A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Poetry

A funny thing happened on the way to poetry. And humor is long over due. Or due. Or something that involves laughter and joy. Because the world has a weight of its own and a heaviness that is expressed in phrases like the weight of the world.

And then there is the path to poetry. Which had some funny haha and funny odd things happen along the way to it.

There is a long story there that would wind you down a path you would rather not travel on. Should you choose to go there. You would likely feel lost and having not laid bread crumbs along your way, you may be a little mad at the writer and say I never really intended to walk down that long and winding road with you though I do love Paul and The Beattles.

And as much as I love a good story and you probably do too if you are reading, you are prone to like writing. Somehow the two seem to go together like sweet tea and mason jars. i know you thought I was going to say like hand and glove. I almost did. How did you know. But liking a good story as you do you may not be ready for a very long one.

And brevity is possibly a reason for embracing poetry. Though writing about brevity can actually be rather long and cumberson and tiring. So when writing about brevity and poetry it is important to keep it on the brief side or you may in fact lose your reader.

And if there is anything you don’t want to do when writing it is lose your reader. Oh, perish the thought of a lost reader along the way.

But there is a funny sort of thing or two that are worth telling in a short and sweet matter because the matter is sweet. So that would add a touch of the ironic which is always or almost always good to add to keep the reader interested. Irony is just so darn ironic.

But when you set upon a path and you don’t know where you are going, its a bit like being lost in the Hundred Acre woods like a bear and his friends and a  young boy named Christopher Robin who probably wanted to be lost because of the weight of his world. But he had his friends to keep him company in a wild and wooly world in those woods. Yes, he had a friend to hold his hand.

So when on this path of unknowing that involves poetry you may find that what you discovered all along was simply not really poetry at all. Though poetry was a byproduct. Or maybe you found poetry plus a large red cherry on top. Though not as laden with sugar as those cherries. But maybe it was sweeter and richer, in fact.

Because writing is a solitary endeavor, often. Most often. Which is good, because God is close by. But there is still the deep craving for another.

And writers can be lonely sometimes if they are not careful. Unless they turn on the music of the world, not the heavy world but the crisp and light and beautiful noise of the God-creation.

God had the brilliant idea that we live in community and breathe in community and in so living and breathing,  perhaps also writing in community.

So a funny thing happened on the way to poetry. I found a beautiful friend along the way. And you may too if you were to write with a friend, new or old.

You just may find the eternal on the path to your writing.

You may find a treasure. A friend.

This post is dedicated to Holly A. Grantham at A Lifetime of Days for stepping out in faith at the invitation to write in the unknown. She is a gift, she is a beautiful writer and she is now a friend. Her writing home is found here at www.walkingintheslowlane.blogspot.com. She has taught me more than words can express. But one day I will try. For now this is my offering of thanks.

linking with Emily and Michelle

When The Tail Wags The Dog (Or When Things Get A Little Crazy)

Today is Day 10 and it is not your imagination that there was no Day 9. So this is 9-10 and now you know why today’s word is CRAZY.

[This post is a part of a continuing series on Wonderful Words.
The Nester is hosting this 31 Day Series. And I am joining Sarah Mae for her What I Know Now Series with this post.)

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Did I hear that a time or two. Or am I mixing metaphors. Oh, joy. And there is this. Too many balls in the air and irons in the fire and does this sound familiar? There is this indicator, you text a text for a child to a friend and question marks come back. And you back track. And you cover your tracks. And you feel for all the world that the tail is wagging the dog.

And all the crazy making feels like disobedience to you. Because haven’t you learned this lesson so many times before,to breathe. And pause. And, those wide margins. Those wide margins of white space and calm and peace and what happened to that and those.

And though the list is long of people in pain and hurt and need, don’t you know. You is me. Me is I. Sometimes we write a corrective word to self and think there may be one who knows this too.

All the eyes on the stove are on high, the flame red- hot, the flame dances high, taunting its orange red and none can be reduced to simmer.

How the list is long and day is short, but the day is not because He designed the day and His day is the perfect length.

