The Bibliography

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The Bibliography 

I.

Archiving a life
by the edge of the sea
We search
For anything
That records all of this
Mirroring life
Buried in salt
Washed by the sea
We walk
Syncopated side steps
Forward
Then back
We track the slithering
Coast
Lined with debris
A field of antiquities
Offered up to me
For the remembering of this
Life
By the salty repository
He and I
Always together
Never far apart
Gathering up our days
In the wrinkled folds of flesh
Fingers unfurled
Hands, palm up
Receivers
Marking them
In shades of Olives

II.

Someone deemed it rare
A paradox
Copious amounts gathered up
In the hands of the
Careful
The cautious
An annotated bibliography
Marked, cataloged
Micro moments
Foot notes
Depression of toe and heel
Telling where we were
But not where we will
Go
Olive in hand
Shadowed by you

Writing in community with the folks at Tweetspeak for their Photo Play Prompt Portrait Of A Shell Sand And The Sea

 

Here – A Guest Post, A Poem, Holly A. Grantham

 

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I am honored to have my poet friend Holly Grantham guest posting here today. She and I have been friends through poetry, writing and blogging and have even partnered together on a poetry series entitled Adagio: A Poetry Project. Holly and I played with words on the page from miles upon miles apart, penning three poems. (The offerings in this series may be found at the end of Holly’s guest post). While the project is on a pause of sorts, Holly’s words continue to bring me joy. She is an artist and crafts beautiful poetic prose and poetry.

In her poem entitled Here, Holly’s words sing of her unique perspective on this life. And yet we hear, feel and even crawl into the space Holly inhabits. Holly invites. She delights. And her art is extraordinarily crafted.

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Here

I’m cooking dinner and
only because the days are getting longer
does the light still filter in
through the clouded window that
needs replacing
The pane is nearly opaque
but not muddled enough
to keep my eye from catching
the fluttering of a bird at the feeder
repositioning himself
to find more seed

While I cut broccoli
the baby sits on the counter
flapping his arms
like the bird outside
screeching with glee
drool dripping like honey
from his mouth
the bud of a tooth peeking
out from swollen gums

I set down the knife
and sip my wine in the pause
while through the tilted glass I can see
the edges of the room stained
crimson and swirling
catching light
glowing

Floating atop the life noise
clattering within these walls
a quiet song sways with being here
now
and I freeze
because something down deep
is stirred and righted
and in a twinkling the words of
Buechner that I read earlier today are
tangible and throbbing
framing the moment
as miracle

I’m remembering now
how every morning
glory pools in my lap while I’m
nursing my babe
legs crossed and warm
eyes still drowsy with sleep
and I’m afraid I miss it most days
in the wanting something more

I look back out the window and
the light has dimmed
but is tinged with orange now
the bird has gone but
the baby shouts a loud hallelujah
and I turn to him
his eyes flickering candles
Yes
I am here
now

 

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Holly pens beauty at her writing home A Lifetime of Days . Follow her on twitter @HollyAGrantham .

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Adagio: A Poetry Project is currently comprised of three offerings. The first, entitled Writing Across The Distance may be found here, the second entitled Black Night Of Hope may be read here and the third Les Mains

The Poetry Of Exploration

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I nearly weep at the remembering
How beauty hung in every ray of radiant
Brilliance breaking through the trees
Laden heavy on old oak branch
Upon branch
Centuries old with story and weight
Draped like pashmina, draped and dripping
Gray moss makes her a bearded lady
And her neighbor an elegant old sage
Makes me linger longer with every wandering
Step

Can beauty make you weary and worn
Carrying heavy the memory of fragments
Gathered and stored in a soul
Longing
A soul
Hungry
For what the day held.

Circling round and round
Like a mad dog in search of his tail
Rabid in need of earth’s poetic soul
Yet
Slowly
I round each corner
Expectant
Knowing
That I had  seen
But a fragment of what He gives

I am Columbus, Vasco Da Gama, Magellan
I am poet explorer
Capturer of lines of lovely
Gatherer, noticer, bounty-hunter
In search of something
Nameless, faceless
Wonder

Memorizing the berry red, the shadows’ dance
The limb and leaf
Ripples race like dominoes across the creek
Netting and crab-pot, rigging and roadways
Grit and glory, socks sagging
Pinned to the clothesline
Wet with story

And in the end I wonder
As I wander

This was never meant
For
Me alone
No

To hoard and have
To savor and store
Somewhere in the wonderment
And uncovering
I am more of Whitman
And Frost
Wordsworth
Though weak and frail
Feeble
The comparisons, faulty
At best

But yet
I am called
To spill through ink on a page
In the fragile lines of a poem
The poetry
I found

Along my way
Clear my voice
Whisper to a few
In this awkward way
.
Bend in and hear
Me say
I have sipped the cup of beauty
Now I raise the cup, full

Place your lips
Cracked and parched
Upon the waiting rim.
And taste the poetry of God.

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Joining my friend Laura today. Monday’s are simply marvelous there.  And joining Angie for a fun first-time link at her place.

The Noticer

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The Noticer

It was in the fall that I noticed. Again. But it was different this time. The yard had been raked in a suburban monochromatic sweeping. Overly antiseptic. The way the neighbors might  approve. But in a way that appears boring. Void of creativity. The kind spilled out from heaven. Released, unfurled by the hand of Artist God.

And it was then that I noticed. The brushing aside. Made manifest in my yard. A physical representation in the form of dead leaves. Brittle. That heart of God on my yard. The mosaic, the fallen tapestry of gold, sienna, burnt orange pieces had been raked up. Msn moved the art of God. There on the canvas of my autumn day, a mosaic laid in love was moved in uncaring haste. To sanitize. To bring man-made order.

The leaves had fallen just so, placed, by a holy hand. The Creator had, was it by design, offered a masterpiece of autumnal muted hues, surrounding me with glory come down. And we, in an effort to re-create our own standard of beauty, had brushed it aside. It was then that I noticed. What a mistake the rearranging might have been. I saw, what it feels like to be invisible.

To be brushed aside.

And I am touched by holy noticing, once again.

Thankful for the nuances of ordinary life. The subtlety of beauty. And the generosity of the Giver. And the gentle reminder, to notice.

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Joining Jen at SDG

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