Can I Get A BIg Amen and A Few Things Parenthetically

July 18, 2013 ~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 4 Comments

Can I Get A Big Amen

The view changes
From way down here
I slipped and fell
On the egg shells
Horizontal view, perspective head in the dirt
Smells fresh
No longer in the clouds
Splayed out on the floor
Floored
By the shift
Get down here
Lower still than you have gone before
Keep bending lower til
You drown in
Pools of grace
Puddled
Purposefully to soften the
Blow
Bubbles and have some
Fun, worry not
You borrow from the unknown
But stay awhile
The view is better than on high
How low can you go
Jesus stooped and bent and crouched
Washed the feet
Meet me here
The view is
What it is
The weather is beautiful
Low, cheek pressed to the cold earth
Wish you were here
We shall rise together, one day

But for now can I get a Hallelujah chorus
Can I get a big amen

A change is comin.

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And a few things parenthetically, thank you for being here. A journey into poetry and prose is most wonderful with one or two along for the journey. You can jump over to facebook and follow along there. There is a lot going on these days there and on twitter.

I am sharing words and poems and art of others and my own. Come along and join me. The view is poetic.

I think you have to like me on facebook to follow me on facebook. Sorry if that is too strong a term. It is the only choice you have on facebook these days. But wow if you do.

Elizabeth W. Marshall, viewing life through a lens of grace on facebook

and @graceappears on twitter

The Glider and The One In Which We Grieve While Living

July 17, 2013July 18, 2013 ~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 3 Comments

The Glider

Calls her out
Into the night

Anchors the seating
For souls
To search

Stars with wings
The lightening bugs
Of all the things we recall
Are insects in a Mason Jar
Holes punched through to last the night

Conversation
In the crosshairs
We open Pooh and cry at the news
Of loss, our Mia

We go back
And forth
Counting on a change
Then see it was made
After all

The wall art reminds
We live forward
But understand in looking back
Truth proclaimed in pottery
Words lined up and down
In the cross

No idle living
On the porch
If metal spoke
It would tell
Of healing there
Black metal harbinger of hope

A forty dollar yard sale
Piece
Be with you
Found and tossed
Find a seat
Gather
Afresh
Huddle anew

The glider
Guides
Groups
Out under the waxing
Moon

She waxes poetic

Remembering her friend
The one who died too soon

Cancer
Claimed another

Come glide with me
The days are numbered
The phone has rung
And doctors tell of cancer
And the fighting man
Who loves to rock and hold a glass
Always more than half way full
Of hope, spins it good and glorious

Sit and rock
Roll back the rock of death
It lost its sting
And tell me all

We’ll knit one pearl two
And make the days

Count
Don’t drop a stitch
In time
The stitches one by one
Will make a perfect
Covering
Come

And glide
You must not move
Mother may I

Gather on your
Glider
Under our moon
With you

Death has lost its sting
Forty dollars
Buys a lot of living

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In Which We Grieve While Living

Death both stops you in your tracks and thrusts you onward. Propels you forward, harder, faster, fighting mad that it came at all. Births a new desire to grasp the days like a starving man, deprived of food and all that is good. To savor, taste and see that it is good, so good. The all He makes and made. We ride the waves of grief, nestle in the glory goodness that it wakes us up to see.

Life is revealed in death. We float in seas of salty remembering. Hold on to each other harder, stronger, longer and buoy a grievous soul in love. Linking arms and planning how to rip the wrapping off the day. Crazy to unwrap the gift.

Awake anew to the mystery of the world. The unknowing of the numbered days. Shot out of a canon, we declare we will press on in living with our grief and sacred remembering of the lives that end. Ended. Continue on in heavenly glory. Bless and pray and thank and grieve. But live. In a holy place of remembering.

We weep at life without our loves. People, those who have marked our lives, the lives of a child, importantly. Who have invested, sacrificed and loved us well. Smiled when aching, loved when hurting, played while pushing back their own sorrows. They teach us love while living life. Show us mercy upon mercy. Currents of grace whirl round their brilliant countenances.