How the balls in the air are bricks and if you drop even one the consequences are dire, dropping the other shoe would be softer and less painful, but you don’t want to drop anything.

When it all seems pressing and all feels pressing and the needs are all great and you want to say get in line take a number. But all you want to do is write. And writing soothes the soul like a balm. And writing feels obedient and after that it all may be okay. After the obedience, all will simmer down and the boiling hot places may cool off.

And the woman-child-sister-wife- mother-friend-church- volunteer-child sponsor- mother- of- college -bound -child- soccer- player- volleyball- player- grown -child -girlfriend- has- an- interview-today hat is heavy like lead. And its all good, except for the parent  in excrutiating pain. And the parent, the caregiver is struggling too.

And one more hyphen may cut you in two like a blade. And the mail needs to be opened and sorted, so the CEO of the house needs to sit at her desk. And the hyphens keep coming.

But isn’t that when the full armor of God goes on.

Isn’t that when you yoke up with Him.

Isn’t that when you breathe a little deeper and sigh. Sigh deeper, longer.

And remember what you knew all along.

That chaos isn’t of Him. And that He doesn’t spin you like a top and chase you like a hungry wolf. That He is Gentle and He is Peace-Maker.

And your church is turning upside down too. Wasn’t that suppose to be a plumb line for stability. Wasn’t that The Rock. And there is uncertainty in her future. And you will welcome on Sunday but your heart is heavy at the uncertainty. But its not. Because really, He knows. He knows.

That this was never Him and this is never how He loves. He intended the dog to wag his own tail. His plan was for order.

So this is when you lay it down and lay it aside and say no thank you to crazy, I want no part. Knock on someone else’s door. Or better yet. Leave us all alone, Crazy. Leave us all alone.

And there’s a debate or two and an election and more uncertainty. But is it really? He is Certain. He is Sure. He is Reigning.

So this is when you say, nice try Tricky One. I want no part of that.

I remember whose I am and who I am in Him and send crazy-making out the door, the back door. No place of honor through the front door. That is reserved for the King. Who is welcome anytime, on any day, to order and restore.

He is the Restorer of Order.

And thankfully, the dog can way his own tail.

And she can breathe again.

So she goes looking for the dull, the mundane, the white noise places in her life and gives Him all her balls.

After all, He has always been a better juggler than she.

He holds the universe. Juggles the planets, moon and stars.

So  she  simply holds his hand. And pets the dog who wags his  very own tail.

Joining Emily, Ann, Duane, Jennifer, Eileen , Mary Beth, Joy and The Nester

The Poetic – Day 4 (Part 2)


A Plea For The Case Of Poetry

She steps into a world of books, there may be millions there.

Passes under the bold B and the bold N.

The smell of coffee hangs heavy in the air. Pungent dark soil acid rich. Trademark of the brand.

And then her heart begins to race, or rather did it slow. At the sight of the section marked, not prose.

So small, as if a slight. So hidden, as if from shame. So narrow, as if to be a step away from invisible.

It, the section marked Poetry.

And there she learned what others knew, that there would always be just these few.

The precious jewels, ones penned by Oliver, Colllins, Frost and such.

That shelves and rows, long deep and wide would not be needed to house the ones that bind the words of Poet.

Oh there were many in the store. Plenty for the masses.

But the heart goes looking for the ones that don’t take 367 pages to tell the story.

With plots that twist and turn and round the bend, a trail of 95 charachters, all ripe and developed richly.

There is death and drama, suspense and gore, the author delights, you’ve been strung along.

With storylines and subplot and subsubplots thick with trails and tales, long and winding, longwinded, long

suffering. The epic. With perfect punctuation.

Prose, the never ending we are almost there, the author woos you in.

The end is not as you had dreamed, no joy in a poet’s brief and pithy telling.

But now she goes the way of those and wanders off verbosely.

And like the poet in the corner simply lost in thought,

she lost her way to build her case for more bookcases

at the neighborhood Barnes and Noble.

 

 

Joining joyfully with Emily for Imperfect Prose

What Happens When A Monkey Mind Writes A Blog Post?

