Category: Poetry

S.O.S. – A Not Very Poetic Call For Help

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 7 Comments

Some sentences are just so…plain. And ordinary. And without poetry. This one is one of those.

Ya’ll, I need a little bit of reader input. Boring. Right? But there is a poem following the request. If you have one minute or a few minutes, I would be honored if you would give me a sentence of two. You can leave it in the comment box. Or you can email me at wynnegraceappears@gmail.com.

My heart is pounding and my insides are restless about this “book thing”. I may never write one. Or I actually may sit down and write one. And if i do or when I do, I really would love the push from readers or the “don’t do it” from readers.

(Spoiler alert. There are a lot of books out there. Do we really need another one?)

But I would be silly or crazy or mad not to ask you all for your feedback. Before the book dies on the vine or on the shelf. Or fall flat. Or never gets written. Or all of the above.

Poetry or prose? Poetry from me mixed with space for you to journal and draw and scribble and ponder? Essays?

So speak your mind. And thank you. No really, THANK YOU.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Boots

The Lady at The Check Out Line and Other Wise Souls in Sheep’s Clothing

The shepherds of the world, the meek and the mild
Disguised in plainclothes
Scanning the jars of Trader Joe’s Marinara sauce, while sleepy smiling
Asking all the right questions
Thanking you for bagging
(Paper or plastic, used to be the world’s oldest, space filler of quietude)
Hidden behind the clerky smile
And the name tag
And the all business
And the internal musings “is it five o’clock yet”
Is the fountain of wisdom
Waiting to erupt
They welcome our confidences in their non-threatening ways
The check-out line becomes the shrink’s couch
And we confide
“At least you found it”
She says to me
I know you know the words, I lay down before the altar of just formed trust
PHD in human frailty

They will inherit the Earth.

In The Garden With Regret

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 2 Comments

wpid-20150315_141518.jpg

In The Garden With Regret

You left me here to tend and just think
I am under neither illusions nor weight
Neither false nor heavy

You had to go and win the bread
So I am here to water, a joint decision, shared
My intent, to steward well and leave my burdens

By the burgeoning beds of greens
(Radishes bulbous noses pushing through the richest soil,
I see you in their forcing. You mark this Earth, well

Well
But while there I found regret
Shame attended me while I mimicked the Summer rain

I can whisper while you’re gone
And you may never know
The way the garden shows

Just how barren were those days
Before the garden
Reminds me, of how old love can grow

You would hate a garden
Littered with remorse
I have fertilized the soil of ours

Seedlings will greet you
When you return
You left me here to tend and think

I’ve left the garden of regret

Once Upon A Discovery

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 2 Comments

There are moments in these days when I wonder at the keeping. The saving of the remnants. The scraps hang on and hang around. Guilt lays a heavy blanket over me and space becomes scarcer.

And then there are the revelations. The ones with the sound and smell of epiphany. The ones that say. One day you will know, the  saving and waiting were for the healing. And for an awakening.

I did a little unpacking.

And the memories found me there. The gaps of mystery will heal in their discovery.

wpid-img_20141009_092836.jpg

Once Upon A Discovery

Towards the bottom of the bottom
Near the must
(Mold smells like a memory keeper)
Beside the stubs and remnants of a life
The jade green French wired ribbon wraps your earliest days of me
For me
I knew it was your hand that wrote the to and from
Your lips, full and red, that licked the seal
Someone loved hard and long and with a lasting love

Buried in the back of a dresser drawer
(I write the stories I do not know)
But you in your youth left me clues of love and loss
Of pain and joy

It is my turn to follow bread crumbs of a life
To stumble on forgiveness and backtrack without you
If I tell you what you wrote in ’58 and ’59
The heart is now ready
But you’ve lost your mind, a bit
Dementia is a thief
Protecting us in ways which stretch us
Beyond our understanding
We both loved Latin
We now speak Greek, your brow tells me how little you now know

I dream about the lines you wrote
Save them for a crack in time
Wonder what you said of love
And me

The compass points to lime-green veined hands
Three generations mark the trail

We keeper of the treasures
We keeper of the secrets

Tread down a sacred path
Did you mean for me to find, the things that you have left?

Once upon a discovery
I met new parts of you
Gently I will travel
Savoring the stories you chose to never tell

May asks me if am I ready
The Spring will heal us all

Joining Laura

The Blues

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ Leave a comment

In honor of National Poetry Month, my friends at Tweetspeak Poetry are gathering a collection of poems inspired by the prompt “Show Us Your Poetry Jeans.” Follow the link here to read the creatively inspired contributions. I am adding my name to the list of contributors who are digging down to see what comes out on paper when we write about our old blue jeans. Or his blue jeans. Or our “poetry jeans”.

Join me for some intriguing poetry. See you at Tweetspeak.
++++++++++++++

wpid-20140119_143558.jpg

The Blues

Perhaps I should have told you long ago

That I find your smile a thing of beauty (In my eyes)

Though your grin is more akin to a swamp gator

Toothy jagged line of metal

The mechanics of which keep my pride intact

After all you’ve done for me in love

Comforting me, expanding and contracting

Allowing room for growth

Never speaking of the sliding scale

Never pouting over your place at the bottom of the heap

Of denims, cornering the market on blues

Cornflower, cobalt, Caribbean, Carolina, Cerulean

(three letters in and you are just getting started)

Secrets follow you around

Shadowing a life lived in tandem

Pre-baby, baby you were there

Post-baby, baby you know how to make a girl feel loved

Winking at me with that one brass eye

(Never telling a living soul about the times I poked your eye out, let it roll across the old pine floor)

Frankly I am worn out

You must be too

But, baby I’ve got too much living to do to stop now

They can bury me in an old pine box In my old blue jeans( the number on the itty bitty tag remains our big fat secret)

Secrets tucked in all four pockets

Keep an eye on me in the grave

And we’ll archive the antics

Between we two, when we get

To the other side

Heaven knows

You’ve got a lot of stories to tell

Be a dear

And keep your lips zipped

(Goodness knows I would hate to send you off to Goodwill)