In Defense of Poetry – ( The Defense Rests )

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall

poetry in chalkHand him the mike
Give him a voice
Let him take the stand and state his case
Spit it out
Hush the jabbering crowd
While she speaks
Raise your right hand
And tell us you will tell the truth
As you see it

The poem
Has something to say
She has the floor now
We are all ears, waiting
For her to speak her peace
About the doors closing, and opportunities waning
How she is too complex
And if not that then far too
Boring
She is not gotten
They don’t get it
She muses
what is the point
If no one is listening why even speak
To what has been said about her kind
They are not always
Kind
Yet
And when
The child in you
And the child in me
Slows the pace and finds the time
To walk into the poet’s corner
Peace prevails and no one comes out fighting
The economy of words may be sparse
Compressed and punctuation odd
Line breaks take you by the hand and lead you down a crooked path of
Words
no rhyme more than half
the time
But if you take a second
Hyperbole again
And perhaps go back for a second
Read
You may come to like
Or even love
Not the poems
The metaphors or simile
the poets forms and oddities
But the heart of the one who simply
writes
the
Poetry

Seems the jury is still out
The Defense rests her case

You Could Always Just Say Thank You

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall

thank you peachSometime during the growing up years, in the South,  where I was raised and am raising mine ,we learned something about the transactions of words. And the early lessons get buried  the deepest if the soil is rich and the heart is receptive and the love is fertile. We feel shy and unworthy in our youth when words of encouragement or of the complimentary variety are showered on our heads. But we were told. Just say thank you. And isn’t even that difficult sometimes. It means we hear, we receive, we acknowledge that we caught the bouquet of gracious words.  We  now hold them, bear them, own. them. Grasping them even in our fragile souls. Thank you is the acknowledgement we at least hear and receive.

But we know it is much deeper and more complicated than that. It is a holy and sacred transaction.

And then there is the saying them ourselves. Two words. Unfurled from our tongues, released from our lips. Remembering to. Meaning to. Wanting to. Sending them out to others. Often. Authentically.

Yesterday we met some lively young women. And it was our privilege to pile them on our boat. We headed out to the secluded beaches of this Lowcountry coastline and basked in the glory that was the beauty of one summer day. The Patient one was at the helm and like all good captains he cared well for his charges. They delighted in every small detail of the day. Every shell they found, every glance at the horizon, nothing was lost on their porous souls. The day poured into them and they reflected back the joy in their countenance. Smiles of  delight from those a generation below us are contagious. And we remember to sing a song of wonder too.  At the end of the day, they turned, one in particular, and said thank you to their captain. For the day, for the adventure, for the journey. And that gray haired man,he lit up.  And he beamed a  boyish grin. One that gratitude and gratefulness can birth.

One of my favorite poets is John Blase of “The Beautiful Due” blog. A recent poem of his written forFather’s Dayspeaks to saying Thank You. In his straight forward and profound style of poetry, I found his words tucked  brilliantly into the gentle  lines of this poem. He  amplifies  the power of saying this to men. No  doubt it is important  to shower genuine, authentic gratitude on those who pour into our lives. But maybe I need to re-think the frequency of these words leaving my lips to my husband, among others.

This morning I turned to him and said quite simply, thank you for all you do to take care of us. It changed me. It changed him. Gratitude always changes us. The air in the room softened. The mood lightened. That Monday mood where everything wants to feel oppressive and needy and urgent, if we allow it. It felt kinder and gentler.

Thank you says we are blessed. Thank you says I love you. Thank you says your efforts are not in vein. They are appreciated. And they are beautiful.

We prayed on this Monday. And we thanked God.

And I am reminded how much I take for granted. How many times I have missed the lessons of my childhood. You could always just say thank you. 

We sat on the porch last night. Our souls rocking to the lapping of the Intercoastal Waterway, under the super moon, hair and skin kissed by  salted sea. We are molded by the gifts. And the discussion turns to how much manners matter to people. Small cultural nuances, like respect and gratitude, standing at the proper time for young men, saying thank you, helping others. We have heard these lessons all our lives. And the South won’t let up, in some small pockets. In our homes we are bearing down on good manners. Because respect and gratitude and a servant’s heart fall into the laps of appreciative adults. And sow good things.

God, please remind me to hear these lessons too. The ones we are trying to teach. Of saying with my lips what I feel in my heart. Of pouring out to others,  helping and serving. Of getting outside of myself and seeing and hearing a need in another. Of responding in love. Of living a life which reflects how grateful I am to be YOURS. To know you

And because I want you to know, Lord hear my thank you this summer Monday in the middle of June. Remind me to speak a vertical thank you always and to extend a horizontal thank you often. In love, in sincerity. Wanting nothing in return. A transaction of a pure heart. A grateful heart. A heart that knows you.

