The Winter Of A Potential Malcontent

wpid-20140212_145037.jpgFor a long and frozen moment
Moments of dark and cold fall over us
Weapons of malcontent
I might have known
War zone trauma
Traumatized by Pax
So close to peace, its wretched name
Trees break, grunt, moan
Fall from the sky, war wounded
Like bombs extinguishing
Life from the day
Exploding
Last week’s tulips bow in mourning
My shoulders
Rise to my ears in fear
A mortar of pine and oak, ice and pine
Will land on this
World of mine
Repetition of a death march
Battle weary are we

The talking head said
To fight cabin fever
Stay hydrated, move,
Stimulate your mind
All creativity is drying up
Going up in smoke with the fire
That is now our world, hovering round
The hearth of the home
2014 reeks of 1814

No power no water
No light
Disconnection sets in
Dirty and cold

The piano, frozen
As am I
Spoiled by Pandora and Spotify
Times like this we wish
We could remember to play
Ebony and ivory

The winter will not be a victor
I refuse to bow down and give in
Lonely and cold
Dark and restlessness
Quiet and routine bully my soul
My white flag, were I to raise it
Would not be seen

We are adrift in a sea of white
And grays color the soul

Though I know Spring, like the tide will rise
And the sun will burn
Ice will melt
And yes
We will dance and feast, warm our souls
On the heat of the earth
The tyranny of the urgent is ruling the day
Heavy handed and cruel
I will not lie down in defeat

For these are the days
The right here times
When the battle is on
And in full swing
I armor up with
Flashlight in hand
And the words
Always
Words will shift the balance of power
Ravenous and hungry
I devour her words.

At first I sat with “Booked”
In my hands
Propped in the threshold of the front door
Squeezing the light out of the day
As the earth stood nearly still
When an early visitor came to call
Nightfall
And darkness
And I like a child rolled up in a ball
Fought hard against tears
Formed from the  words
As they lept from the page

I battle-scarred

Seeking solace
I remain
Held captive, nearly numb
Frozen in place

Now thawed by Prior
And her words
Held
In a warm embrace
Safe from Pax, seeking
Peace
Inside the pages

Of “Booked”

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Sunday Poetry – Through My Lens In Prose

If you are here every now and then, or have ever visited my space  here, or perhaps read my page with a bio. Back  when I had a page with a bio, and not an underconstruction about the writer or  author page, well you’d know the ratio of poetry to prose. ( I have an aversion to bios and struggle to write them.)

For a longish while the ratio has been heavy on  poetry.

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But I find that I  am moving into a period of prose.

Did you leave? Or did you return? I find that humor helps calm the beating heart. And  helps to hold back the flood of tears. Because I come writing today with an overflowing heart. One filled with raw emotion. Maybe even writing about poetry makes me feel vulnerable and exposed. That is different, right, from writing poetry. Right?

Sundays always seem filled with poetry. Maybe it is there Monday through Saturday but the eyes can’t see. Or maybe the holiness of Sunday causes the soul to feel ever single poetic thing. Maybe Sunday created by Creator God to be an eyes wide open to beauty day.

I just know that  yesterday there was an abundance in every turn and fold, step and dash. And I think hard these days of why poetry. For me. In my life. Why is there a passion in me to write it and find it. To unearth it and not miss it. To seek it out and name all that seems poetic in my days.

Because there are those days I truly wonder why. Wrestle hard. Question long. Think deep. And they are more frequent, raising  their heads and shining light, looking for an answer.My wandering and weird journey to poetry continues in tandem with a questioning spirit. Why  do I  feel fire in my belly to write it and explore the poetry of everything. It would be rhetorical to ask, so for now I am living into the call to write and earnestly hope that my art blesses.

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There was poetry for the uncovering everywhere in my yesterday. And while some I captured with my camera lens, some I simply cupped my hands and caught there in the moment, drinking from the vessel of the day. When I see how alive poetry causes me to be, I question less the draw to it. For if God unveiled poetry as a gift for my receiving, then I say thank you, truly and turn it back, release it out and beyond myself.

