Poetry, Always

March 3, 2013 ~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 2 Comments

Poetry Always

In the middle of crashing thunder, noise grinds to a halt.

On the edge of charcoal skies, radiant glory shines.

Into the broken places, healing.

Plaster walls

Whisper into chambers

Set the captive free with prayers,

Always, poetry.

Wash over the wounded

Cry out a modern day psalmist’s lament or praise

Proclaim beauty wrapped in words

Of poetry.

Leave the world for moments only

Through the portal carved gentle by a phrase or two

Of not prose,

But poetry.

Befriend the friendless, mount up to the highest heights

Go up with a word, lay it down,

An offering,

Always leave the gift of poetry,

Penned in grace, bound up with strands of love,

Potent packages of

Poetry.

Joining Tweetspeak Poetry and 100 Sweet Bloggers for some poetry with Wordcandy.

Postcards From The Ordinary – Letters From The Village

March 1, 2013March 1, 2013 ~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 5 Comments

on an ordinary day in an ordinary life
there was once upon a time a once in a life time
came an ordinary moment in an ordinary way
to an ordinary girl
with an ordinary way
of waiting on the ordinary things to happen
in their just plain extraordinary way
so an ordinary day in in an ordinary life
is actually extraordinary after all
and all the ordinary moments are framed by a lens of grace and become extraordinarily beautiful
and she sees art in the ordinary
because he replaced her lens on life with the lens to see anew
and it was good. very good.

Joining Lisa Jo for and her five minute friday community. today we are writing around ORDINARY ( and I am in need of grace as I did not time my writing and as I ordinarily do, I exceeded the egg timer which was never set.)

The Sweater

November 5, 2012November 5, 2012 ~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 7 Comments

It is comfort food for the body, the soul. The nubs and knit one pearl two’s.

Knit in love by hand by many. By hand somewhere, perhaps, in the glorious imagination.

I know she knit, she knitted, she still knits. So that is what I see in the eyes of the mind, the heart. Not the factory woven ones.

I pretend they are each created by the hands of mother, women with love.

Birthed by hand. Birthed on a lap, in love with each spectacular skein feeding the woven art. Twisting threaded tendrils turning the corner, row on row.

The colors mark the masterpiece like a box of Crayloa’s, sixty-four times tenfold or more equals a sea of blended, love.

The colors bleed, each row into the next. The love bleeds into each loose or taut loop of yarn, over and around they twist, over needle, round the corner to the finger, worn out working, in love.

Love looks like nubbies. Love feels like threads, soft or silken. Knit with care.

To me. A sweater knit by hand. With care. Time invested in each row, warmed by lap.

These patient working hands.

I see her sitting with the tools to make the throws or scarves or sweaters.

Woman weaves her wearable art. Woman weaves her warmth.

Creates a vehicle for a body. Warmth to hold the heat that stokes the life. Its love.

She makes the woven shield, to block the elements of life, guard against the cold life winds.

She knits one and pearls two, more to make body armour. Protection for her family, the one she loves.

It wraps around the body, hungry for her art. Of her hands.

Comfort food to warm the flesh and bones that she birthed, with woolen woven, love.

What woven woolen warmth she creates, breathing love and making love.

And warms her family with the tedious movement of the threads, of love. Each movement of the needle brings the yarn to form another row of woolen love.

A covering for her precious. A sweater. Comfort food to feed the weary soul.

An archive of her love, her art for years to come.

They represent, her love.

The quilt, the needlepoint, cross-stitch and all created beauty of her hands.

A sweater, shorn from sheep she shapes her love onto her flock and forms, love.

Wrapped up in woven wooly work of women, a sweater made of love.

I’m at Amber’s today with this Sweater piece. You really will love it there. Come read and wrap up in words over there.

Rolling, Rolling, Rolling- A Reflective, Part 1

November 5, 2012November 6, 2012 ~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 4 Comments

Life looks different in the looking back, from the reflective posture.

The way you look back over the simmering of the events, the narrative of days, unfolding, shades the past with different colors of a back traveling mind.

Changes.

The heart, the mind, the soul have time to envelope the days of the life in a love note.

Stamp it, seal it up.

Mail if off to the memory holder of the heart, to treasure forever.

This is the way of a life, and this is the way of this adventure.

The one in June. We boarded at the last minute, not the final minute, but late by standards of planners and plotters.

We packed our expectancy, excitement in bags, zipped up our longing for adventure in a sack of joy.

So in the marinating back over a journey of the heart and body, it takes time to sort it out.

We process, look back in love, look back in time, look back in longing.

And the wheels of the heart go rolling, rolling, rolling back over it all like a wooden pin on biscuit dough. Like the wheels on that bus we boarded in June, in Brooklyn.

We live life forward but we go diving for treasure in the past, sometimes, we do.

For a buried memory, a tucked away time and place, a once-in-a-lifetime adventure is not once after all, because of rolling back in memory.

We pick through the memories like birds at the feeder, knowing there is delicious nourishment in the mix, finding it, pulling it out and savoring it deep in the soul.

Tasting and seeing that He is good.

The eyes of the poet’s heart tread lightly through the story. Waits to tell when her heart feels it is just right.

Unveiling memories like red velvet curtain on the stage, the players, the memories must be ready to step out and step forth.

So it is with this.