Category: Uncategorized

Frost

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 16 Comments

There is a frosty blanket on those days in the South, when cotton was king and division cut hearts of men and women. A lifetime ago. No, many lifetimes and generations ago. It’s her past. And a beautiful crop has a million stories to tell, if she could talk. She’d tell of the pickers and their pain. She makes warm the world with all her woven comfort. We sleep with her, wear her. She has a history. She has a future. Plump and white and pregnant with possibility, she lays in wait for machines to gather her for market. White and winsome, covering the South and all the world. A paradox of war and pain and warmth and frosty chilled relations. She, caught between the strife of people, owning, working in her fields. Way down South on her land. The frost is gone, the chill is warmed. She breathes peace now, in her fields and looks like heaven, a sea of clouds.

And he is frosting on my life. I, plain vanilla cake and he, rich cream frosting spreads a blanket on my soul and on my very life. Last night I dreamt of Paris for our 25th, the next one, he of Italy. This life made sweeter, richer in the aging. And in the dreaming. We may sit in zipcode here and never leave but in our dreams. But love is whipped up nonetheless. No less sweeter in the staying. I am covered by his care, spread on me, a covering. And I hold his heavy on the back of my baked being. The complement of two, was planned in Garden Eden. And today its richer still. So much lovelier when two walk tandem out into the world.

He changes seasons when He speaks. He says and it is so. First frost speaks of what’s to come, the earth holds change, like brittle illusion on the field. It looks like snow. Yet when morning is broken it is gone. The frost melts away with the breaking of day. Like all illusion. It never lasts.

Joining Laura and Amber C. Haines at The Run a Muck for her concrete word prompts. There is a wonderful commuity of writers there, exploring abstract themes around the tangible things of this life.

And I am linking with Michelle.

Be Still Sweet Soul

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 17 Comments

Sometimes the dull, dropped, dark dank, leaves of fall

Lie broken under foot,

Like death,

Busted like dry bones crackle.

And sometimes

The path through canopy of trees,

The wood’s own trail of life

Seems paved with aged confetti,

Strewn from spring’s gay party on the path.

The leaves the same, the framing changed.

It is both and it is nature’s way,

A cycle of seasons

Under foot and heavenward

And all around.

The woods tell stories, whispered

Stories. Listen and

Be still sweet soul,

In all and know that He is

God.

While you wonder,

While you wander,

And while you still sit

In weathered chair, of life,

Be still sweet one

And know.

Joining Deidra for her lovely Sunday Community.

A Letter To My Son

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 17 Comments

Dear Son, loved and treasured One:

When you go to the movies,tonight, with this sweet sweet young girl, young woman even, remember these things.
Dwell on them, never forget.

It’s hard to wrap a lifetime of learning into a very short letter. But I shall try.

And I’ll stammer and struggle and try to bleed my love for you as a man, in days now, my son, on this white page.

And what I want for you in all your relationships, but most especially with women.

Be gentle, be strong.

Be both.

Be a rock, a strong place to lean on. With big ears and an enormous heart. With room to grow and room to love.

Your Dad wooed me from the very beginning with his strength and gentleness, his compassion, his caring.

I never told you, and you wouldn’t care much before now, but early on, very early on, as we sat in a restaurant in New York with friends, he cared in the smallest of ways for me and about me. My memory fades like early morning fog, but I remember my hair in my plate or something similar and he loving pulled it out. He is gentle and attentive that way. He still married me.

Be attentive to the small.

You have watched your father cherish and care for your sister.

Care. Every time.

Do not follow the crowds, the throngs of people following the culture and all its siren song ways. Just rest in who God created you to be and be yourself. Comfortably you.

You, my son, are witty and funny. Enjoy that, but don’t be a peacock, calling attention to yourself. Use your gifts gently.

And you are creative, oh so creative. This is a gift to use for God and His glory.

Look to Him and His beautiful plan. Look in His eyes and ask and seek. Ask, be bold, ask. Then listen.

And listen well, my son.

Your Daddy does that so well now. Watch him listen and bend an ear to me.

And be selfless not selfish. In all you do.

Argue, not. Demand to be right, never. Be a peace-maker. Discuss with a gentle spirit. There is no need or time to fight. A gentle tone will take you far, strong one. Stand firm, yes. Find your balance with your words. Stand on what is right, noble, honest, pure, worthy of praise, and lovely.

You don’t have far to look, my son. Your oldest brother is tender and gentle and strong with his girl.

Follow these men, be yourself, be a gentleman, you were raised in the South, the premium on this is huge. Its our tradition. Carry it on.

Think of your grandfathers. They loved you and love you. And all their ways. Carry on traditions of kindness and gentleness and strength.

And look ’em in the eyes. Always. Everyone. Don’t look away, or look astray or wander off, not in their presence. Be fully present. Your beautiful blue eyes have always been so big, so unimaginatively handsome, these windows to your very soul.

Be right where you are, in the beautiful moment and savor it all. Remember the details as they unfurl.
Your father is my memory. He remembers often for us both. He has seen and he has remembered the details of a life, our life.

Pay close attention, such close attention, to the details, that are your life.

Listen to music, enjoy art, walk on the path outside our house that leads to the shore, often, daily, savor that salty place. Share your love for where we live. It’s glorious, its gift. It’s the ocean and the river, it’s God-beauty all around.

And get into those words God wrote for you, for us. And linger there, you man, you son, you child of God.

Your pecan pies and all your masterpieces, offer them in love.

And know that you were always loved by us, by Him.

Enjoy the movie. And be a gentle-man. Be respectful, so full of respect for others, for women, for all people, always. Shower others with a spirit of respect. And dignity.

Hold your shoulders back, your head up, wear your seatbelt every time.

Loving you this day and always, your very verbose,

Momma

P.S. I wrote you once before. Please remember those words too, of love to you. I wrote them in the summer months. These words from down deep in my soul.

Voices

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 3 Comments

(photo courtesy of moma.org – Pablo Picasso’s Three Musicians)

There was never meant to be just one.
The sole, the singular, the solitary
Voice.
Each designed, gifted, carefully chosen
Parts, pieces for the blending.
No island dwellers or stone cold soloists
In a community of art, no apart from others
There is solitary lonely.

There is exponential multiplying in a cord of three,
The pairs, the duets the circles of multiples.
A community of several and many has power.
And each alone, so beautiful, comes in
To blend, enhancement happens en masse.

Each unit grows stronger in the company of
Others,
Accompaniment and melody change sound when
Blended in, a melange a beautiful mix of mediums
More interesting than the lone wolf crying in the wilderness.

A haunting howl, in the separated from the pack.
Strength in numbers builds
The vocal cords, the instruments, the writer’s pen
Grows, grouped
In community, a fellow writer links the lonely.

So the artist lifts his brush
And the writer his pen,
The musician his instrument
And all the others their voices too.

The blending begins and the harmonies arise,
Like incense, an offering up and to and for.
Each a gift, each a treasure
Single beauty, facets on the face of a multi-sided gem.

Pop the cork on the bottled words,
Pull the plug on the hemmed in notes.
Let them float,
Sail off with a tune ,a song for the masses
Or the few.
But unfurl the sails and set free the voices of each who has something quite beautiful to say.

This month at Tweetspeak Poetry, we are exploring the word prompt, Surreal. Stretching and writing in community with others. The voices are beautiful over there.