I want to always say thank you.  Not out of rote duty or empty cultural mores, not flowing from cliched patterns of speech or lessons of my youth.

I want to grow a thank you spirit in my home and in my very soul.

And then watch the changes that will occur in me and in the lives around me. Vertical, horizontal words of grateful praise.

Make my life a hymn of praise, in all the moments that are gratefully mine.

Joining Laura at The Wellspring and Michelle at Michelle de Rusha dot com and Jen for SDG

Bullseye, The Peach, and A Blue Thread : A Trilogy

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall

Bullseye

bullseye bike

You did not miss the mark
The feather-tipped arrow of your release
It did not fail to land
In the right spot, spot on
Perfect imperfection
A bullseyed penetration
Drilling through the target
Seen by eyes of love.

+++++++++++++++++++++++

The Peach

peach 2013

Sitting on the counter
Inviting me
To open up
Summer
rsvp my intent
And begin the ritual
Tradition washes over me with sticky memory
And sweet my taste buds eagerly await
Weigh the choice of
All alone or mixed with cream
Perhaps thrown on a bed of greens
The remembering is the beauty halved
Of the ripe flesh and soft warm skin
I peel back to find the gift and enter in the dance
Peach and I
Our summer can begin
We cannot hurry
Nor can we wait
In blinks and nods and a few short days
September will arrive
And memories of sweet ripe fruit
Will dance alone
Like visions of summers past rolling around in my mind, a dream
Of days in the past
So I must eat a peach
And savor all that is ripe and good
And ready for the picking
These are the days
These are the hours
Of grateful living
Peach and I, I and Peach
Our summer has begun.

+++++++++++++++++++

A Blue Thread

modern trouseau charleston

Followed me
Or I followed it
Unknowing
On the way
To Blue Bicycle Books
Everything was shades of blue
Cars behind at red lights
Who knew they made dump trucks
Blue
In front he lead me down Highway 17
And then I crossed the bridge
Under a canopy of blue
With white monstrous clouds waiting to release
Raindrops
And hit the sidewalk like a blue streak
The storefronts presented me with blue
And I wondered if this occurs everday
This theme of beauty
Threads through a day
Some days it is red and others gold
And greens of summer, water’s aqua too
If I would look in front behind and closer
At this one  life
That like the two  young men on the news
Not yet at the age I am
Could end like that
And have it all just stop
Out of the blue.

The Hands

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall

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The Hands

It is the hands. Though no body is a single piece or part. It is your hands that I always recall. A sanctuary of  tender love. Those hands. Though there were always the blues that cast a loving glance, wet often with tears. Slight movement of the heart, a word or song could cause your vision to fog and blur, misty eyed you’d cry joy more than not. Tender is your heart.

And it is your legs that trudge and travel, work and seem to never stop, doing good and doing more. Hoping planes and pacing sidewalks, roaming door to door. Knocking for a cause and giving out of love. The legs which have climbed mountains. And boarded trains.  There is a whole spinning orb that you have seen. You left a part of yourself in Haiti once or twice or more. Long and lean your legs determined to tell of Christ have crossed and crisscrossed, this Earth, in love. On the backs of elephants you have served, always filled with a holy love.

And your laugh. It comes on loud and deep and your bright smile, it flashes wide and long. The one you thought you’d take to Washington to change the world or at least some things. But you were stopped. And that was good. There were lives to touch much closer to home. When life was heavy you gave your laugh. Infused with childlike playfulness. And that saved the day more than once. It needing saving and you could turn the tide. You could turn sorrow to joy. And you did turn sadness into happiness. More than once. More than twice.

Red and beating fast, keeping you always moving, loving life and loving Christ and loving others is your heart. It is large and looming over those who count on you, to build them up, to give them hope. To help, in love. It has the capacity for love, not often seen. Out of love, you live a life of giving back. The heart of man, the heart of you is beautiful when it is loving well.

But it is your hands Daddy. The way they are always warm. Your fingers long, your grasp on mine, firm and strong. The ones that never seem to give out or  up. They grasp and hold in love, a child a woman and her children too. The way you squeeze and make me feel secure and loved. Though you have all that makes a godly man, I will never forget your two big hands. I remember, as a child. I remember your love shown through the endless generosity that flows. From your hands.

It is your hands that grab my heart and hold it still. This day in June I know you would hold mine,  walk me up or down the mountain. If I were there within your reach. You would hug me, hold me, tickle me and squeeze me. Still and always, I will be your child.

And in the years that remain, I know my eyes will see, a life continuing to be built on living well, in love.

So spilling on the page and through the screen are my three hand squeezes, you know what they mean.

Happy Father’s Day. I love you.

And  now you know how much I love your hands.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Dedicated to my Daddy on Father’s Day, June 16, 2013.

(photo credit: Tumblr ( Michael Angelo’s — David)