Walking The Dogs: a lesson in faith

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 2 Comments

into every life a little rain
a fave of the rain leaves and flowers

They lead me down a wet dirt road
Of wonder
And I do
There was a break in the rain
After every cadence and rhythmic crazy percussion sound
Beat down hard in torrents for
A never ending time to get out the gopher wood
Sort of day
No a season, a long one
Where the rain is external internal incessant

And they lead me down the wet dirt road
The one with spilled smells of this won’t last forever
And we dodge puddles and look for damp hope
That this washed away the pitiful
Lord lead me not into a place of pity

Canines have a way of sniffing out the best spots
And pulling hard when you are dragged down in more than pluff mud

The raindrops are heavy on the leaves
And no rainbow has broken out it’s colorful
Hallelujah chorus
Yet
Just because you cannot see
Does not mean it is not there

The yellow lab finds glory all along the wet dirt road of wonder
I should have half his faith

The break in the symphony of heavenly wet
And we go spilling back out into the world
These dry bones
Should have known
It wouldn’t last forever.

It never does.
And there are smells and sights and sound on the wet dirt road
They won’t wait around forever
Joy doesn’t have an expiration date but today’s joy is
Today’s joy

Just ask the old yellow lab
Who’s on borrowed time

It’s time to walk in the rain.

Documentary

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 6 Comments

art one

We wove around the Old Ragsdale Building

Among and in

And like ants on the way to the fried chicken from The Pig at a picnic

We were searching for

Around a million different ways to see a world.

Hanging displayed sitting displayed  whispering shouting

Every piece at a different pitch

Perfect for its medium.

But I was there for Agnes . And I was there for Agnes’ child.

A life can take up a whole back wall of a tobacco building in its telling,

And still leave out whole parts. How many panels does it take to capture fully

Close to ninety years.

Like a camera, painter artist daughter friend

Makes permanent a life.

Elegance and wit wind around the strokes  color, pigmentation teaches in tones of peach.

Stand back and breathe in, a girl becomes a wise matriarch

Just paces down the old brick sits

An anteater eating of all things a colony of gigantic ants beside voter registration.

This is Artfields and this is what they do, documentarians of our lives,

One studied nine breasts,  documenting differences.

But I was there for Agnes and  “All The In  Between.”

To  see a hundred ways to see a world,

Yes,

But driving all this way to know the love of one,

Daughter for her dying mom.

Agnes would laugh at her juxtaposition of a life,

So close to

Well an anteater. And I know because I know

The Artist.

And the ways she sees all the in between,

The panels of a life.

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

To discover more of my friend and her work, visit lauriemcintoshstudio dot com. And pick up her book Agnes’ life “All The In Between – My Story of Agnes” (Amazon, Barnes and Noble and at MuddyFordPress.com )

The Blackbird, Checking Through The Pane

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 2 Comments

red winged blackbird

                                                                                                   (photo credit:wikipedia/wikicommons)

If there were a list of rules for who can visit,
A book of names to let some enter into
Communion on the ledge

By virtue of his title
He’d be turned away.

But when it’s quiet
And thought has pulled me deep,
Where worry debates with faith and reason
Yanking tiresome
Pulling piece by ragged piece,
In the dusty corners where the deep grooved tracks from a  childhood
Play.
He comes alone, staring deep within my soul
Feathers meet a feeble friend.
I’ve begun to wait for him.

He sings a shrill of flats or is it sharps.
Tilts his head
I don’t know which, or what he says.
Peers through glass at me then folds a caring nod
As if the feathered feeder friend

Sings his song for me.
Alone.
There is no space for other songbirds when he comes.
His birdsong gurgles, sucks up all the space and time
With a melody of winsome caring,
checking through the pane.

Ebony and streaks of red ask
“Have you found at last your peace on matters on your mind.”