Category: Poetry

Simple Is The New Fill In The Blank

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 4 Comments

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

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Joining Laura Boggess

What I Wanted To Tell You, One Tuesday

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 3 Comments

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What I Wanted To Tell You, One Tuesday

I went to meet the sky last night
Awash in bold pink, we could not look away
An eighth world wonder sort of night
At 7:51 she came to tell a story
Skywriters capture messages in a language I am still learning
But you see this as hyperbole mixed with cliche through your veil of gloom
Fools run out into the night, while pink rains down
(He went to see it too. We are both fools).

Miles away a friend wrote
Told me what I did not see
A double rainbow
No big deal
And yet it is
I did not decide this. The counter of odds and percentages and trackers of skywriter’s journals call it rare.

Blinded by beauty I missed the more beautiful

I wanted to tell you it is there for you too

But you insist on seeing with one eye closed

That is not what I wanted to tell you on a Tuesday
It was that I hope you are around to see the next pink sky
And the one after that
And double portions of scientific cool stuff
And glory

It was this too
You are more beautiful than all of it
And I am a fool

Curating A Simple Life

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 4 Comments

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Curating A Simple Life

While the cheese toast begins to bubble under the broiler

And the tip tops of the Himalayan Mountains parade through the Instagram Feed
The child plans the trip to Spain
(as your suitcase morphs into a receptacle for dust bunnies and household tumbleweeds)
The pro’s and con’s of matters of state and faith
Land in a rubbled heap

The teams have been picked
And you sit on the bench
Warm, where the bystanders go

I remember asking him
Rhetorically
Yet, not really so

The trips in the black of night
Dark the color of two thirty a.m.
I find my way lit by the light of his song

He is out of tune with the world
As am I

Why, I asked does he sing at night
A morning song
(I know the whip-or-will well)
Utterly confused is the night-owl
Mockingbird

But he sees the light

And decides to sing

When your heart beats at the rate of simple
Mysteries present themselves
Questions bolden-up
Deciding to invite you into the mystery
Determine to unfurl complex curiosities
At your aging size 9 feet

Mercifully
You see glory all around
Places you used to go bump in the night
Stumbling around in the metaphorical dark

Day after day

And pray
No one turns out the light

By which the lone bird sings
Leaving the slice of avocado off your toast

Decisions made
As curator of your one simple life

+++
Joining Laura

Wrestling With Poetry

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 3 Comments

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Wrestling With Poetry

I struggled to take the pen from the poem. I knew she had some things to say
But I did too
So we went back and forth, battle of the wills
I tried to explain
In my calmest voice, that it was imperative that I get this on paper
I did not shout, no bold was used, only italics
Calmly I told her, you know the drill
If I do not get these words about the metaphor of the garden and my aging
Or the simile about raising my chickens and parenting, well it will all go up in a metaphorical puff of smoke

The poem made her point, no rhyming or argumentative couplets were pulled from her back pocket
She simply stated that her verse was siting on the tip of her tongue
And no doubt it would be lost, buried in the graveyard of unprinted poems if she were not allowed to proceed
With the impending poem that was percolating on her parched lips
(I will admit she was a bit dramatic, but she remained a lady, throughout the discourse)

I considered pulling rank
But it was unclear to me
Who in fact was higher up the food chain

I pondered pulling the plug, which would have been cruel and would have involved
Electrical cords
(The one with the hands has the advantage in a duel such as this)

And then I thought about raising the white flag
Playing the martyr and playing dead

Wrestling with poetry is not for the faint of heart
And I have been down this road before

The problem with bullying your muse
Is well
You both end up bruised and bloodied
And poems with black eyes do not wear the badge of battle well

And no poems see the light of day
Which sort of defeats the point of wrestling with poetry in the first place

But for the record, since I have the fingers on the keyboard
My poem about the garden would have been perfectly delicious

And hers about wrestling with poetry
Well I let her win
This time