Gazing At The Ordinary Marvelous

Today is Day Poetic 

Have you noticed a little quiet pause. Is it bending or breaking the 31 Days “code of writing to triple up” one post to cover three days in the series. Ah, I have been living and traveling and noticing. And thinking of this place and space while it was quiet. Were you out noticing while it was quiet? Have you even noticed that I was gone?

Today is Day 21 ( and 20 and 19)

wpid-IMG_20130814_185820.jpgGazing at The Ordinary Marvelous

I have wondered through a maze of noticing
Sat on every word unfurled from  preacher’s lips
Not mine, on prayer, unending
Every note, black, ballet dancer up and down
That old red hymnal, still smells like memories of Methodist
Smells a certain way
Doxology dances off the yellow pages, runs rifts
Of remembering ordinary marvelous
Weaves a red thread through the years and days

And I have wandered through a maze of bittersweet
Returning with my fragile heart and mind
I long to change a memory
Bur, for all my trying I can’t rewrite it
Into something better, brighter, sweeter
Babys at the alter, dipped in sacred fonts
Will stir the waters that run deep
Inside a mother’s  broken heart

I have wondered through the winding
Roads that lead me home to Woodland Heights
Where I am met with fond recalling
Early morning, late at night
Bookended by the generations
Stories that go on and on, echoing down the mountain
There are no secrets anymore
Rolling tires crunch  crush the brittle leaves
A slow and gentle breaking
On this road to my returning
I have come back home again, met by autumn’s gold dust shining
She opens wide the door for me.

Everything is ordinary
Marvelous as it should be
Concentric circles of recalling
Spokes that find their way back to the center
Tines which gently poke inside, time and time again
Urge me to recall while listening to the echo of
The winsome valley train

Everything is marvelous
The circles spin like hands clockwise round the rounded clock
Face the moments, ordinary
Savor all the pieces of the past
Colliding with the present
All this noticing
Never seems to stop
For if it did and if it were
If the door to my eyes and memory
Were to close and come to final rest
Death would meet me at the end of marvelous
Where all the ordinary  settles into peacefulness

While time presents herself
At daybreak, new and wondrous once again
I  go forth to gather
All the ordinary marvelous
Where we sing  loud and joyful
A searcher’s song, a hymn of praise
Let Noticing her loud and lively anthem raise.

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(To read all posts in this 31 day series, The Art of Noticing, click here to land on Day One and a listing of all posts) I am joinging The Nester at The Nester dot com for October. Click here to check out some of the other writers/bloggers who are accepting this writing challenge. There are some wonderful writers participating in several cool categories.

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Joining Laura Boggess at Laura Boggess dot com . It is where I go on Mondays for a writer’s Playdate.

Left Behind – A Very Very Short Story or When Art Holds You Hostage

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Today is Day 14. We are rolling right along on this journey. I am honored and over-joyed that you are along for this ride. And if you missed a previous invitation to subscribe to all posts in this series, You are cordially invited to subscribe. And follow along on twitter and on facebook if you’d like.

To read Days 1 through 13, click here to catch up and see a listing of all the offerings in this 31 day writing challenging.(I am joining the nester at the nester dot com.)

Books, Art, Library

Once upon a college tour a day or two ago, I was help hostage by art.

Well, loosely speaking. My rather large group of perspective students and parents went on a tour of a college which is right up there at the top of her list. Let’s just say, this place is saturated in history, fantastic architecture and an overall cool vibe.

So as my guide, slash our guide, lead us through the library, of which they are extremely proud, why was I the only one who slammed on the breaks for art. I know of their pride of place because she described in great detail the size, comparable to three football fields, and you people the place is beautiful. Really. But they left me in the dust, the whole group including the tour guide. I was the only one that stopped and took a picture.

Ya’ll I savored this amazing display made from books and shredded paper. Alone. Admittedly, I wanted to appreciate the art with another soul. To discuss what we were ingesting. What was being said, communicated, displayed for us in the center of this grand space.

I live in a wee little shrimping village so you may think I don’t get out much. And hey, that explains her being left behind.  But I have lived in New York and Paris. And I do live right down the road from Charleston, with all its art, museums and history. So I have seen a little more than shrimp boats in my short, well not that short, life. But I slammed on the breaks for this beauty.

My practical side knows that if we had stopped we would have made undesirable library noices with our oooh’s and aaah’s.  But we were on the first level and we had already been told that the third level was the “you can hear a pin drop” level.  So that leads me to believe that these other people on the tour must see really cool sculpture made from books and shredded paper every day.

Either that or we, as a people,  are not easily amused. Or we don’t care about art made from books and shredded paper. Or we are in a hurry or we have become jaded.

