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.

Poetry Calls

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 36 Comments

(photo courtesy of wikipaintings.org)

She twists, she turns, she tumbles and falls.

Like green Gumby rubber-man/ child wide-eyed in wornout toy box,

Nimble, pliable woman,

Is she.

When the wind blows, the cradle may fall,

But mother catches baby, husband, parents,

And all the rest.

In the middle of raising parents or is it raising kids,

She yearns to sit at the feet of the master acrobat,

Learn the art of dexterity,

Living nimble, bending, twisting, turning

Corners of her life, with skill and ease,

Stretching limbs to meet the needs

This world of hers throws at

Her, life, a whirlwind, whirling dervish, world.

She, Mary Martha ambidextrous hybrid, serving and loving

Longing to learn the art of balance.

To live and love and serve in the right measure of, mix of

Both. The proportions just perfect.

Art, not science.

Caring for self, she bends back into the page and writes

A love song to the world, her passion bleeding on the page.

And hears a cry, piercing knife-like in  the night

To walk outside, plates and balls all tossed up in the air.

She longs to fold back on the white noise page and write,

Right where she lives.

Folding laudry, folding bedsheets, folding words.

They mix and mingle, they tug like moon at tides.

The words call,

Come play with us today.

The tempting taunting call of passion on the page,

To write.

The tension tears.

Joy comes gently in the sweet release

Of words.

She bends her ear to hear, what’s right.

And leans her head, blood rushing to the brain.

To write the words, her playful playmates posturing for a position

In her life. Right beside mother, sister, wife and other.

To write the balance out, the story,

That is her life.

Words winning, winding their way down the rows.

Poetry calls come play.

Joining Emily & Jennifer.

And at Thought Provoking Thursdays.

And I’m joining the folks at Tweakspeak Poetry for this month’s word prompt, Surreal. This is my offering on the prompt. (More to come, this is “fun”, sort of). #TSSurreal on Twitter.