Begotten Not Made – Guest Post: Seth Haines

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 4 Comments

I have gathered a few writer, poets, friends for a series of guest posts. Today I am  privileged to have a writer whose work I have marveled at for a little long while.

I could tell you a few things about this fellow Southerner, father of four boys who practices law, writes poetry and oh, is a musician as well. (He left a few things out of his bio, so I added them here. Host’s prerogative.) But his words tell well on their own.
Welcome Seth and his poetry.

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Begotten Not Made

And though he birthed the star alight,
he took to manger underneath
the humbled cry of stifled speech,
of own begotten form.

He suckled there at woman’s breast,
the mouth of God on human skin
he spoke before the world began,
to birth begotten form.

Confined to flesh and swaddled limbs
restrained his own eternal power;
the starry hosts in witching hour
announced begotten form.

And when the kobalt sky was new,
with blushing east and rising love,
creation ceased its groaning song
and held begotten form.

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Seth Haines

Writer: sethhaines.wordpress.com

Editor: A Deeper Church

Contributor: Tweetspeak Poetry

Curator: Mother Letters

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Joining Laura, a Monday tradition.

Of Things That Have Been – Guest Post: Holly Grantham

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 2 Comments

What an honor to have my friend Holly Grantham visiting today. I invited her to bring her words. And she graciously said yes. Holly and I have enjoyed working as poetry partners in the past. You may recall our project entitled Adagio.

We have plans to collaborate after the first of the new year, writing poetry, sharing the lines and space, creating and word weaving together.

Enjoy now, the words of this beautiful woman..

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Of Things That Have Been

I finger them mindlessly most days,
These tokens of thanksgiving.
In some familiar corner of my brain I am
aware of their weight and
the anorexic string that
keeps them connected to a well
untended.
But something has shifted
inside of me and
I can’t remember
how to see.

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I have a bowl that sits on my kitchen counter
and in it are the scraps and corners and pieces of
meals prepared and cooked and fed to
the people that I love.
The contents of that bowl get tossed,
mindlessly most days,
into a growling pile of dirt.
Layer upon layer of repasts
Just sitting there
Marinating
Giving themselves over to death.

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Most days since Spring
I feel a hollow ringing somewhere just
below my rib cage
as if my heart was suddenly deafened by
the weighted silence left in absence’s wake.
I long to be overwhelmed by wonder.
And then, one day, the memory, it returns
Joy, it grows in the humus of things that have been,
in the layers that settle at the bottom of my days.
I remember slowly
how to give thanks.
I remember, friends, how to see.

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Holly Grantham, Bio

Holly is a wife, very relaxed homeschooling mom of three boys, snapper of photos, coming of age writer and a soul drowning in grace.

After years in Atlanta where she attended college, married the love of her life and lived in an intentional community, she found her way back to her home state of Missouri. She now lives in an antebellum stone house, raises chickens (sometimes) and pretends she lives in the country.

Holly may be found at her writing home A Lifetime of Days, on twitter @HollyAGrantham &
on her  facebook  writer page.  

The Time I Lived Vicariously

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 9 Comments

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The Time I Lived Vicariously

While watching a gray and feathered flock

Brown pelicans sunning in November on the dock

And entered into community from my place

Of solitude

And thought of you

You duplicate my life

And make it two

One of here and one of there

Not duplicitous am I

But honest in my telling that you give me more

I hear your words echo from the Frio

And beyond

From the high places

You were called

I was not

God is good to give us lives

Multiplied in two’s and mores

The time I lived vicariously

Was one of those

You spoke to me while I was, yet

Not there, not haunted by the singleness of one

But tethered by the Spirit

To you

Canyons echo, multiply

Community, sacred echoes I have heard

Sacred echoes I have found

Joining Laura and Kelli

The Concrete Bench (Unseen, Behind The Lens)

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ Leave a comment

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The Concrete Bench

You would have no way to know

For I am showing you only beauty

It is what I frame, in the imaginary crosshairs

Of my lens

Cropping out ugly, should it

Creep into my viewfinder

As I sit alone, in grateful solitude

On a bench I call my own

Made in my imagination

Just for me, grey, stone-cold, sturdy

To

Reflect

And be reflected

Dream and watch the dreams float by

Held

And undergirded, by the sea

The seen and unseen

Pass me by

While I count the joy and toss the pain

Into the sea, a salty grave

For tears