Tag: Grace

Somewhere Between Lamentations and The Psalms

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 9 Comments

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Somewhere Between Lamentations and The Pslams

I am dancing between the pages
Of Lamentations
More of a slow forced march
I would rather laugh
Like a crow, turned toward the sky
At the sun pouring in
At the squirrel on his high wire act
At bird chasing a cat
And a dog chasing his tail.

But I am in the pages of weeping
Where the heart plays the re-runs
And the soul forgets the grace
And mercy drips from the faucet
Like summer’s drought.

I know there are pages to turn
And the fingers are quick
But the heart is slow

To find itself in the
Pages of rejoicing

But when I recall
The chapters of joy
Highlighted and hope
And a three year girl
Who called them P saums


Then I am in the pages
The ones filled with the love
Of Christ
The wiper of tears
And today they are mine

Joining my beauty seeking friend Laura and on Thursday with Lyli.

January

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ Leave a comment

 

Drips grey like a leaky fountain pen
Spills battleship, concrete, slate and
Every shade in between
Blanketing the tops of trees, no leaves
Vulnerable, branches bear, shaking at the root
In the frigid air
Suspended in a cavernous sky
Frozen
Like a
Monochromatic monstrosity
The canvas wide and bleak
She sees
Sees past the bullying mid-winter blues
Yes, January
Keeps a secret
Hides it in the vortex of a
Cross- continental
Arctic blast.
Longing and desire
Grow in
Fallow fields
Laid to rest and wait
Patient in her knowing that the future is redeemable
There is hope
Oh what restless souls we are
Missing the beauty buried in the
Aching earth
Cold and lonely for new growth
But January says
Hold on
I am the doorway through which you step
Gateway
From cold and void
To feasts and merriment
Hold on fast in dormant days
And know the season
Of rejoicing lies this way.
Oh January
Help us see
The beauty that is in the days
So cold and gray, seeming barren
Nestled in a quiet snowy wait
Point us to the future where
Color spills out new birth like grace
On the other side of
A world
Colored but for a moment
In endless shades of grey.

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Joining friends Sandra and Deidra

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Stretch Me

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 6 Comments

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Stretch Me

It would not be a stretch
To say
There is a world of hurt
On the other side of the
Street
The table
The pew
The world
This screen
That page

Or that for centuries
We have mastered the fine art
Of turning away

So I
Stepped off the curb
And ran into a couple of hurting
Women
At church today
Touched the tip of the iceberg

And I swear for all the world
I want to get my Masters in the do-over

People there are organs needed
And prayers needed
And children in the middle
Who are scared to death
Of families split apart
People walking, dragging, seeking
Scared

And I want to go pray myself into a frenzy
Enter a convent
And make up for lost time
Praying

I waited in line today
For prayer
And the prayer
Weighed heavy
He knew my story
Served to bear my burden
Because it was his too
Strength in numbers
We need each other
Body of Christ
I am the root canal
You are the hip replacement

Somedays it is a heck of a lot easier
To hide
And hole up
Hide from the busted
Put a Hello-Kitty Band-Aid on it

But man we are needed our there
Warrior
Women
Warrior
Men

I am blown over by the gentle winds
Of conviction
And mercifully
Yes mercifully

Tomorrow I can wake up
Hit my knees
And get a do-over
Get in line
Again

Pray to be stretched

Pray to be moved to tears
Moved to action
Moved to see
Every hang nail, heart ache
Busted lip and broken leg

Stretched at two a.m. for a sister
Soul in need

Finally awake
At last
Fully alive

Stretching arms to heaven
Like the rattling riggings on the Mary-Elizabeth

Dry bones arise, dry bones awake
Dry bones, rejoice.

Cleaning My Brush

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 1 Comment

Curled tucked
Fetal position
Rolled
Warm
Like a hot cross bun
Baking in the white down
Oven of my bed
Rest warms me
As I clean my brush, swipe the bristles
To remove the residue
Folded into a two am pose
Snug as a bug in a rug
Soul rest cleans
The brush
So I can wake anew
Mercy
Full
Of grace
To create
White canvas waits
And the uncurling of knees to chest
Legs at rest
Pretzel twists of arms and legs
Springs from the layered nest
Re-creation begins anew.

 

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