(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)
Under The Oaks
I spot threes
Write sounds in threes
See the world in
Focus a lens on multiples
So fitting, that on a street named Venning
The street with three n’s
There are three souls, new
Three new friends have I
I spy beauty
Grace and elegance
I could have come and gone
Perish the thought
I’d never known the life behind the smiles
Life lines on their faces
New one on the street with the winding sounds
Learning of life
I make my way
Up and down the tree lined street
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
To the three
Ladies of well-lived
Lives, it appears
From where I sit and stare
And wait to earn a place
Among the three
Who barely know me
And yet, have shown
So I study the lines
My eyes trace their living
Laugh lines, crows feet
Fragile lines around the eyes
Of these three
Under the oaks
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.
(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.)