The Blackbird Stole My Poetry And Other Lame Excuses

The Blackbird Stole My Poetry And Other Lame Excuses

I dreamed once in a daydream, not resting under indigo back-lit sky.The scarlet winged blackbird came to visit me. An awakening. Unwelcome.Unannounced. The visit was a robbery of unfinished words, my art.

Every poem left abandoned, in embryonic stages, wet ink pen lying in repose, by the paper’s side, was carried off  by my feathered enemy. Fowl dressed in red and black. Colors of his uniform for war. And I, my own worst enemy.

I cannot blame him. For abandoned art remains fair game.

I cannot hold him to account. He saw that I was sleeping, not attending to my work.

But I must thank him, properly. For while he could have released them, into a angry wind. He chose instead to drop them off for me to start again.

The shreds of paper would have served him to line his feathery nest. But instead they floated back to earth in billowing down-currents and landed by my right side.

The blackbird gives a second chance. Waking me from sleep. In gratitude I offered him a seat. We’re here now beak to cheek sitting in soft repose. At my windowsill. He no longer dressed  for war, but in tones of of papal royalty. Restorer of the second chance.

I dreamed once in a daydream. I found again lost poetry.

 

 

Childishness

Today is Day 17 Have I told you lately that I am grateful. For you. Thanks for reading along here. Your presence is a gift.

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Yesterday I chased butterflies around my yard. Two lead me on a wild goose chase through the grass that clings to summertime. Under a canopy of azure blue, I chased down a pair of clementine orange butterflies. Their unbridled energy and speed nearly had me winded as they zigzagged and zag zigged around my butterfly bushes. Diving in and out with the agility and speed of a pair of greyhounds with wings.

I wondered. Why aren’t you on your way to Mexico?

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And I wondered what one would think. Yes, the one’s driving by my house. Spying a grown woman with her camera phone, chasing butterflies. Or perhaps they wouldn’t see these smallish beauties and think I was chasing a dream. Or the wind. Or the sun’s rays on my lawn.

I struggled to keep up. Their play was so crazy. Ebullient. Frenzied. They were a pair of frenetic playmates. Calling me to enter in. And I, a willing chaser of whimsy. On the hunt for pure delight.

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I hung the moon and the stars. Under the lights. Framed a little spot of whimsy on my porch. Sometimes I think it would be better suited for a  child’s nursery than the porch of a 114 year old Victorian house. But I love it. And if you ride by my house I hope you smile.  And more than that I hope you crave play and laughter. Joy and whimsy.

Childishness.

Childlikeness and joy. Wonder and wondering. Freedom to stop and play alone in your own front yard.

May you find time to play. To laugh. To give chase after the smallest delights that hover on the fringes of your world.

And be refreshed by the simple beauty of it all.

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My beautiful friend, Laura Boggess from Laura Boggess dot com, has a wonderful new book. Playdates with God: Having a Childlike Faith In A Grown-up World, available on Amazon, is currently sold out! (This is an indicator of how fabulous Laura’s writing, voice and heart are.) Laura has people longing for God and falling in love with a spirit of playfullness.  Today’s post takes inspiration from Laura and her book. You will want to order a copy for yourself and your peeps.

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When Art Imitates Art Imitating Life

When Art Imitates Art Imitating Life

 

Will you hide is sometimes code for will you be writing today
Creativity fueled by art, cinematic in this case
She can’t shake the storyline
Don’t be fooled the she is thinly veiled

And the film breathed new life into her own
Art
Somehow the story of salvaging it
Saving it
Calling it valuable
Stirred her soul

Somehow the cinematic fueled the
Poetic
The visual, the literary

And the chicken and the egg argument
Raises its ugly head
Well it’s not ugly
Just a little cliche

And with all the pain providing a Crimson backdrop
To the day
Art does wash
Poetry does restore
Words do renew

His code for hiding
Is her code for making sense of it all

Even if it is just last night’s movie about
Europe, old men and a war

And it all comes round again
Europe, men and war

She thought
Hiding sounded like a form of
Surviving
Buried deep inside her words
Making sense of senseless acts
Carving beauty from the ash

She decides to answer yes
I will be hiding out today
Pen in hand, armed and ready for
A chance to write a line of
Healing
In a world of pain
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Continue reading “When Art Imitates Art Imitating Life”

Life Through The Lens Of Poetry: A Guest Post At Sandra Heska King’s Blog

Today I am honored to be a guest writer at   Sandra Heska King dot com. Won’t you join me there. I am telling a bit of my own journey into poetry. I would be honored to have you click here to follow me and my words over there. Come on…. let’s take a walk into a poetic adventure. Sandy is giving away a copy of  Tania Runyan’s Book “How To Read A Poem“. And she is also giving away two subscriptions to Every Day Poems. The most beautiful daily poetry in your email inbox anywhere.

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