The Art Of Staying Put

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ Leave a comment

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The Art Of Staying Put

I am moving around in place
Hearing of Greece, the far away way beyond the borders of my soul
Hemmed in by an invisible thread of remaining
I will travel to the back quadrant of the yard, where the vines go farther than I
You and they walk me ’round the world
Grabbing the kite-tails of the airborne pods

They, globetrotters growing, serpentine trails mark their route
And I in the backdraft of all the leaving
I brought an inch worm home
A souvenir  from my journey to the land where the tomatoes grow

We choose to stay
And yet we do not remain

You took me to the movies last night
In the parlor, in our chairs

We crawled into the story of their lives
Turned the pages as they spoke their written lines
Love walks you to herself
Redemption writes a script, transports you in the re-discovery
Of grace, and
As if we had gone away and stayed
Story packed our bags
Yours leather, mine canvas
We the stay-behind travelers

We’ll set off into the salty surf, today
It is our going, our remaining
No markets, no mileage, no passports

Our latitude and longitude place us in the still right here
A little boat and little motor 
Invite us onboard, grateful, always weary travelers 
A long, long way from home we seem to go
When we refine the art of still remaining

And discover endless oceans of restful happiness
Peace attends the souls of those who stay behind
We, the necessary students
In this art of staying put

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I am spending some time over at my newest writing project which has made some of these days here a little quieter. Working on finding my stride with both projects. Visit me there where I am crafting a weekly letter for email subscribers. Follow the link here: “a quiet place for words”.

Sign up to receive this subscriber-only letter which is quickly becoming a favorite creative project. I am discovering and re-discovering the art of letter writing. And you are invited, as always on the journey.

The Givers

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 1 Comment

Grace

The Givers

That shade of green on the cover
Haunting
Like face paint green
In October, late
(Oh how I hate the wanna-be witches’ then)
Haunting, like so many books penned for children
Intended for the young ones
But, wait, it is we who are grown, who are or
Were the audience, all along
The souls who hunger for the messages of these books

That Giving Tree green
Cat calls from the shelf and says read me again and again
Soak up the
Metaphor on every page
Like communion bread dipped into crumb-filled wine

Memories are fickle
Holey like wormwood

Memory takes me to the story of the tree
And the boy
And the man
And the taking stirs me in ghostly ways

The paper-puncher holes in my own flawed memory
Fail to recall
Did the boy say a word
Was it only the tree
Oh what a story he would tell
Of his all-about-me-self
Taking the tree down to a stump

As green as that storybook cover
So sad is my soul for the boy, the man
I see myself in that boy
And want to be like the tree

And so I write
Poetry

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Join me for my new labor of love, a creative project for subscribers only. Follow my journey into letter writing  here, at “a quiet place for words”. I am fond of the letter format and would love to have you join me there. (Letters sent to subscribers in-box weekly) It is quieter there, away from the interwebs.

peace and grace,

e

I Am No Longer Waiting

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 1 Comment

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I Am No Longer Waiting

I have run out of waiting
Used up the dormant days of stand-by
Ushered out the back door the inactive verbs
(The hing creaked, screen door slammed them in the big back-side)
The action verbs threw confetti
Celebrating the retirement of the passive ones

The decision to hang art
To house a cherished antique dresser
In the kitchen of this house built in 1908
Required sacrifice
I wash my dishes at the kitchen sink
By hand (how perfectly primative the naysayers would love to say)
Because of all the art we chose to hang

Because of art and a cherished chest-of-drawers
I can gaze and rinse
And I do
Rubbing the ebony stains off my mustard yellow coffee cup
I do not load and unload
Waiting on tomorrow
Counting on the brighter days to come delivered by the man in brown who carries packages in his big brown truck
Instead, I linger in the soapy water
Striving to clean and no more
Soaking in the now
Soaking in the view of raindrops on the elephant-ears, a verdant giant in my gaze’s line of view

One day last week
I gave up waiting
All the nows are what is life
Like the tinker toys, the wooden orbs of now
Connect me to my life again
Now cannot abide the waiting
She elbows in and stands beside me at the sink

We lay the just-cleaned dishes on the drying rack
And check the back door
Lock it, tight
Safe, secure
Bolt the door
Now stakes her claim
In the kitchen filled with art and dirty water down the drain

I am no longer waiting
Now reigns
Wears her royal crown of rubies
Reflecting
Her red royalty
In the bubbles in my soapy kitchen sink
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Join me as I discover the joy of letter writing within my subscriber-only weekly letter. I love this format for writing. As a creative outlet, it feels quiet and intimate. “A Quiet Place For Words” is my new labor of love. Perhaps you’d like to join me there. Click here to receive a weekly offering in your inbox. I hope you like what you find there. Letter number three was sent this morning. Once you subscribe you can catch up on past letters in the Archives there.

Joining Laura Boggess. Because it is Monday.

Waiting On Perfection

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 1 Comment

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Waiting On Perfection

There is a fine brown line between the fig on the vine
Ripe and ready
And the fig on the tree
Still nursing at the breast of the mother-source
Hours away still
From table ready

I have stalked the tree
Begged the fruit
Pleaded and cajoled
For the sweet release of well-timed fruit

There is a dance of courtship
When waiting on perfection

My eagerness to slice the fig
Place it on a bed of young arugula
Covered, no smothered, in cotton white goat cheese
Clouds my epicurean judgement

All decision-making skills go out the window
And I
Hungry and in need
Eager, but unknowing
When to wait and when to go

Pick the time I believe is best

I would wait on perfection
If she and the tree would speak softly and lead me into the thick of the laden-branches with knowledge from the tree
Covered with pea-green youth
Whisper go or stay
Grant me the patience I do not have
Job-like and long-suffering, take pity
Gift me with Solomon-like wisdom of certainty
And precision

But I am growing older now
And I am content with imperfect figs
Deeming
Perfection grossly over-rated

For now,
I am content
Perfectly
With every shade of brown
(Partial though I must admit to Cow’s Ear Brown)
I have no use for perfect fruit
Or perfect
otherwise

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People. I have a free subscriber-only letter. I do hope you’ve signed up. Letter One was sent last week. Letter Two releasing Friday. I think you might want to try it. Spoiler alert…  I promise it is not perfect. Just filled with grace.

The link is here. It is super simple. See you there.

.Click here (A Quiet Place For Words)

Joining Laura Boggess