The Art of The Drifting Mind

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The Art Of The Drifting Mind

This is not a case “in defense of the drifting mind”

Or a thesis on “the art of the wandering mind”

Or a theory on “why we gaze”

I hear “mother you are staring”

No surprise, I have it down to a science

I check the boxes on the forms under hobbies and interests

Gazer, starer, dreamer, ponder, netter of poetry

Somewhere in the quiet spaces where the sunlight flickers and rocks

On branch and limb, limb and leaf,

Decidedly undecided whether to rest in the shadows or dance in the radiant puddles of light

The mind births an idea

And the idea becomes art

And the art becomes inspiration

And the inspiration becomes solace

And the solace becomes a balm

And the balm of the drifting mind

Can rest at peace

Her work is done

Until her glance meets the window pane

Through which she pours out

And breathes in

Again

Living Out The Prequel

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Living Out The Prequel

If I am a story
Or a story is me
And we are turning pages
There is this unfolding
My breath is held and
I may forget to breathe

But living does not rest on whether
I remember
Or I forget

It is the mystery of baited breath
God grants me this until the end
And did God feel this way
On the days, one and two
Knowing what he knew of all that lay ahead
Knowing all he knew
About the peonies in shades of flesh and rose and the oyster with its hidden pearl
The sound of rain and rainy drops
Slowly tickling the backs
Of a parched and desert dry cracked earth

Do I know I know not what is to come

But breathing deep and breathing fast
Swallowed up by the fog of a heaviness
Expectant in the coming next
I know as any mother knows
To hold the baby to her breast and sit back
Long and languid, rest in waiting
Love

I know as the salt marsh tide knows
When to ebb and
When to flow
And in its knower
Knows that it will never stop

I know that I am walking
Through the days of prequel joy
Pregnant in expectancy
Of splitting hairs of heavy wait
Of counting stars and counting dreams
Of wondering how much joy a soul can hold

All the while entangled
In a mystery of how will it all end
And when
In the days left in the waning
Of the remaining

Until healing comes to all

Again

And the prequel gives way
To what He has in store

So I will turn the page
Savoring every word
That was
And will to come

Be still
And hear

the prequel

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The Second Act – A Guest Post: John Blase

I have invited some folks –  poets, brothers, sisters, word-weaver friends – to come here with their unique lens. Their spun- like-gold words. To visit with their art. To gather as a loose band of poets to make some music.

Today it is my honor to begin this little project with poet John Blase. I’ve marveled at his poetry for a good long while. If you aren’t familiar with John’s artful ponderings, then discover his poetry and savor his words.

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The Second Act

there were no crimes and blunders,
in his youth to finally catch up with him
because he’d lived his young years clean –
straight and narrow as an arrow.

but nobody remembers the nice guys
except God, and maybe their mothers.

so he altered mid-course and began to
decidedly miss the marks, nothing heroic,
just still small choices to daily transgress.

at first he was wobblier than a shepherd
in king’s armor but he kept at it, in time
becoming quite good at being human.

at the end the minister sighed He lost his way,
but still he’s hemmed safe in mercy’s cuff.

many from his later years came bearing
forgiveness laced sweet with affection.
a few nice allies from early on arrived
envious having followed his wayward star.

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About John – John Blase preached for over a decade but then he thought he’d go where the money is, so he started writing poetry. He’s a lucky man with a stunning wife and three kids who look like their mother. They all live in Colorado. His books include Know When To Hold ‘Em: The High Stakes Game of Fatherhood; Touching Wonder: Recapturing the Awe of Christmas; and All Is Grace: A Ragamuffin Memoir  (co-written with Brennan Manning). He ponders faithfully at www.thebeautifuldue.wordpress.com

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Joining my good friend Laura Boggess today at her lovely writing home.

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For All The Poets: A Letter of Gratitude

Thank you for joining me while I journey through gratitude framed by poetry. Always a pleasure to have you along.

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For All The Poets: A Letter Of Gratitude

In the beginning was the Word
And much later for me poetry
I would credit you if I could
Remember
The seed scatterers scattered many
Milne and Mother
And Mother Goose
Among them, along with
The multitudes of songs
And Psalms
Left a well worn trail to my door
Two roads diverged
One was less poetic
Frost was right, this one is less travelled

Poetry knocked
Gently, would you expect
Anything different

Perhaps I could name just a few
Of the teachers
But no, knowing them
As humble
And quiet souls
They would rather I not
Until the rejection letters come
And then you’ll hear from them

We woke up
My pen and I

We woke up
Hidden, buried deep,
Artist side of my
Brain
Head and heart teamed up

Prayerfully I say
I hope you look at me and say
You took the gift and used it well
Soulfully I weep
Salty gratitude
To every poet who came before
Dancing on the pages with lyrical delight
Rhyme and rhythm

And it all started after His part
With you
Poets
Ushering me into the beautiful
World of condensation of words
And still I am learning
For this letter of gratitude
Needs a good editor
And I still need my poets

From which to learn
The artful way to
Say thank you
More poetically
Scratch that
This will have to do
My display of gratitude
For fear I will get lost
Buried in my own world
Hidden by this
Pile of words from which to carve
My art,
Forgetting
As I did the last verse of Wordsworth’s
I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud