Pulling Up To The Fuel Docks

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Welcome to Day 28. I have been absent for quite awhile from this series. Guess I have some explaining to do. Or perhaps the break in my writing, the quiet space which appeared in the midst of this challenge, will be revealed within my words. Over time. As Rest pours into the blank spaces and starts to tell her story.

I missed it here. And I actually did not rest much. In fact things got a little frenzied. But all good.

Thank you for being a part of this journey. To read the series in its entirety, click the page tab at the top of this home page. If you wish to receive posts as they are published, it would be my pleasure to have you choose to subscribe. ( I have extra life preservers on board so there are plenty for everyone to come aboard. )

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I have so many words to spill out onto the page here.

So many, in fact,  I am even considering starting another blog. Which is the height of irony given the fact that I can’t seem to “keep up” with a predictable rhythm, a consistent ebb and flow, a regular output of ink from my little inkwell of poetry and prose.

Rest from art while diving into the the living of life is a bit like a refueling. If I were one of the shrimp boats that are docked down at the end of my street, I would consider my short respite as that. A docking. A refueling. A break from rocking around on the high seas. A necessary time of idle in the port of change.

So thank you for staying. For coming again. For dipping into poetry and prose with me. And for coming here with an air of hope and expectancy that the words will be a human connector. That the art may possibly, on a good day, be worthy of your time. That the shared experiences of living and documenting our living help us all see in new ways. Open the window to wonder. Crack the door open anew to beauty. Shine light on the poetry of our lives.

So as I gather my thoughts and refocus on my craft, I guess this is a thank you for not jumping ship. For staying on board and for hanging around. For enjoying the possibility that poetry has to enrich  each one of our lives. For saying yes to looking at life through the lens of another.

That discovering anew the wonder which hides in the folds of life is often the result of looking through the lens of a fellow artist. Sojourner. Traveler.

And if you are wondering. And in case you’d like to ask. I have decided not to lean into the guilt or shame of a missed goal of writing everyday in October.

Because I have grown to trust the rhythms of wait and rest. Of idyll and slow. Of deep breathing and grace.

And of trust. That the best things often come as a by-product of waiting. That beauty is born in the quiet. And that those who stand with you and by you while you bob and weave, teeter and fall, wax and wane, are those who will see the fruit born from the times of want.

Grateful to have you tagging along. Pulling up my nets for the night. And looking for treasures lodged in the hidden places. The mystery. The discovery. The poetry.

Till tomorrow. A brand new day. Day 29, a day of poetry.

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Joining Laura Boggess for #playdates

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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.
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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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From Roots To Fruit

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From Root To Fruit

I do not recall your Genesis
Your deeply rooted symbolism
In this family
No, only that you matter, greatly

Great big
From stem to stern
Every piece of you
From purple bursts of bulbous fruit
To elephant ears in forest green
To your strength
Dug deep
Held tight
An anchor
Buried well below the nutrient-rich surface soil
Your roots
Arms, limbs long and strong and lean
Bent, contorted
We demand you bend and serve

Oh how you nourish us
We wait on you
Ever hungry for what you give
Season in and season out
Counting on you to bear more
Fruit, sea of reds and pinks
Skin of royal plum
You erupt with life-giving
Sweetness, dripping, seeded honey
Tethered between you and us

We long for you to ripen
Faster, faster
Impatience will not
Spur you on

I do not recall your Genesis
Perhaps because I was too young
A child
And you were there
Before my birth
In the beginning

Dreaming of how you would provide
Different, for each one of us

Releasing ripened fruit
Born while hiding

Behind those elephant ears
Big enough to cover the sins of man

We shall never forget
What you mean

A family deeply in love, are we
With you, we adore you

Beautiful Fig Tree

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Joining Laura Boggess for #playdateswithGod

This poem is written for and dedicated to my father on the ocassion of his 77th Birthday. Happy Birthday Daddy.
Thank you for always encouraging me and my poetry.

If You Really Look, You’ll See

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If You Really Look You’ll See

Diamonds mounted on each blade of grass
No gold or platinum
Here
Emerald green
Shoots safely sheltering
Droplets left
Last night or
By the early morning dew

Do you see
Whimsy rained down on the land
Perhaps it’s sips of champagne
Resting on the verdant shoots
Served in earthen flutes
On the lawn
For a thirsty, spotted chipmunk
Parched from
Racing through the rain
To toast the earth’s season change

And if you look you’ll really see
What is invisible
To many
So many rushed and hurried
Souls
Blind
To the garland embellishment
Laid carefully on the old grey stone
Preparing a Fall Party, a grande fete
With mushrooms, toadstools
For each guest
To sit and sip the beauty
Served to those who wish to see

If you look you’ll see
Her
Red carpet’s been
Rolled out
Maple, Oak and Dogwood leaves
Nature’s finest Oriental underfoot
The finest accoutrements for
Each merry guest

A harried pace will make you blind

To diamonds, garlands
And tree roots bent in such a way
To give a weary sojourner
A place to sit and rest

I was blind
But now I see
The field mice sipping Jasmine Tea
From the finest porcelain
Beside the Monarch’s who dropped in
For a festive tea party

And I like Alice
Remain with them

For childlike wonder
Unveils the hidden things
Previously unseen by man