The Unwrapping

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I was a ripper. A peaker. An unnoticing receiver. Noticing by default. The things under my nose. You can’t miss what lies in wait to capture you, hold you and wrestle you to the ground. By grace, we are entrapped by the beauty of surprise and ordinary miracles.

By grace, He holds our chin and turns our heads. With beauty.

We are the walking dead if we miss it all. I glanced a ways away and I was no longer there. I was gone. Hurled into the land of Alice’s world and a Narnia place.

I had to leave. Forgive me. The crowd was a cacophony. The china on chargers held me too. But for awhile. And then I left, to keep my peace. To go and find it. To hold fast to my soul and to open my eyes to the better banquet. One nestled in trees and leaves and lawns.

I was always an eaves-dropper. Picking up and honing in. Not missing the sounds surrounding a soul on the run. Even when I was barely awake.

And so I have some small gift. That I must unwrap. So that I may unwrap, the beauty.

Oh, how grievous I would be, if I had missed the blossom, as big as the Queen’s head or the Cheshire Cat. While dining on the finest of fine.

Seeing the shadows dance on white linen and spotless glass. Silver to the right and to the left.

I left to find more. Avoiding a melancholy grief.

Missing the divine, the holy, the huge?

Never unwrapping the gifts?

Oh how dreadful it would have been. To have never seen. Those ordinary, most extraordinary of things.

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Once Upon A Discovery

There are moments in these days when I wonder at the keeping. The saving of the remnants. The scraps hang on and hang around. Guilt lays a heavy blanket over me and space becomes scarcer.

And then there are the revelations. The ones with the sound and smell of epiphany. The ones that say. One day you will know, the  saving and waiting were for the healing. And for an awakening.

I did a little unpacking.

And the memories found me there. The gaps of mystery will heal in their discovery.

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Once Upon A Discovery

Towards the bottom of the bottom
Near the must
(Mold smells like a memory keeper)
Beside the stubs and remnants of a life
The jade green French wired ribbon wraps your earliest days of me
For me
I knew it was your hand that wrote the to and from
Your lips, full and red, that licked the seal
Someone loved hard and long and with a lasting love

Buried in the back of a dresser drawer
(I write the stories I do not know)
But you in your youth left me clues of love and loss
Of pain and joy

It is my turn to follow bread crumbs of a life
To stumble on forgiveness and backtrack without you
If I tell you what you wrote in ’58 and ’59
The heart is now ready
But you’ve lost your mind, a bit
Dementia is a thief
Protecting us in ways which stretch us
Beyond our understanding
We both loved Latin
We now speak Greek, your brow tells me how little you now know

I dream about the lines you wrote
Save them for a crack in time
Wonder what you said of love
And me

The compass points to lime-green veined hands
Three generations mark the trail

We keeper of the treasures
We keeper of the secrets

Tread down a sacred path
Did you mean for me to find, the things that you have left?

Once upon a discovery
I met new parts of you
Gently I will travel
Savoring the stories you chose to never tell

May asks me if am I ready
The Spring will heal us all

Joining Laura

Joy Comes In The Morning, The Wind Is A Gentleman, I Seem To Remember (A Triology)

Welcome to Day 8.
Welcome to Poetry.
Today my offering is A Triology. Thank you for riding through October with me. The pleasure is all mine.

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I.
Joy Comes In The Morning

Like the morning tube of bad news
Rolled and stuff in cellophane
To protect us from it
Or it from the rain
Count on it, the wad of this and that
Thrown in haste at the end of the driveway
We can count the number of times it
Has failed
To find its way into our breaking hearts
With news of the day

But Joy comes in the morning
On the magic carpets wafting to
And fro, in currents of wind
The limbs
Their launching pads
From which they are sent
Couriers of beauty
Bearers of good news
Fragments of whimsy
Stuck in the autumn’s wind
Draft, their fuel

The next piece
Looks like a Monarch
Lost
And the next confetti
Autumn celebrates its peak

And we leave the paper
In the drive
And choose to let it rot and dry
Become yesterday’s news

Because joy comes in the morning
When we set our eyes on
The beauty of it all
One leaf, two leaves
I cannot count them all
But each one marks
Gratitude
As
On my lawn
They
Fall

II.

The Wind Is  A Gentleman

Gentle in his ways
Caressing the wind chimes
With his fingertips
Like a lover on his beloved’s
Cheek
Blows a kiss
Gently touching
The soft and blue veined skin
On the nape
Of her nearly
Octogenarian
Neck
Saying goodbye
Soft and sweet
But just
For now

A gentleman always returns

III.

I Seem To Remember

I seem to remember
She said to me
After the poem was read
Twice
Aloud

We’d ingested every word
Sucked the beauty from the bone
Like marrow on the leg of lamb
Left ravenous with remembering

Poetry, bone-digger
Excavater

Of the buried past

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Thank you for joining me. See you tomorrow, Day Nine.

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Lasso The Sky, The Land, The Sea

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Lasso The Sky

 

There have lived and breathed  Da Vinci and Galileo
Geniuses
Have viewed the sky, beheld the world, drawing mystery from thin air
Discovering wonder, pulling at the thread,
Unraveling infinite
Cousteau dove deep, strapped on oxygen rising up again
Popping through the curtain
Where air and sea meet
Proclaiming what was deep
Under the sea

And there lives a girl
Obscure
Unknown to billions
Known only by a few
Who dreams only of lassoing the sky
By night
And the land by day
Roping all beauty and pulling it in
Drawing a noose around it all
With ampersands
She loves the and

It will take all her words
Each one she knows
And then some more
To capture all the loose and lovely
Wrangle it into place
With her pen
On a page
Captured for all time
In the lines
Of poetry

Thoreau knew too
Of what runs wildly through her mind
The thought of heaven over head and under feet
He said it lovely
Plain poetic
All the same

And she, the one whose heart aches
Burns maybe with mad desire
To scribe it down
Tangled up in words that hang around awhile
This late longing
Born from who knows where
To paint the beauty with her words

She
Will go on digging deep
Writing out her art
In broken, wounded
Poetry.

To the unknown one who has a deep and curious desire
To lay their eyes upon the page of words which tell

She’ll pen it down
Glued, stuck together by copious amount
Of ands.

So she will dream and play
And wrestle
Day by day with an imaginary pen
The noisy one that’s shaped in tiny squares
From A to Z with symbols
And
Her much beloved and

Lassoing
The sky, the land, the sea
All beauty
Gently showing it
Struggling not to tell
In busted prose
And broken phrase
In the girl’s own
Winsome style
Her
Wordy way
Never hoping to be Wordsworth or Thoreau
Oliver or Collins
Or even Tretheway

Just an obscure writer
Who found some joy
Playing with her beloved

Poetry. Ah, she asks at the end.
Do you believe all of this?

The mystery of poetry.

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Linking my words with Laura Boggess