the art of taking note
Roll me like a chicken leg
in a buttermilk battered bowl
of dusty dry white flour
waiting for the grease.
Just pepper it with honesty, sprinkle it with truth.
For I am weary of the lies
Weak and faint from less than real
Tired and worn-out from the half-truths
The Velveteens wear beautiful
The beautiful is real.
Throw me in the hot-grease
that southern Crisco oil
the fire of smokey goodness, that smells and tastes like true.
Just pepper me with honesty, and sprinkle me with Truth.
We are little communities of me’s, I’s and selves.
And sticking our feet into the water of vulnerbility or diving straight in and swimming freely around can be a lonely act. Or a cleansing act.
(Please join me for the rest of my words on vulnerability over at Emily Wierenga’s where I am hosting Emily’s Imperfect Prose on Thursday, Join me and other writers as we explore redemption, in words, in life and in community.) And would you consider returning tomorrow for Part Two of my post “Vulnerability: The Road to Joy”.
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Joining dear Jennifer for #tellhisstory at Jennifer Dukes Lee dot com
High up on my horse, a turquoise bike
This day’s form of traveling
A trio of dogs grinds me to a stop
Gathers for awhile
Sniffing wet black noses
Sparking a human interchange
Of neighbors who live quietly
With all their secrets
Needing to be released and shared
This one grips and grinds, my heart’s beats
Like rusty bike chain needing oil
Now days have passed, the rain has come
And I am still marinating in her words.
I shall ride my bike again.
Go looking for more stories
The kind that tell of life’s delays.
And take myself on hunts to gather
Words of what comes after waiting.
Sometimes stories come to you
Wet with grief and ripe with pain
Ones that bear no smile of waiting
Forty years to own your boxer dog
The one you rescued from the pound.
Sometimes the stories come to you
Drenched in pain and open wounds
Of marriages that break apart
Of babies that were due to come but haven’t yet
Of children who will not wear a cap and gown
The ones of jobs that slip away
The ones of lives that rip and shred, financial ruin
Cancer cripples men
Faith rumbles like the thunderous spring storm sky
Whispering why while pressing onward
Houses meant to close but don’t
Moves and jobs and men and deals
Churches, reconciliation, children
Time stands still for those who wait
But there are stories of redemption
They tell of purpose in the pauses
I cannot hear them loud enough.
And I
Hunched and hovering
I wait with baited breath unsteady
Will my boxer come to me
Dodging all the tired and warn out
Cliched comments for the weary
For the lonely, sad and hurting
How strange her wait was held to forty
Now I want to know her more
For there are holy others called to waiting
In the desert
Called to hold
On for longer
Why
Oh why
Can’t I
With
Sacred
Grace
Hold
Hope
For
Human
Suffering
I
Feel
I
Know
Too
Much
I
Pray
I
Know
too
much
Joining Laura for Playdates at The Wellspring
Perhaps it is the jasmine
The lightening flash of long lean rabbit in the garden where the labyrinth winds for prayer
Or maybe it’s the baring of our flesh
Release of layers, fleece and sweater, flannels,
Covering for a dark and weary soul.
Perhaps it is the dip of toes and body in the sea
Or maybe it’s the sharp knife blade
Cutting deep into the red of berries ripe and ready
Sweet dripping over beds of salad greens.
Perhaps it is your skin turned tan, brown as a berry, momma used to say,
Touched by the sun of longer days
Or maybe it’s just the way we breathe, finally and fully,
Filling lungs full of just mowed grass, sweet green air.
And perhaps it’s on the way out,
When really she just arrived.
Teasing us with what is fragile
Precious worth a long deep sip, of what she carries in on beams of moon.
I pick the purple hydranga, her mix of lavenders and greens,
Place it in the window where the light illuminates her glory.
And think
Perhaps this Spring will be my favorite one of all, the best of fifty three.
And secrets are for keeping, but some
Should also be shared.
There was something in this one
That wrapped me in her fingers, held me tight and close
Before the sweet release toward Summer
Captured all of my senses, held them gently hostage
Then, kissed me softly on my cheek before the sad goodbye.
The hand of Spring has held me.
Perhaps, that is all I know.
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Joining Tweetspeak Poetry for Wordcandy. Photo Credit: Tina Howard
And Sandra Heska King for Still Saturday
elizabeth w. marshall 