I can question and create in the same breath. He makes room for both. This is the Grace shown to the artist. And in the revealing of each small beautiful poetic offering in my days, I feel more like one who is undeserving. So much beauty and nuance. Lilting and singing. Swaying and flowing. Wooing and whispering. Calling to come see. To taste. And savor.

In life’s poetry.

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Each verse of scripture read by our Vicar carried me off and out of church on the wings of words. Yesterday. Lost in the lines of the living Word.

Browns and creams, smoothed by years of refining salt and sand, held my gaze for minutes and more. And I simply was stuck in a beauty pause carried in from the sea. Gifts my husband brought home. Porcelain-like. Perfect. Deposits from wave on wave of glory. Now sitting in my home. A reminder of love and beauty.

At dusk, the dolphin danced on the calm waters of Jeremy Creek and I was there in the moment. Because I answered the whisper to go stand by the water at the just right time.  Dipping up, breaking the water, his stage. And I on the banks alone. Breathing in poetry.

I rested my head on my husbands shoulder, smelling the salt the aroma of him whom I love. And  lost my breath. He had captured with his own lens, the swan preening, like a marble sculpture, frozen in time. And the mink stuck in the crab trap. But oh the story of its release told in his soothing voice. And the Oyster Catcher. The oysters and the sea.

And as I tell, I tell myself. It is a gift.

This life. This poetry.

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On Mondays I love to join my friend Laura Boggess. I am there today with other writers. Come visit?

Sepia Tones

wpid-20140124_113159.jpgSepia Tones

Living slow, writing fast

It was more of a feast than a fast
Living slow, slowly living, lead to writing
Fast
The comma and correct grammar mean everything,
Change the meaning in a New York minute
But this is poetry
I digress
Then go came along

A distant cousin to wait
And then the cold
Which was more like an artic covering

Margins grew wider
Yet like the moon
Poetry waxed and waned

And then in the slow fade
Of the day
Words fueled more words
Infusion of encouragement
Stoked the flame
More hat tips
And head nods
A symphonic explosion
Of pure unadulterated
Grace

And surprises
Peek-a-booed into her soul
And in the shadows she
Began to see

A poem
Neither slow nor fast
But traveling just right

And in the sepia tones
She found inspiration
Dancing in the shadows of the roman shade
Of  light
That whispered stop and stare
There is poetry in the window
There
Framed
There are lines that
Need a home

And the muse he whispered:
You will find a
Poem shivering, cold
And waiting there
Penned like hieroglyphics
Piercing through
By light of day
Blanketed by quiet
Wintry air

A poem raises
Up her golden brown
And faded head
In tones of sepia
Freshly inked
Nuanced meanings
There

Living slow, writing fast.

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Responding to the poetry prompt, sort of, from the creative folks at Tweetspeak Poetry “How To Read Poetry” #howtoreadapoem in celebration of the release of Tania Runyan’s latest book “How To Read A Poem”

Remembering Pink Among The January Blues

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Remembering Pink Among The January Blues

Cold crawls down my throat
And freezes deep
Among two winter-laced lungs
Hope frozen but for
A moment
Thawed by the chambers
Of a rapid beating
Heart, pumping, forcing
Red, shaded crimson
Rises to my cheeks
And to my nose
And colors
Pink the tip

And I
I purse my lip
Just like the winter
Bloom

And I am
Slowly
Thawed, outside and in
By warm remembering

Of faded valentines
Bows
Posted on the mailbox
Declaring that a daughter has been
Born
Of salmon rushing up stream
Against all odds
And flannel p.j.’s worn
In college
Days of shades of
Pink

And every year she comes
When hope is all but lost
She pushes through the cold
And frost
And hangs a hundred blooms
Whispering that Spring
Will come, it always does

And thaws the coldest soul
Stuck in the middle of
A million signs of
January
And her deepest
Shades of blues
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