Tag: Imperfect Prose

The Land Where The Unknowns Live – (The Power of The Wind)

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 2 Comments

Cracking the door open a smidge and peeking back in for a moment or two. Oh the challenge of keeping the writers quiet with their paperless canvas, when all the world is swirling and brimming and blustering and shining.

Voiceless it cries,
Wingless flutters,
Toothless bites,
Mouthless mutters.

-J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit

The Land Where The Unknowns Live

the mt storms, the wind

She sailed her boat on the seas of life where the winds blew white capped waves

Deep cracks and crevices on broken seas crept over her vessel’s sides

She sailed her craft under a sky so grey, with tears on cusp of breaking edge

Salty, stockpiled and ready to roll

Stealing salt from the tops of waves

And she sailed her ship, solo, so alone

To a land where the unknowns lived

Under night dark skies, painted  charcoals, ebonies,  and slates

Highlighted in battleship greys

Mirroring the melange of a heart and soul

And the sails they flapped and flailed and feinted, tattered and torn

So weak and wobbly worn

Ripped under the power and might of the storms

The swirling howling honking sounds came

And the all arounds blew

Under its gale-force currents of power and might

The breakables broke and the sediment shifted

While the trees they snapped, the roots gave way

As the wind tears all that’s shallow and weak

And the limbs bent, broke, tumbled, tossed

Then felled

As the howling power, like a runaway train

Brought the loose things loose while the winds swept the land

And carried things off in a current of cleansing

As the wind blew through, cutting a jet black night

But oh the morning it brings the new

A cleansing of a dark and broken soul

And rolls back all black

And saves the tears for some

Other day

And shines the light of Joy on all dark

As the sun shines radiant through the trees

The wind blows fresh through the cheeks puffed full

Of Hope through the land where the unknowns live

So she mends her sails, or did He mend them for her

And  re-rigs her boat, or did He repair that too

Her working parts and pieces

Sending her off on a journey new

On a sea of redemptive swells

Where the pitch and toss

And the windswept new bring Hope to a journey, new

Fueled by the breeze so gentle and soft

Of a kind and whispering wind

Touching tender the cheeks of the smiling face

Of the land where the unknowns live.

Now

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 4 Comments

donkey 1Now looks radiant, dressed in white, holy moment

Pregnant with possibility

Hope

Expectant flesh and bone

Deliverer of new life, new mercies

And she is fragile, tender,  a living breathing paradox

She must be opened, spent

Used up, poured out to manifest her full worth

What is not gathered up and lived out, does not roll over

And accumulate in

A pile of tomorrow,

No gathering of nows,  saved and stockpiled

For a four week vacation

Now beats to the rhythm of sweet urgency

Though a lady

She waits for all to come to her, in the tick tock minutes

As hands on clock can not keep still

They must swing around, keep the beat

Clockwise, clock steady

So now

Compels us to be fully present in the sea of possibility

Open the curtain, unwrap

The crinkle bright shiny of her dressing,

New

Unveil the waiting

And live with her, rejoicing.

Now.

Creating beauty out of the given.

Seeking the buried right under the surfaces of her linen coverings

Wrapping our hearts in the warmth of her pleasant embrace.

Looking for all that hangs from the tree of her offering

For the picking, the gracious taking

And the generous release

Now are the days of our lives

Now are the days of our full blown living

God gifts generously as this earth turns, tides break, and hearts beat

All eyes on her, spotlight shines bright on her

Center stage

Act one begins

The play of life

The times of your lives

Thank and live

In the Advent of our nows

And stand with loud applause

Sing sweet praise

At all that is

Worthy of a hallelujah chorus

Of praises

Now.

donkey 3
shadows eyes and donkey

Joining Emily for her Imperfect Proseimperfectprose

Adagio: A Poetry Project

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 6 Comments

Writing is, most often, a solo venture, a process worked deep inside the confines of one’s heart and soul. But when two pilgrim poets turn towards each other and embrace the tension that lies between, something new emerges.  A writing “pas de deux” is born and the two begin weaving their words together, in and around, over and under, into something bigger than themselves. The writing becomes a lifting, a balancing, a turning…and the words on the page become an Adagio.
Learn more of the birth of the Adagio project at Holly’s writing home.

