Intimacy

Today I am honored to have a poem of mine appearing at Burnside Writer’s Collective. Thank you for following me and my poetry over there. Follow the bread crumbs, well on second thought, just click this link. The poem is entitled “Intimacy”. May you discover and come to know God in all his magnificent beauty and love, power and strength in new ways. Always. But especially in these days, leading up to Thanksgiving. Counting gifts. The sea and salt, yes they are two of the grandest gifts of all, to me.

Empty beach shadow profile

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Discover more writing on faith at Burnside Writers dot com.

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Catching Up With Gratitude and Thanksgiving

So there is a place. This space, a canvas, a carved out place. Where there is a gathering of souls. My blog. A gift.  And things have been quieter, a little quieter, recently. Here.

And sometimes when I write in this place it feels like prayer, or speaking to an empty room, or a  crowd of no one, or a gathering of kindreds. Very often it feels like releasing words on wings not knowing where they will fly. But God knows. He always has and He always will. Good and gracious.  Everlasting to everlasting. Eternally. World without end.

So this feels like an accounting and a catching up. And in this season of Gratitude and Giving Thanks, I am called and lead to do both. This week that is ending, is the week before Thanksgiving Week, though I want to live in a place of Thanksgiving  always. And everyday.

And so in a spirit of Gratitude and Thanksgiving I say thank you. For reading my art, my offerings, my poetry, my prose. Thank you for hearing and seeing the words that fly from this place.

You may want to know that for the last 12 weeks I have been working, though it has felt more like playing some days,  in a workshop entitled “The Writing Life” offered by Tweetspeak Poetry. So for 12 weeks much of my writing has been in the form of writing assignments. Some of it will appear here. It has kept me busy, away from here more than usual. But I hope that you will see a new passion in my writing, new focus perhaps, or just more of the same with a little more prose.

You heard more prose, yes you did.

Poetry is driving my writing. It will influence my prose. But I am pushing myself into other genres. Or flinging open doors, taking my metaphors, my lyricism and compression, an economy of words, into my prose.

And I have been scheming and dreaming about my art and where it might go. And how it might look. And what changes I may make and what projects I may undertake. I have some projects up my sleeve. You will likely be some of the first to know. They really just involve more writing. Which is what this place is about.

In addition to being grateful for you, I realize I have been enormously blessed to have had my work appear at Burnside Writer’s Collective. I have a poem running this weekend. I believe it is my fourth there. But who is counting. When it is up I will link to it.

And I have a by-line/bio appearing under the tab “Meet Our Team” at Tweetspeak Poetry. This has been a wonderful community for me. A place where I have developed friendships, learned about the craft of writing and had some of my work published on-line. I am submitting a new piece soon. I may have the privilege of having it appear there. I will share it when it runs over there.

So thank you for reading and commenting. For encouraging me and supporting my art.

I have added some new tabs to my blog header and have made a few changes. Did you notice? I am still working on all of it. So thanks for grace and patience.

I hope it is a peaceful place, a quiet place. And a rich and soulful place to come.

Gratefully and thankfully yours,

Elizabeth

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Quiet Is The New Loud

Quiet is the new loud, a reconstitution
of noise, watered down background
Sound, sounds hushed
like peace
and quiet. If it were a color it would be
White
Noise is the new normal.
Transformation is everywhere.
Orange is black.
And simple is complicated.
And renaming is everywhere.
Just calling is so doesn’t make it
but somehow quiet seems to want
to take over and rule me.
And I concede, give up the reigns
Loose the bit and bridle
As let it take control, run away with me.

Because quiet is queen.
And she wears a crown of humility.
A simple garment.
And whispers all I need to hear.

For if I thought I had much or any
Control,
I, thankfully, do not.

Everything I have ever needed to hear,
I have heard in the quiet,
still, small voice,
of a whisperer.
The new reigning queen
Of a quiet and peaceful world.

Hush, you might hear her pin drop,
Her scepter
Light as a feather
makes
no sound.

And quietly she takes her place
Upon a humble
Muted throne.

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Without The Music

Without The Music

Without music
Quiet has no notes to wake her up
From muffled morning’s sleepy headed slumber.
So, instead
She hangs her winsome head,
languishing in her lonely bed.
Hoping that a harp will play, or
maybe a cello will save the day.
Praying a piano quite possibly might
saunter  in,
Or trumpets wake the dead
Say arise, awake
With blasts of wind
instruments, drums and snare,
Replacing thick and quiet air
Violins or soothing flute
The horns will shout forth
an exclamation point.

Breaking the blistering silence of her mind
Hoping a happy stanza
peppered with piccolo will fill the air
But instead the quiet
Lingers, hanging void
The music hidden, lost,
Is nowhere.

Life without a song

Sounds like life
Without a pulse
dull
and fallen
Silence fills the air.
Only black and white
All color gone, no song.
The music must play on.
The strings shall sing, the harmony restore
The runs, the rifts, the ivories,
The keys will sing from lips of fingertips
The music.
Melody and symphony, sharps and flats
Notes from low to high, cascading making merry in the dark
Mirroring or changing the mood within the room
Transforming quiet, into music,
Liquid poetry.

Give me a blessed song that wakes my spirit up.

Turns the sad and lonely mood around
Plays hymns of praise
My anthem raise
No longer will I live my days,
Alone in silence lingering long
Without the sounds of  dancing
On clouds of spirit-thought.
Without
The music
Playing in the chambers,
The rooms of my heart.

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Joining Laura at Laura Boggess dot com for her Playdates at The Wellspring.

Cleaning My Brush

Curled tucked
Fetal position
Rolled
Warm
Like a hot cross bun
Baking in the white down
Oven of my bed
Rest warms me
As I clean my brush, swipe the bristles
To remove the residue
Folded into a two am pose
Snug as a bug in a rug
Soul rest cleans
The brush
So I can wake anew
Mercy
Full
Of grace
To create
White canvas waits
And the uncurling of knees to chest
Legs at rest
Pretzel twists of arms and legs
Springs from the layered nest
Re-creation begins anew.

 

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