Once Upon A Discovery

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 2 Comments

There are moments in these days when I wonder at the keeping. The saving of the remnants. The scraps hang on and hang around. Guilt lays a heavy blanket over me and space becomes scarcer.

And then there are the revelations. The ones with the sound and smell of epiphany. The ones that say. One day you will know, the  saving and waiting were for the healing. And for an awakening.

I did a little unpacking.

And the memories found me there. The gaps of mystery will heal in their discovery.

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Once Upon A Discovery

Towards the bottom of the bottom
Near the must
(Mold smells like a memory keeper)
Beside the stubs and remnants of a life
The jade green French wired ribbon wraps your earliest days of me
For me
I knew it was your hand that wrote the to and from
Your lips, full and red, that licked the seal
Someone loved hard and long and with a lasting love

Buried in the back of a dresser drawer
(I write the stories I do not know)
But you in your youth left me clues of love and loss
Of pain and joy

It is my turn to follow bread crumbs of a life
To stumble on forgiveness and backtrack without you
If I tell you what you wrote in ’58 and ’59
The heart is now ready
But you’ve lost your mind, a bit
Dementia is a thief
Protecting us in ways which stretch us
Beyond our understanding
We both loved Latin
We now speak Greek, your brow tells me how little you now know

I dream about the lines you wrote
Save them for a crack in time
Wonder what you said of love
And me

The compass points to lime-green veined hands
Three generations mark the trail

We keeper of the treasures
We keeper of the secrets

Tread down a sacred path
Did you mean for me to find, the things that you have left?

Once upon a discovery
I met new parts of you
Gently I will travel
Savoring the stories you chose to never tell

May asks me if am I ready
The Spring will heal us all

Joining Laura

The Blues

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ Leave a comment

In honor of National Poetry Month, my friends at Tweetspeak Poetry are gathering a collection of poems inspired by the prompt “Show Us Your Poetry Jeans.” Follow the link here to read the creatively inspired contributions. I am adding my name to the list of contributors who are digging down to see what comes out on paper when we write about our old blue jeans. Or his blue jeans. Or our “poetry jeans”.

Join me for some intriguing poetry. See you at Tweetspeak.
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The Blues

Perhaps I should have told you long ago

That I find your smile a thing of beauty (In my eyes)

Though your grin is more akin to a swamp gator

Toothy jagged line of metal

The mechanics of which keep my pride intact

After all you’ve done for me in love

Comforting me, expanding and contracting

Allowing room for growth

Never speaking of the sliding scale

Never pouting over your place at the bottom of the heap

Of denims, cornering the market on blues

Cornflower, cobalt, Caribbean, Carolina, Cerulean

(three letters in and you are just getting started)

Secrets follow you around

Shadowing a life lived in tandem

Pre-baby, baby you were there

Post-baby, baby you know how to make a girl feel loved

Winking at me with that one brass eye

(Never telling a living soul about the times I poked your eye out, let it roll across the old pine floor)

Frankly I am worn out

You must be too

But, baby I’ve got too much living to do to stop now

They can bury me in an old pine box In my old blue jeans( the number on the itty bitty tag remains our big fat secret)

Secrets tucked in all four pockets

Keep an eye on me in the grave

And we’ll archive the antics

Between we two, when we get

To the other side

Heaven knows

You’ve got a lot of stories to tell

Be a dear

And keep your lips zipped

(Goodness knows I would hate to send you off to Goodwill)

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