Scenes From A Day In The Life Of A Woman Longing For Christmas Joy

Titles should be short, pithy and easy to skim. Oh well. I grant myself grace in the area of this rule, this day. And I am hoping you will too. (Says the poet to herself and to her patient readers).

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The birds come to the feeder late. I know how they feel. Hunger strikes out of the shadows of the gray. And there is comfort by the window sill. I watch them feed as they befriend me on the warm side of the cool pane. I wonder if I bring them even an ounce of the comfort they bring me.

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I am unpacking boxes. They come, thrown my way like confetti. That which is left for the street cleaners at the end of a seemingly unending parade. I cannot not look. I cannot not clean. I press on. Each box a memory. A yearbook from 1944. War was. War is. Change comes. And we still hunger after peace. I open the musty navy blue leather and peek. It is all I can do. My skin and bones and flesh and soul can only feel so much of the memories I must unravel. How can I not honor the dead. How can I bear the stories that are only half way laid to rest. How can I hurry by the legacy of the buried. The dead. Pausing I nod. Pausing I acknowledge. The pages are a hiding place for more. Someone has tucked a dozen black and white photographs inside. And I must look all the way back. It is 1940 something. It is 2014 or something.

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The music plays loud. Then dolce. Then deafening. I do not dare go without. It is my mana, my sustenance, my companion. It mirrors the wait. It echos the longing. It speaks for me. It whispers, even loudly, the reminders of hope. I pluck songs out of the airstream and swallow them. Hungry for the phraseology of hymn and song and poetry of each tune. Without the music these days, I feel I may starve my soul. Hungry am I for the notes to wash over me. Hungry for Christmas in every line. Hope rides on the backs of the black and white sharps and flats. And I find comfort. While I wait for the joy.

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The books can entangle me the most. We have hidden things within the pages. We have used them as a repository for our lives. We have documented our living with their titles. There are series and seasons of titles that remind. Of craving organization and longing to steward well. Of birding and birthing and boating and raising our children. Preparing them for flight, on the other side. To the other side. Away. There are books we read. And books we never did. I grieve. And among them a book from a friend. Written in french. I look for room. I am running out. Of ideas and room. Of patience and space.

But I crack the spine and find her words written in 1978 to me. I cannot weep. For if I start, I may not stop. I am battling emotions which come and go. My heart, it longs for Christmas. It is 1970 something. I went to Paris without her. I remember it well. I cannot weep.

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I cannot escape the banging. The clamoring. The sounds of nails driving into the wood. And I remember the time, 33 years, from my creche with the baby in the manger. Until the cross. And I wonder if the people building this home, know the cost. They do. Monetarily. But every day the nails are hammered. Hundreds. And I hear nearly every one. The work. The patience. The hours. The noise. The sacrifice. Why do they need a home so grand. It looms. And is large. Maybe they, like me, have memories to house. To store. And the books. With no where to go.

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I go back to my unpacking, my music, turning up my favorite carols and hymns. They help buffer the hammers and nails. And I excavate. And unpack. And long, really hunger for Christmas. And pray that the old cravings for more subside. Pray that simplicity will invade my living space. And hope that this weary world will prepare Him room, as Heaven and nature sing.

And I trust with all that I am and all that I have, that Love will come down at Christmas.
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Joining Beth at just be beth dot com for Unforced Rythms

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Still Here

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Still Here

Cut grass, sweet and fragrant
Spring’s trademark
You could bottle the stuff, sell it
At Neiman Marcus
It punctuates my days
From sunup to sundown
Like the lady with the beehive on the elevator
Heavy handed with her perfume
In an effort to try hard, too hard
To cover her transgressions
Sweet smell of store bought grace

Smells like childhood and memory
Out there
Skint knees and day-light savings time
And those pint sized 747’s  go from here to there
You could set your clock by their work
Pollinating and cross-pollinating
So focused on their work
They produce guilt
In the poet
They, single-minded  and task oriented
The artist, wavering and wondering

And I am still here
Left in the wake of new beginnings
Wallflower, wondering
Why poetry dried up
A heart mining deep
Caught in transit are the words

I come to a ghost white page

Blinking cursor like an old school marm
Tapping her impatient brograns
Where are the words you claim you
Bought and paid for with your living

Where is the poetry
Saved up
On the floor of the mason jar
Like lightening bugs
Gasping for air

Still here
Polishing, pruning
Mining the story
And praying hard

The words don’t return to ash
And dust
For lack of air

Breathing deep
Still
And restless
Poet warrior
Her pen, her weapon

Seeking peace
And moving the sprinkler
To water the words

Celebrating
Poetry Month
In the still quiet
Of irony and longing

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Joining Laura Boggess for Playdates at The Wellspring

Change


Change

She longed to change
Things
The ones with a beat
Red, pulsing, pumping the blood
To crack open the norm
Celebrate poetry with prose
Run in the opposite direction
Refuse to settle
Zig while they zag
Rise up and whisper above the screams
Press mute on the debate
Call for peace while there was war
Light a fire on the first day of Spring
Speak as silence suffocates the voiceless
In the spinning
Untangle the web
Raise the white flag
Cry for mercy
Shed tears for grace
Unfurl the banner of enough is enough
Tattoo love on her wrist to remind her of
Wood and nails
Set sail
For calm and deep in
Oceans of counterclockwise in a sea of clockwise
And dream of a world
In which Change would come

And Change remained
Died and rose again
And Change redeemed
Sweet dreams, lovers of Change
Easter is near
All will soon shout
Alleluia’s
Again

A Circuitous Route (At Burnside Writer’s Collective)

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I would be honored if you’d join me today over at Burnside Writer’s Collective. A poem of mine is featured there today. Wishing you a blessed and peaceful Sabbath rest. Today and always.

A Circuitous Route. Click here to read a poem which explores change, adjustment, shifts in paradigms, and finding joy in the right where we live. In and with Faith.

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