And we are changed forever and ever, amen.

And it is then we pull out Pooh. Because it is an anchor with its words on living and mysteries, child-like exploration into unknown forests and chasing after demons disguised as hephalumps. We gather the musty pages which smell of childhood and life. That smell of laughter. And yellow smells wise and knowing. Turn the mustard colored pages where a child has added to with scribbles of their own. Crayons colored green and red have left their waxy mark of random scribbly scrabbly child’s play.

In my home, Pooh anchors with belly laughs. And memories of the best times. Of silly sayings and pages which read a hundred and leventy leven times ninety sound new and as fresh as a the morning’s first drips from a French Press. The world wakes us up. Turns in circles and cycles seem comforting. As life is supposed to be.

Cycles of life, cycles of death, cycles of grief. And Pooh.

My mother read it to my grandmother in her eighty’s. In the home. And in Latin. And they laughed tears, tracking down aging cheeks in salty rivulets.

And on the morning of more news of death, we pull out Milne and let him take us back to happy youth. Where rabbits and owls and kangaroos talk and donkeys struggle with depression and angsty life views. Where a small pig can be a best friend. Where loss and grief loose a little of their sting in the imaginations of an Englishman, a poet a writer a giver of hope. Years upon years after his birth and death.

His words, a healing gift.

So we press on a little more gaily into our day. Looking for honey in the sour sorrow of loss. My mother reads Pooh aloud and the pain diminishes a small amount. Our family gathers around grief.

And around story. Childhood joys. We will pray tonight. And lift up the grieving ones to God. We will bow and lift and whisper and cry.

But for now its words of poetry and children’s lit. At times like this, it is always words. Of prayer.

And a bear.

*************

photo of A.A. Milne – Wikipedia.org

photo of glide – Elizabeth W. Marshall, poetry and prose through a lens of grace

Joining Jennifer at Jennifer Dukes Lee dot com

In community with Emily at Emily Wierenga dot com

The Rookery & Scenes from A Perfectly Imperfect Life

July 15, 2013July 15, 2013 ~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 5 Comments

The Rookery

At dusk, we remark
That they jockey for a limb
The best perch
Before dark
We invade the quiet
Curious

How do you sleep sitting up
Choose your limb
Preen your feathers
And say good night to the bird
To your left
And the one to your right

We have ruffled their feathers
Who is watching whom
The birds
They wonder
Who takes off in a boat at night
To bird
Watch

The limb picking
Hunched birds, silhouette of old men
Mateless, alone
Solitary silhouettes washed in shades of graying
White

We are

Pickers
Of the perfect nest
Needing rest

And solitude
Flocked together

Hunkering down

River, motor cut, we float
Gathered
This night
Stills all that ills

And we float on
Riding the wake
Of a solitary tug

Leaving the rookery

With peels of laughter

Not a bird is bothered
We all flock together

This night lit by precious
Crescent’s light
Slivery, silvery moon

To the solitary bachelors, we say
Goodnight
Two men
And a boat with their wives for
Lives

The night is young
If we are not.

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Friendship is the binocular view we trade for the solitary magnifying glass; a panoramic perspective through the looking glass of love – Shelly Miller

When life gets lonely, call out the sisterhood. Or gather the troops. Or celebrate friendship. Sequestered away like a monk in a monastery, rapunzelled away in the tower of life, solitude can sting. And one can burrow down in the writing of life and miss the very of living of it. Nose nestled into the pages of the recording device. How nice to take big gulps from the real and the swim into the seas of living.

And months and days, and weeks and fortnights of lots of time alone, writing make one parched for real life. We need a splash of technicolored friendship. So I sent an invitation to celebrate friendship. And waves of words saying I want to come washed up on my little island of me, myself and I. There are debaters who like to debate any issue that comes along. And I have heard voices take sides on whether or not it is lonely to living a writing life. I believe and and yes and no and sometimes.

