Dear Me, Dear You

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Dear Me, Dear You

I heard your news
Third hand
Softened some of the sting of the blow
I would weep
But I am saving my tears
Rationing them
As if there are not enough for the coming monsoon of grief

Age is cruel
Until it is not
We would be wise to remember the softening
Age has given us
Glory-filled awe
If lines could be drawn in the sand
Of where it can go
But no further
We’d let the disease you have
Have some things to destroy

In sort of a death-defying feat of high stakes negotiating
We’d lay down some of our Isaacs
But hold fast to some of our others
Cloning the sacrificial lamb
For more currency
For the wheeling and dealing with death’s cruel march

Let’s say this
In harmony

How bold in its irony
How cruel in its choice

To take your ability to write your name
I weep with you
Willing to let my tears go
The ones I am hoarding
Let them fall on the fire and put out the flame
Memories burning to ash

I will cherish the places your wrote your name
The thing you cannot write
Any more
In the letters
What nonsense we all thought it
When I, the pack rat, the prophet, the foreteller
Somehow knew
We should save the letters you wrote

Those places where you signed your name

And I will try to write
The words that you cannot

Dear me
Dear you

Where To Go When The World Gets Loud

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Where To Go When The World Gets Loud

I continue to ask him to turn the volume down. I want it lower and lower. Perhaps I want it off. I cannot tell you the guilt I do not feel. I should want to know about Iran and the agreement which is there but will be fought over and fought over some more. And I have opinions but not the energy nor the desire to opine.

I do not want to hear the news right now. I was raised to use my brain and discuss and wallow in knowledge and knowing. My Facebook newsfeed yesterday horrified me. I now know things I did not know before. I hurt from reality more than I used to. Hiding is for cowards. And yet, I have a choice. Because the bruising from the world leaves me diminished and I cannot be and make and do and love under the weight.

And yet when I stay away,  I cannot pray and cry out about the things which are wrong and bearing down. So I step in and step out. A paradox of fear and trembling and licking the wounds. And exposing myself. And trusting Him to refuel my soul again and again. That is a cycle. Therein is the cycle. That is the refreshing and rebuilding and restoring He is known for.

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I want to be wise and worldly and know. Until I don’t. The most interesting things orbiting around me are about Pluto. I ask him to turn the volume up. If Pluto were one of us, he would have a complex and wonder on his worth. Disney at least named a character for him. And they bury the story in the back end. A whole mass of creation which is in flux and looking for us to name it and give it its proper place in the systems of the galaxies.

They deem it a footnote. I deem it worthy of a poem.

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When the world is loud. Abrasive. And harsh. The garden woos me to herself. And my pen’s siren call to write promises me too, that indeed, yes, there is a place of comfort and quietude. Of gentleness. Sanctuary, like the psalms.  An economy of words. I heard too much and hurt too much from hearing of brokenness and pain. I want my words to heal. And so I retreat to create. I learned of cancer and dementia, crumbling and cruel, nemesis of the living. Again. Coming through like the enemy on the march. They like to stomp on all my people. Or so it seems.

Peace like a river is in the scriptures. And He gives so many the call to write. And to listen well first. To need and want to be alone in the tapping out now. To run it all through the sieve of the pen. For good.

Social media has blessed me beyond and beyond. That is a magnified beyond. But it is loud. And I crave quiet.

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Join me on Friday as I release my first tiny letter. A weekly newsletter for subscribers via email. I hope you like Letter Number One. New content not found on the blog. Prose, poetry, prayer, photography, quiet words of grace for us.

Click the link to subscribe to elizabeth w. marshall, a quiet place for words.

RSVP, Merci

pink beach sadie

RSVP, Merci

On the tip of the earth as I know it
I look out
Imagine more
Hidden, veiled in mystery
Concealed by cover of tan and blanket of blues
In a wink and a nod
I blink
It is all still there
The beautiful
Blows by, brushing by the strands of my windblown hair
I stare
And as the haunting, beguiling ghost crabs
I crawl, slow then quick step, padding through the heat
Weaving up and down, then back
A strategy to cover the breadth and depth and width
With these weaving
As I
Pass sediment on the shore
Waves shake hands with hot brown sand, as if it were
Flipped in the cast-iron skillet where the grease pops scalding
Hot
Vapors rise up in waves of heat-rising
Day is cooking herself under a blazing summer southern sun
I whisper and inaudible yes
Say yes to all this and more

There is a call in the barren places
Where I walk
And pass not a soul for a little long while
The sea is stingy this day
Giver of gifts on many a Sunday stroll
Tumbling treasures, teasing me
rolling gifts up and rolling them back

down, yo-yo style
Free-style
Playing with me
Tempting me to step one more step in search of more

surprise, it is not about that which I can touch or take
My hands may leave empty, today
But the attic of my soul will not
It is storing up
poetry
And I respond
It is collecting
art and beauty, dreaming of the soul-work
yet to come
Merci
To all my searching soul can see
Along this stretch of shore and life

I respond, with a song of Sunday gratitude
No more
Merci
It is all I know to do

Empty beach shadow profile

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Joining Laura Boggess

A New Little Creative Project Just For Ya’ll

Newsletter

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Be on the lookout for the first issue. And a chance to subscribe. I hope you will. (Of course it is free).

Just a gift of my art and some things I long to share outside of my blog.

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This is my pensive, pondering great content look. I do some of my best brainstorming on the boat.

See how quiet I am. Once a week you will receive a quiet little bundle of prose, poetry, prayer and photography.

It will look and feel a little bit like my instagram feed but different. I am so excited. Truly.

blessings and peace on this beautiful Sunday,

e