The Second Act – A Guest Post: John Blase

I have invited some folks –  poets, brothers, sisters, word-weaver friends – to come here with their unique lens. Their spun- like-gold words. To visit with their art. To gather as a loose band of poets to make some music.

Today it is my honor to begin this little project with poet John Blase. I’ve marveled at his poetry for a good long while. If you aren’t familiar with John’s artful ponderings, then discover his poetry and savor his words.

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The Second Act

there were no crimes and blunders,
in his youth to finally catch up with him
because he’d lived his young years clean –
straight and narrow as an arrow.

but nobody remembers the nice guys
except God, and maybe their mothers.

so he altered mid-course and began to
decidedly miss the marks, nothing heroic,
just still small choices to daily transgress.

at first he was wobblier than a shepherd
in king’s armor but he kept at it, in time
becoming quite good at being human.

at the end the minister sighed He lost his way,
but still he’s hemmed safe in mercy’s cuff.

many from his later years came bearing
forgiveness laced sweet with affection.
a few nice allies from early on arrived
envious having followed his wayward star.

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About John – John Blase preached for over a decade but then he thought he’d go where the money is, so he started writing poetry. He’s a lucky man with a stunning wife and three kids who look like their mother. They all live in Colorado. His books include Know When To Hold ‘Em: The High Stakes Game of Fatherhood; Touching Wonder: Recapturing the Awe of Christmas; and All Is Grace: A Ragamuffin Memoir  (co-written with Brennan Manning). He ponders faithfully at www.thebeautifuldue.wordpress.com

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Joining my good friend Laura Boggess today at her lovely writing home.

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For All The Brenda’s: A Letter of Encouragement and Gratitude

Follow along for the month of November as I express my gratitude in the form of “the poetry of letter writing.” I will never say all my thank you’s in just a few short weeks. I won’t even come close to honoring everyone that inspires me with their gracious spirit, deep well of kindness, or ability to bless me and others with the overflow of their heart.

But I can start. So this is just  a way to begin

One poem of gratitude, one thank you note at a time. (Thank you, as always for reading and journeying with me).

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Dear Brenda,

In an effort to be more of who I am, I want to be more like you.
It is a paradox that I am chipping away at daily.
Not the part about being like you. But of focusing on simple acts.
Engaging in the simple act of singlemindedness.
(I think I was made to focus on small things)
I think grand and great are left for others.
This is a revelation. With a small r.
But that would be presumptuous of me.
I do not imply that your work  (did you know I call it the “fluff and fold”) is not a big thing
Did you know, I long to love like you. Love simply and gently with your service and your smile.
I walk in hungry for kindness (don’t we all). And you give, so generously.
You take my soiled clothes in your hands, dutifully. Every. Single. Time.
I give you dirt and you you give me joy.
I give you a job and you give me your best.
I leave and you remain. You spend hours serving among the spinning machines.
Watching dirt wash away. Witness to transformation. Giving the world cleanliness and fresh starts.
You are throughly immersed in your work, thoughtful and diligent.
I want to write and love and live and serve with the devotion you give, to the laundromat.
The world needs more Brenda’s.
Secretly I know that you carry your private world around with you, concern for those you love, as you feed the coins into the machines.
But the grace and gentleness are all I see. You are all business. No hints of your personal life.
Oh lovely Brenda. Knowing you is a gift.
Until we meet again at the Fluff and Fold
with love and admiration,

e

thank you peach

Joining Laura today. She makes Monday’s so extra lovely

The Dream Of The Waiting Soil: A Guest Post — Laura Boggess

Today is Day 30. Welcome. I am NOT ready for this series to end. Perhaps you are. Just as I’m getting into the groove it is time to wind down this October writing challenge. I am just being honest. I think that is important. Don’t you. 

Please join me tomorrow for what will be the last day of this series. I am still scheming and dreaming of how to say goodbye. Or how to pull the curtain. Or how to build a bridge to November. if you’d like to receive posts in your inbox (they slip in quietly without much fuss), click on the tab marked Subscriber at the top of the page. But of course, you already knew that.

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I am so honored to have my writer, blogger, friend, Laura Boggess guest posting today. Laura was one of the first bloggers I connected with when I began my writing journey in the land of the “interwebs”. And she was one of the first bloggers I had the sincere pleasure of meeting in real life. Yes I have looked directly into her beautiful blue eyes, into her soul. And she is a treasure. A gifted word weaver and a very gentle lady.
Enjoy Laura here. And then treat yourself to a copy of her new book, “Playdates With God”.