That discussion is for another time and place. For this is simply a looking back with joy on a gathering of friends. FIfty four years can collect friends like life-lines, along the way. Or did they collect me. Some new, some old. Strangers and children. Around the banquet table living life on a rainy day. We gathered. And I am reminded of the shifts that come when we view our lives through a different lens. I, the one fascinated by perspective. Not knowing why perspective fascinates my soul.

We are hungry at the table again. The way He intended. By His very design. He purposed us for fellowship. And calling to mind and memory His gifts, the ones He gave with good pleasure.

This day, I saw joy in sets of eyes and lengths of living, lengths of hair, faces shine back at me. Sun soaked souls, happily wrinkled, we. Laughter echoed through the Bistro. And we feasted on each other and the manna of life and love.

A simple day celebrating friendship, they answered the call to come gather. My life seems like an episode of “Antiques Road Show” on a day like this. Not knowing the value in friendships that stay hidden, dormant for too long. How the value is revealed when brought out and into the open.

I asked when I invited, please bring a line or a word about friendship. And I will gather your words in one poem. Weave together the words you offer into one offering of poetry. That is in the works. As we continue living in the wake of a tidal wave of pressed memories. Pressed deep within my soul.

Thank you friends for loving me in life and on this rainy day. I cherish the minutes marked this day and the years we have between us. Of living and breathing, mothering and parenting, writing and laughing.

So much more than I can ever say. You make life rich and wonderful.

There was nothing perfect about it. No engraved invitations or place cards and party favors. Perfectly staged and planned events are so fleeting. But it was wholly and wonderfully perfect from my lens. Chairs were shuffled, friends cancelled, three at the last minute. We were wet from the flooded parking lot. But we dripped with joy for an hour or two in the middle of July.

It caused me to pause, reminded me, necessarily to stop and gather, stop and break bread, stop and celebrate life and all its imperfect perfectness. We shuffled places and shared meals and sent one back to the kitchen. With gracious apologies returned with kindness and it is all so okay. We are all flawed. We are all perfectly imperfect ourselves.

But love prevailed and introductions were made. And we gathered this side of glory. And learned from one another and prayed for the absent ones.

But mostly we laughed. And we loved.

And I was reminded not to wait to celebrate this simply ordinary extraordinary imperfectly perfect life.

Thank you Shelly, of Redemptions Beauty, for the words you wrote and gifted me on this day which are the inspiration for this post.

Joining Laura at Laura Boggess dot com

(Photo Credit – Wikipedia – Egret)

Why I Am Dreaming Small and Under The Oaks

July 11, 2013 ~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 3 Comments

(Thank you. Yes, you. Dear readers here, you who are uncertain of poetry. I too, am uncertain of poetry. But you are still here reading. Or maybe you have left, because of poetry. So I’ve decided I am going to make a little space for more prose. To offer both, together, for a season. Each time I post I will publish prose and poetry. Thank you for journeying with me as I pen this life, look for beauty, reflect my faith, and place words, some shaky, some brave, into this community. Let’s see how a vision of prose and poetry will look, here. And now that the comments are open again, I would love to hear your thoughts on two writing forms, together. Here, in this little corner of the inter-webs. Wising you grace, elizabeth)

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Under The Oaks

I spot threes
Write sounds in threes
See the world in
Triplicates
Focus a lens on multiples
Trios

So fitting, that on a street named Venning
The street with three n’s
There are three souls, new
To me
Three new friends have I
I spy beauty

Grace and elegance

Grand dames
I could have come and gone
Perish the thought
I’d never known the life behind the smiles
Life lines on their faces
Telling

Me
New one on the street with the winding sounds
Learning of life
I make my way
Up and down the tree lined street

Life learned
From a trio of grace
From the Ladies of Venning

Quiet now, they are living large
Speaking softly, they live and breath
A writer, a gardner, a traveller
Lover of film and land
Living their stories

Wonder and awe
It is well to
Listen

To the three
Ladies of well-lived
Lives, it appears
From where I sit and stare

And wait to earn a place
Of friendship
Among the three
Who barely know me
And yet, have shown

Friendship
Grace

So I study the lines
My eyes trace their living
Laugh lines, crows feet
Fragile lines around the eyes
And mouth

Of these three
Ladies, each

Under the oaks
With me.