I wish you were here.

Well not really because you’d see the laundry basket and quite frankly it would scare you. Well maybe not scare, but it might freak you out. Well not that either, but you might not want to stay long because you’d want to free me up to “Just Do It.”

And if you were here I might ask you to run a soccer shirt to one school and a phone and a volleyball jersey to another school. And I might ask you to feed the cat and dogs.

And then I’d ask you to be a good listener. So I could tell you what it felt like to sit beside a man with Parkinson’s Disease and a single mother, with another single mother two down, last night at a volleyball match. I was in the middle.

Did you read the title of this post? Ok. Do you think I should change it? I don’t either.

And I might take you with me to the window to see the HUGE, I mean two HUGE spider webs that are like goal posts outside the window. And we could talk about the God Art and how lovely the sun is on them. And whether you think they are as spectacular as I do.

Now tell me are you still here? Did I run you off yet. Sheesh, I hope not. Because I know you have a choice and you may unsubscribe or not come back or unfollow which are all your choice. And BELIEVE ME, I would understand.

Did you think I was going to tell you more about my friend with Parkinson’s Disease? I was. I am. (Do you think I am rushing today a little too much? I am.) He asked me last night if I was still working. Then I asked him the same thing. He said he’s not because of his “mind” and he then told me of his recent diagnosis. I saw his right hand quivering. He said he misses work because he misses having something to do. I gave him a lollypop. No really I did.

Did I tell you dementia runs in my family. It does. Did I tell you two people in my family have ADD. I have written about that. Did I tell you I don’t. Wait, don’t look so surprised.

Did you think there was a point to that.

Well I want to ask you to help me with the running around and the washing of clothes so I can sit and write, and do art, and make art. And write my hybrid proety, proems and such.

And write my friend in Peru, the little girl I sponsor Erlita. Because did I tell you it can take three months for her to receive my letter? For the Compassion children to receive letters. So I want to write one now.

For some reason, and I believe God put it on my heart, while I can I want to help Compassion International.

And I want to pray for my family member with Dementia and my friend with Parkinson’s Disease and my really good friend who is a single mother. And I want to figure out the best way to love my children while discipling them and encouraging them as they grown into responsible people.

It is really important  that I raise responsible children who don’t leave their phones and sports stuff at home. Because I get one chance to get it right with them. I don’t really know what that means because there is nothing left to chance to raising children. God’s got this with me. Oh yeah that other chance, like opportunity.

Did you read the title of this blog post? Do you think I should change it. Good, I don’t either.

I want to tell you more but its gotten quiet and I think some of you have left. Before you leave will you visit the Compassion Sponsorship page and pray for the kids who need sponsors. And will you join me in praying for my new friend Erlita?

I can’t wait to hear from her. I will tell you about it when the letter arrives, if any of you are still reading by then. (This is Ella and she has nothing to do with the post but I am trying not to forget to go feed three dogs).

While I can write I want to write. While I can pray I want to pray. If you all could help with the laundry, I could go write the prayer I am trying to write to pray for Compassion. Well big C compassion and little c compassion, but mostly big C.

You know if you have never left a comment, today would be a really good day to. Because my monkey mind and I are feeling like we lost all our friends with our laundry and our craziness. So saying hello would be particularly well-timed. And you can go to my facebook page (wynnegraceappears on Facebook) if you are handing out affirmation and cyber-hugs today. And if you are feeling exceptionally generous you can share this on your facebook page.

Oh, I saw you click over to Compassion and pray. That was awesome. Thank you. I know it means a lot to the children.

Linking with Jennifer today.
And with Duane at Unwrapping His Promises at Scribing The Journey dot com.

And with Mary Beth at New Life Steward dot com.

And with Ann at A Holy Experience dot com for Walk With Him Wednesdays

And also with Emily
The purple zinnia and butterfly photograph used above is a gift from my friend H.M. Miller (isn’t she talented). I love her to pieces. She sent me the picture I used for the Mother Teresa quote. Thanks Harriett.