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It is in this spirit that we have threaded together pieces of our souls as our offering to the world of poetry and to fellow poet friends. Most especially, though, we offer it as a gift, and lay it right at the feet of our Creative God who is  the Giver of this love of writing and purposeful word weaving.  Today we sing this song and tell some of our story…..elizabeth and holly.

Writing Across The Distance

Her words they twist and swirl creamy smooth

One into another and I drink them in deep and long

She dips her pen into the well of ink

That is her very crimson rushing pulsing life.

And brings up words to stamp white page.

She is like the smiths of old, holding passion fire hot and glowing

And working the ember into ghostly shapes

That cool only when set aside

Full of vibrant living breathing voice,  poetic prose

For all to know her very soul

She lives into days fringed with salt-crusted breezes

And her words they ripen and swell

And drip heavy the fruit of quiet days made full with patience and wonder

She dips her pen into places wet with tears of joy and sorrow mingled down

Always honest, her voice knows only raw and real

She a pilgrim soul on a journey long and winding

Open and bare her heart rests upon the feast table

She is waiting quiet and still

While the shaping takes place

She is still and she knows.

No room for mask or veil or artificial

Her art, like incense to her God.

And she’ll dip her pen in nature’s oil

And mingle earth with bone and flesh to make a  mix of all the world

Not leaving places unexplored, she will blend the wild and tame alike

And make a holy sacrifice and offering of her very  self

A calm and tranquil melody

Poetic heartfelt words.

Two pilgrims on a journey.

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Will you join us as we move in faith on this new poetry journey? And perhaps you might consider partnering with another writer to come along side us in this endeavor?  We covet your presence in this space.

Holly may be found writing often at her home, A Lifetime of Days. My writing home is here, wynnegraceappears, Elizabeth W. Marshall. We are writing across the distance as our homes are hundreds upon hundreds of miles apart.

Joining Jennifer, Eilleen, Emily and Duane

Ask A Poet Why and He May Say

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 17 Comments


Why do you tell the world just so,
Why do you speak unplain?
What is the push and pull within
That wraps the word along
In patterns, rythme and weaving, or a  threading?
If you can write in paragraph and line and write as plain as day
As others speak.
Why do you say these things just so, that beg some time
To sit and think,
And pull apart like child at play.
Like dough in hand, forms and shapes,
Flexing and extending.
To see
Just see what shapes and forms, what beauty
Will come from void?

Why do you tell the world just so?
Why do you speak unplain?
What is there in subtle hiding or buried hidden thought?
Why tuck inspiration or creation in words
That speak like puzzle piece?
Why does a child sit on the floor, hours spent
With block in hand or lego piles, to see what he can make
From void, from nothing, make something beautiful, wild or wooly
When on the shelf sit hundreds of toys to grab in seconds flat.


Why do you tell the world just so?
Why do you speak unplain?
Why do fields hold wonders and whimsy and skies and seas
Do too.
A lifetime is spent in discovering these
That lay in the world He made.
What joy in telling of all He does and makes and gives, in
The world and in a life, as seen by eyes inside a heart.
Can we see the mystery in the hidden hummingbird nest
So small, so buried in the limb
Or see the cross which cotton bears when burst open right at  harvest time?
I knew not
They were there.

Until I look still, closer, still
And listen with my heart
For small and subtle, nearly lost in a frenzied,
Shouting, clamoring,high octane world.
When some are screaming, writing tomes
Is there a place for poet’s voice, a home?
It takes a moment longer, you linger or
You’ll leave, impatient with the telling.
Many say, say what you mean and say it fast
And some say simply short is sweet.
But the poet winds and rambles leaving crumbs to gather
On a page.Saying rest awhile and seek the deep.
A world is rushing by, but you
May slow your pace and rest your eyes with me
Let’s talk of life upon these lines.

And seek the hidden things.
Let’s look together at this life, find beauty
And amazing, the wondrous and the plain, lying in the shadows.
The world made mysterious by His hand, the smallest  subtle intrigue
Try to understand the intricate, He’s artist Creative God.
He’s buried complex things, they’re hidden in the deep.
Let’s hold our breath and hold up time  to find, to truly see.
Come explore with patient eyes.
The deep, the hidden marvels in the space
That lies between you and me, us and them.
And hold on traveller, pilgrim friend
Just ask the poet why and he may say
There is simple beauty in the hidden things.

Joining Emily, Duane, Jennifer.