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I spend the mornings in the flowers–cutting back, pulling up, raking out. I’m late this year–the frost already thick on the grass when the sun drops the diamonds of first light. My mother-in-law told me to wait; let the birds glean what they will, she said. And they did. The coneflower is dry as straw, the Black-eyed Susans blink. All the color is gone from the garden. The brittle browns and faded rusts shush me as they rub together in the wind.

I rake leaf remains out from around tubers–their subtle reds and golds like scattered gems. The thick bans of iris greens break easily with fingers. I smooth around their fibrous heads, let them breathe. Already the leaves have started to make rich compost–the soil underneath fragrant and dark. I breathe deep its heady scent, close my eyes and dig fingers in the cool moist.

This afternoon the robins are in a frenzy over my newly cleared soil. I watch from the window as they hastily march back and forth amongst the stubby remains of my garden. It looks so clean. The mulch around the dormant clumps of green holds such promise. I wrap my arms around my sides–hug close this seed that strains against the dark soil of my heart. Yesterday the first snowbirds came calling. You are too early, I said to them, through the glass of the kitchen window. I watched them pick at the ground for stray seeds, rosy beaks and slate feathers speaking the horizon of scant days.

When i was in the seventh grade I wrote an essay about what I want to be when I grow up. Mr. Kovalan, our English teacher, assigned us a theme every week. It was my favorite thing about school. Each week I looked forward to discovering what topic he would put before us. Mr. Kovalan never said much, but his comments on my themes always encouraged me. This is very well written, he might pen. Or: A very good story. There wasn’t much I was good at, but Mr. Kovalan helped me see that telling stories was something I could do. But this one? What did I want to be? A girl like me didn’t have a lot of choices. A girl like me rarely left the hollow. I thought long and hard about it.

When Mr. Kovalan graded my essay, he left me with few words.

Your choice surprises me.

That was all he said. That dear, dear man.

It was the first time I thought that maybe I could be more. That maybe…maybe there was more than what I know.

When I was in seventh grade I learned to dream the dream of the waiting soil.

I am a sleeping garden. I dream of shoots of green breaking through earth with pointed fingers. A glimpse of sky rests on my memory–white on blue with golden hues. in darkness the dream speaks hope into the night.
In the darkness the garden becomes a thing of expectation–of sleeping joy.

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Author of the newly-released Playdates with God: Having a Childlike Faith in a Grown-up World, Laura Boggess lives in a little valley in West Virginia with her husband and two sons. She is a content editor for TheHighCalling.org  and blogs at lauraboggess.com. Connect with Laura on Facebook and Twitter. Laura’s book is available on Amazon.

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Perfectly Imperfect

 Today is Day 20.

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Thank you for joining me. You gift me with your presence. And I am grateful. 
To catch up on all the posts in this series, click the link at the top of this home page marked #write31days2014.
To receive posts in your inbox when they are, well posted, click “Subscribe” and follow the super easy instructions.

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I am determined to throw my gaze past the smudges marring the windshield, as we fly at the breakneck speed of sixty miles per hour ish down the highway. On the way to a sixtieth birthday party for a precious redheaded friend. I cannot take my eyes off the sky. I am under the spell of beauty.

Thankfully I am not driving. He can’t take his eyes off the road. I snap, click, snap, click. And darn it. The sky and the phone pic look nothing alike. He sees the dirt overtaking the glass shield, spread like a bad case of poison ivy. I see a sorbet sky on a Sunday. Signature, signed by The Sky Writer, Creator, Artist, God.  I like the view from here. I will not win any awards with my framed beauty, but the sky won me over and I am captured by color and brushstroke. Swirl and twirl. Color combinations and the use of light.

The sky is the Louvre. And I am a patron on the arts.

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We study the floor in the kitchen. Together. My friend and I. Lovers of beauty and the restoration of old. We critique the work that was done and the decisions that were made in the loving renewal and renovation of this 114 year old home.

“I don’t like things too shiny.”

Neither do I, my friend. Neither do I. I crave, patina and rust. Chips, dings and worn and torn. Signs of love and life and age. Shiny. Ok, a little goes a long way. Rough hewn and battle weary. Comfort and soothe.

Perfectly imperfect and I are falling in love all over again.

I look past the messy residue of a well-loved windshield. He keeps his eyes on the road. But I could have sworn he saw the unveiling of the beauty before us, stretched out, paint still wet, on Highway 17. That night we went to celebrate.

The celebration happens on the way. Everything happens along the way.

An imperfect sky does not exist. Embrace imperfect and find the beauty in the broken. With me, won’t you.

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Joining Laura for Playdates (Oh and you should totally check out her new book on Amazon: Playdates with God, by Laura Boggess)

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