And I Suppose




And I Suppose

Dead-headed blood-red geraniums lay in a weary heap
Someone deemed them past their peak
Guilty as charged
I re-adhered them
Bloom by spent and weary bloom

In my imagination lit up with wild hope of on second thought
Second chances defied nature’s laws
For blood-red geraniums who’ve been sentenced to the gallows

I suppose I followed some fool’s
Unwritten rules
Instead of following my own
Protocols of beauty

For a time

And I suppose I am a first rate fool
For once practicing
Deceptive rules of beauty

Explicitly implicit
Many may be found on the compost heap
Beside the geraniums past their prime, clipped and deemed unworthy

One more chip

Shipwrecked ships

I am a fool
Following the broken to a watery grave
Compelled by the cryptic stories they beheld

And for building my own defense








Part Two – A Confessional: I Write Imperfect Poetry and Prose

Fave Chicken Pic (This is part two of a two-part post. Part One may be read here. You may consider reading it first. Thank you for being here for my imperfect poetry and prose. Grateful to have you here.) And so I write. Today is Monday and I want to write as honestly as I strived to on Sunday. This is not about false humility or humbled low-bowing for the sake of, well, humble low-bowing in and of itself. Let’s admit it: Writers humbling themselves can be a spectator sport on the interwebs. And often it is difficult to discern  the writer’s spirit. The authenticity. (Now that’s an over-used word.)

I know in my deep places that my craft, my art, my writing, well, they need time to ripen and mature. I need to read more poetry, write more poetry and listen to the wisdom of beautifully gifted writers. I need to pay better attention. Read more excellent fiction. Sit in the wake of the backdraft of the giants.

And yet, I am still Elizabeth. There is no changing that. I am still the woman who burns with passion for seeing the world in a beautiful, grace-laced way. I am the writer who hears God wooing me into a world of words, with His own. I am a long-processor and so I need to write. Everything that I see, hear and experience needs to run back through the sieve of the pen. But it doesn’t. One cannot sustain quite that level of writing. Or I can’t. But I understand an event a bit better after I write. Most writers do. This is not unique to my writing life.

It is important for me to continue to remind myself and others that I was not always bound to the pen or bent on paying close attention. I have missed a million small moments. Beauty has gone unnoticed. Miracles of creation, tucked into the intricate places have been seen by the attentive ones. But not by me.

I am awake now. I am paying attention. Going digging. Searching for mystery, miracle and wonder. Sharing it with others. And savoring a thousand intricately nuanced moments. Looking for the hidden. And writing toward a more perfectly crafted poem. Bending in to learn to show you in more eloquently written prose.

And so I write.

Expectantly. Honestly. Awake.

I am writing my poetry. My prose.

For us.

Simple Is The New Fill In The Blank

I cannot tell you if it is a matter of thriving, survival or choice. I cannot tell you if I am preaching to self or sharing with you the leaning in. I simply know that simple is taking me to new places. Simplicity is saying no to good things. I do not know if I left my days of rushing behind me, buried in a heap of ruin or if slow has chosen me out of grace. Perhaps slow and I are choosing each other.

Simple is soulful and rich, uncomplicated and fresh. Simple is joy in a bar of soap, sitting in a chair by the chicken coop watching my growing babies, six of them, enjoy their fresh picked clover.

Simple carves out time for hope and prayer and sweeping the sidewalk.

Simple Is The New Fill In The Blank

I noticed
And then again

Senses on guard
I cannot quantify it
With a poetically pithy cliche
Or, rather, I shall not
But if you can stop dead in your tracks
Still as an August Southern day that does not breathe
Pull off the road
And watch the soulful shrimpers shove off from the shoreline
Let your eyes light on the ebony skin of hard-working men on the Parker D
Strong-leaning against the rail of the vessel, teetering on the verge of passion
Almost find the whites of one man’s eyes as he dreams of feeding his family
With the fruit of the sea in his net
Surely, you are on your way

And perhaps if you
Linger longer over the radish bed
Smell a third and fourth time the pungent cilantro as you break the leaf
(That which your garden gifted you, out of love for your labor)
You’ve moved closer in love
With the ordinary

Uncomplicated finds the cracks
Hears the faintest sound of wind chimes playing a tree-bound symphony
Feels the cold Hershey-colored soil, turned up and over by the dog’s nose

Simple is the new lens

Finally it chose to have its way
With me
And love is new
This Spring

Undoing me along the way


Joining Laura Boggess




The Earth plays her scales in a C minor chord
First string grey demands a solo
Cancels out Earth’s musical noise
Grey, the sound of dormancy
White noise
Dampens each note
Unuttered, silence
Muffled in the shadows of the shortened days
Cut off at the knees, the sun is tired
And so am I
Like a puppet show, the light plays in the snow
The tree limbs sign the words
So you and I
Mute and deaf to the language of the Winter quiet
May hear and see and know
Muted though they seem
The Earth still sings
A winsome winter song
A breaking bough, the percussion
The weight of white
Her breaking point
How beautiful the silence sounds
As the nothingness takes a bow