People, stop and savor the art. Some talented artisan crafted something valuable here in a sea of shredded trees.

In the noticing is discovery, in the discovery is amazement, in the amazement is gratitude and in the gratitude is a sense of joy and wonder.

I can only think about all the art I have missed along my hurried way.   I was a willing victim in this hostage taking, in the library, one recent day on a college tour.
I would like to hear what she is saying.  I want to hear what everyone is saying. What about you?

Ready, set, go notice.

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I am joining Laura at Laura Boggess dot com for her Playdates at The Wellspring. One of the joys of my Mondays. Join me there?

In Which The Moon Talks Back

In Which The Moon Talks Back

So much happens by the moon’s bright light
Radiant beams
Poured holy rays on stables where Christ was born
One dark and sacred night

Entranced, we the people of the Light
Bound by grace
Poured out on moonglow
From heaven down to Earth
Thrown-out
Cast like nets, its light remarkable
When seen upon the sea

And we
Gaze skyward
Spend countless
Hours, living breathing
World without end, amen
A people
Held agasp
Struck by evening’s light
Moonstruck by a blinding power and might

Love has been made
Lovers have swayed
Drunk on the liquid earth-bound light
That drips from way on high

Dreams are dreamt, then
Swept away, by
Every phase
Of our neighbor in the sky
We count our days, wish and
Plan, mark the calendar by the wax and wane
Look out the window panes
To see a world, lit as by an ember’s glow
Mourning and in pain

The tides
A pattern that rules the sea
Rolls at the spoken word
Of that man
Up in the moon, it seems
They
Come and go when they are told

Is it not his turn?

Synchronized by the one
Whose chiseled face
Stares back at us
He’s always been a man
Faintly smiling
Like a profile on Mount Rushmore, carved
A face held hard and fast
His eyes mirroring the stars
Steady, rock of ages suspended
In a galaxy God-created

But why have we not asked him
Does he not have something wise to say
Subject of story, songs and tales
Mentioned early on
In Genesis, I’m just curious

What would he say
If he could speak, write
A story of all he’s seen
Would he whisper
A cautionary tale, did he
To our men who took Apollo there
By the light of his own
Making
Would he dare say what he has seen
Or she
Or it, the one who lit
The world so bright, continues to light us
Night after night
I suppose it is time
For the one-sided conversation of moon and man
To end

Let’s give him a turn

Dare we listen,
For once, hush so he can speak
To what his broken heart has heard
And seen

Could we stand to learn
From one who has seen a million
Sunsets
Preceding his own glowing rising

Does he dare to tell his side
Or is he simply content to spend
His nights
Counting bovine jumping over stars
On their way
Leapfrogging
Child’s play really
All this talk of one who cannot talk

Or even speak to what he sees
Or is it she
Would tear a soul right in two
With words
The beauty and the beast
Of life right here
On planet Earth

Dreams are held
And he won’t tell
The prayers deposited in secret
Under his bright light

The celestial secret keeper
Holds them tight
And let’s us talk of
Wild imagined things
And dream of childish delight

All under a holy holy holy
Radiant
Moon-beamed light

Quiet yourself for a night, or two
And listen, if you dare
To what hush-toned radiant moonspeak
He’ll whisper in the pitch of night
When the moon talks back to you

Blue Moon HMM

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Joining Laura at Laura Boggess dot com

Hyperbolic Love

Hyperbolic Love

If I stretch the chambers of my heart
As fingers of a child do
At play
I do
With silly putty
It is work
Laboring in love,
We wrap blood and muscle
Round and round
Till death
If I part the seas of raging water
Between us
And calm them
With a tender word
No man nor woman
Indeed no one at all
May put  asunder our fragile love
That which is joined by God
Mark, Matthew, and
The Methodist priest
Proclaim
I stretch the proclamation
In sacred acts of faith
Embrace
A holy mystery
For I have been
The rusty gate
And I have
Been a wrecking ball
Into the wall
Of his beating heart
And yet
The Patient
One
And I would
Call it no small feat
Though war analogies are old and tired
Cliches of power, yawn sigh yawn
Show strength ad infinitum
And so
We must claim a form of victory
In this joining of two souls
And with all of Webster’s
From which
To choose
A word or two
There is no stretching
Of this truth
That what we have is
Hyperbolic love
Running on the holy fumes
And thus far
No asundering looms
On love’s
Next
Quarter century mark
Stretched
By grace
All four chambers filled
With what sweetly smacks
Of
Miracle,
Mystery,
A wholly, holy
Regenerated life in love
And if you were to ask
By two hearts stretched by hyper-extended grace.

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Joining Laura