&utm_medium=pinterest

#Marvelous

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Dear Marvelous:

You found me. Perhaps I found you. We found each other. We are now sojourners for a journey of days and weeks and seasons, through the calendar of 2016. While the earth spins and turns, we will look for the poetry. Together.

We missed the early days. We had not found each other yet when January began her spartan dance, slow and waltzing. Fresh with hope. So we are shy a full deck of 365. But we press on in the remaining. Linked. Arms hooked. You are an encourager of delight, a finder of the extraordinary and a lover of whimsy.

You are not the Pollyanna that some may think. You are not the eternal optimist. The wearer of rose-colored glasses. You are green with new birth. Effervescent with joy in the face of discovery. Yes, you are life-giving and eager to delight in the best. Often the simple.

The “m” sits on the edge of pursed lips, determined and brave and pushes off like a swimmer doing the butterfly. A graceful lunge. Into the realm of wonder and possibility. A sea of mystery and marvel. High tides, low tides. Ebbing and flowing. Always tossing up the treasures to be collected on the edges of our walk.

So there you are. Light in the dark. Warmth in the cold. You shade and color the nuances of life with glorious richness. With exquisite simplicity. Elegance in the simple. You are regal as a peasant in her everyday-ness. You are riches in the rags. Hope in despair. Light in the shadows.

Marvelous, you are a mindset. A lens. A capturer of life’s best and rarest. A treasure seeker. A seeker of intrigue.

Thank you for choosing me. Here’s to a year of marveling together. At all the mystery. Through the pain. Into the dark days. Around the deep ditches and past the hurdles of sorrow. Over, under, around.

Here’s to uncovering the marvelous. For you and for me. In the everyday. In every day. In Him and by Him. Glory be to the Creator of the marvelous.

amen,

e

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A Quiet Place For Words

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It was getting a little noisy for me on social media. I am still there, on twitter, instagram and Facebook. And I am on Tumblr and Pinterest too. And yes, I am here on my blog. My writing home. Thank you again for being here with me, always. But I have craved a quieter space. And I am creating one for us. An email letter from me to you, in your inbox, for subscribers who are interested in more poetry, photography, prose, essays and some updates on my journey into working toward my first published book. Don’t worry you haven’t missed much.

It is still early and there is no book. And the newsletter, it is not about that. But I may share a little of the high points of that journey. Dead end or success. I am excited to share with you that I am working behind the scenes on a book proposal. So there is that project. Along with this one.

A Quiet Place For Words. I hope you enjoy what you find there. (please feel free to subscribe, it is free. And then unsubscribe if you find it is not for you. I know how closely I guard my own email inbox. I get it. I understand.)

Click the link below to subscribe to my Tiny Letter. A once weekly, or less frequent, letter to be delivered to your inbox. Quietly. I promise not to make a lot of noise.

This little labor of love will be sent to subscribers next week. I hope you will join me.

Elizabeth W Marshall  – a quiet place for words

It Is Not Like I Am Trying To Ditch Poetry, But Poetry Won’t Let Me Anyway

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It Is Not Like I Am Trying To Ditch Poetry, But Poetry Won’t Let Me Anyway

When my speaking voice
My writing prose, writer’s voice
Are released to run free into the wide open spaces of the blogosphere and the world wide web
Compressed language, brevity and pithy phrasing
Fail me
You could say I am a long-winded fool
A verbose jaw flapper, writer of long and winding words
Lover of the adverb
Repeater of things, lover of and
Funny how you swear you don’t give a twit or a flea or a flick
About what the naysayer’s say
Because
Isn’t it odd that the naysayers take up more space with their naysaying than the non-naysayers

So you go into your place where you hide all the brave
And you pull out all the tools and the stops
And you assess things, take the lay of the land
(Names have been changed to protect me)
Hold your finger high in the sky to take an opinion poll
Check the collective temperature of the crowd that you aim to please
Imagine what all the readers want to read
Second guess the lay of the land
And craft the project to fit the need

And loose yourself in the process
(Flipping through the Yellow Pages you search and opine the lack of  attorney’s who specialize in break-up’s
Between poetry and writer, writer and poetry)
Wondering if you’ve flipped a switch
Most folks would just ditch the poetry without a thought
Not even looking back

You start to write some words of the Dear John sort
Tell poetry how grateful you are to have had her help in shaping your prose
And gently console her with what would I have done without you’s
(She is a she, poetry, duh)
And you get out the hats and blowers and confetti
Send her on her way
Tell her, “Have you seen the poetry section at Barnes and Noble?”
(There is a poem about that, you can Google it, I wrote it, I should know)

Have you been in the room with people who look a hole as wide as the Hoover dam
Right through your insides when you say “Poetry”
And people with M.D.’s and degrees
And retirees and Ph.d’s and common people who are civilized and polite to the n’th degree
On all other occasions but this very one
Givers of the blank stare (they are grieving your loss of sales as they drop their jaw)
And you swear
And you swear off poetry
Well not really off, just less

Settle into the place that the naysayer’s swore was the safest bet
And the surest sure thing

The place where the agents live and thrive and the publishers always go
And then for the life of you
You decide to go down swinging
To take your beloved poetry with you
To leave no poetic child behind
To go after the one lost poetic soul
To bring every poetic voice home for a proper, oh never mind

It is not like I was trying to ditch poetry anyway
And even if I was
It won’t let me

Anyway

Look for poetry to find a place
And settle into at least a chapter or verse
Of the long-wided wind bag’s
Imaginary book of dreams
The names have been changed to protect poetry