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Why I Am Dreaming Small

And so it seems everyone is dreaming big. Anyone that dreams at all has big dreams. Thrown up and out into the sea of living. Brave and big. Bold and large. The bigger the better. Super-sized. These dreams of man.

Words crisscross my screen every day about these dreams, the ones that I see looming large. But I think I am dreaming small. Not because of fear. But I , like everyone have my share of fear. Not because of lack of faith, for mine is at least the size of a mustard seed.

Because I hear a clear crisp call to small. One that whispers in my ear of dreams scaled down, sized in miniature. But lovely nonetheless.

Small dreams now from a grand and glorious God who is the one that’s large.

How beautiful and whimsical, are my little hopeful dreams. The ones I have dancing in my mind, by day and keeping me awake at night. They lack nothing in the winnowing. The paring back and whittling down.

It is not really that I have a shrunken faith. Or fear to take my dreams and expand them on a larger scale. Truly, not.

It is, rather, that I am seeing beauty in the small things, after all. It comes with age. A grand release. And in my younger days I dreamed so big. And came to value all that is small. I walked to here, a place of growing contentment, in the smallest acts of kindness, moments, and conversations with a friend.

And somewhere in this life, I am coming to a place. That not all measurements are more wonderful, the larger they become. So we are looking for a home. Another house to call our own the remainder of our days. Is this the eighth. I can’t count. But graciously and gratefully , one that will be new for us. Or maybe held the joy of others for sometime. Another through the years.

New is not necessary,nor is big.

And I am dreaming of one small and cozy. I dream on Pinterest and in my mind and with The Patient One. And look for beauty, comfort and a house with just a little this and a little that. For my children and my children’s children.

I’m finding contentment after all, in you guessed it, things so small.

Last night we found a house we love. It fits my dreams just so.

I am dreaming small. We laughed at the little number the realtor printed on the sheet; the one that revealed the total space, for living, here. But I know we would have just enough. All we need. Even though we dream of adding a bit to what is there. Because we have a history of piling up and piling on and living in a cozy space. Just wearing out and down the soul of every house we’ve owned. Even though we have lived large. Between the walls of lots of space and things.

Small now calls my name.

I heard a story of a man, a writer in his graying years. And he had published seven poems. Ever in his life of writing. Only. Until he wrote a little book. And off it went, big and large. A big success from all accounts.

One never knows where dreams might go. I love friends with dreams so big. And God may grow mine bigger.

But for now they are just so dreams. A little small.

So I will write my little poems. Here for awhile. And maybe one day there. And dream a little dream of one days. That maybe I will find a publisher who says lets go and run, or fly or soar. Or maybe even a home between the covers, nestled in a spine. My little poems will settle down and live up on a shelf, in a book leather bound. One that has a name that’s gold embossed, that is my very own. Or maybe my poems will gather. And compile themselves. Into a collection. Walk themselves off to a printer and return to me in published form.

I love my little dreams. They fit me just right, right now.

And that is why my God sized dreams may look a little small. One never knows where dreams will go when they are grown by God.

Maybe tomorrow they will grow an inch or two. After I grow contented with what I have and where I am.

My portion perfected by his loving hand.

Oh to dream, by day, by night. And watch Him change us in our dreaming. Bless us always with so much more.

Than we ever dreamed, was possible or could be true.

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Joining Jennifer Dukes Lee and Emily for Imperfect Prose

(I am gathering some of my writing to submit to a magazine as examples of my work along with some ideas for editorial content. If you have a prose piece you have particularly enjoyed let me know in the comments. Let’s see where this dream goes. You will be some of the first to know.)

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