Winter White

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Winter White

It came as if
on cue.
It came as if the Earth called out in weary whispers, pored out its solution for a deep soul cleanse.
Ambushed by icicles, pelted by flurries.
Like the red button on an Etch-A-Sketch, the sky turned shades of gray on grey, opened wide, released its powdered flakes—quieting what was loud—blanketing what was gauche with fresh-start fairy dust.

The Earth, turns the dial  and quiets the world anew.

Frigid gift wrapped in void of color monochrome.
White.

Why would it not. How could it not.

Wise is the One who blankets us.
Quiets us and calms us.

We rest under its inconvenience.
Wait for the weight of worry to lift.
That we may lose our power. That we may be muffled by just a few inches of flakes.

Rest for the weary comes in the quiet, white, cold.
How inconvenient to be loved like this.

 

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Inspired By Feathers, Fur and Friends

I find it a bit ironic that it is National Poetry Month 2015 and these dry bones are not giving up much poetry. Or prose or words of any genre. Nice timing, right? That it is Springtime and nearly everything around me here in the South is green or pink or fuschia and lime. New birth, earthy moist and hopeful surrounds me. Lifts my spirits high and yet paradoxically seems to mock my writing life. It is not in sync with the world. My words sit at the bottom of a dry well.

As a writer, inspiration can come from the seemingly strangest of places. Truly. This is a bit confessional and a lot inspirational for others who find themselves in a dry place creatively.

So yes, I have been tending to six baby chickens. Loving them, naming them and studying them. Trying to figure out all their hunting and pecking strategies or randomness and simply why they do what they do. It is like a mini Anthropology course but not so much because they are, duh, chickens. And so this won’t be the longest introduction ever to a poetry blog post, I will move on. Move forward with this poetry segway. Or segway into a poem which breaks the silence.

I just hung up from Voxering a bit ago with my friend in London, Shelly Miller. I whined about, slash confessed, my lack of writing inspiration. Is Voxering a verb? And then I promptly promised someone in Europe that I would make myself write today.

Make myself? What?

What happened to passion and for the love of the craft and “I can’t not write?” Shelly and I lamented and then if that wasn’t enough I Voxered my friend Sandra Heska King in Michigan to whine some more. Some days require bicontinental consolation.

And after all the whining I realized all the inspiration I needed for today was found in studying my chickens hunting and pecking and scratching. They work with what they have. If they can do it I can too. And gazing at my old yellow lab who may live another week if we are lucky. She wanders around in search of joy. I believe I’ve got this.

If my old girl can find joy in her slow and lethargic wanderings. Well, this writer can too.

And my friends, who are writers and artists, whispering just the write things at just the right time into my life as a creative. That feeds my soul.

I am grateful for the fur, the feathers and the friends. And for how they fuel my passion for writing. Light a match to the fading embers. Move me from thinking of writing, to actually writing again.

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That Poem

Elusive, it refused to be tied down
Like a thought bubble in a Dennis The Menace cartoon
It floated
Adrift
Like an apparition in search of a place to lay down and rest
Or die

The knock comes
Disregarding the “do not disturb” sign rocking back and forth on the brass knob
You mouth “go away”
White lies are for times like these
I am out of paper comes to mind
And the computer is on the blink
The cartridge in your favorite pen is low

The problem with come back another time
Is that though the poem is thick skinned
It will not
Come back

It will check in, unwritten, into the retirement home with no waiting list
And go the way of the unwritten words
Feet up, watching Jeopardy

And the poet who barred the door shut?
She’s
Still wondering where childhood and all the lost poems went
And how to repentantly ask her poems for forgiveness
For ever training them to play that game
Of cat and mouse

For in the end
The rat takes the cheese
The sign comes off the door
A win, win
For that poet and
That poem

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Joining Tweetspeak Poetry using a one line prompt from today’s Everyday Poetry poem “Where Childhood Went’ by Kim Addonizio.

Through The Screen Door: A Poetic Parable

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Through The Screen Door

She sat
Legs crossed
Hopes dashed
World tumbling, hunched over peering into the pool of liquid salt
Bruised a bit by the news
Uncrossed her legs
Stood and rose
Rose and walked
No it was more of a march
One step into the dark and she began to dash
No sprint
Her ambivalent speed
Mirrored her ambivalent hope
But the screen, ripped and torn, worked as a sieve
And the more she pressed her nose into the ragged and rough, pressed not into glass but mesh
The clearer she saw the what was to be seen
Past the fog
Into
Revealed truth
The veil of truth through the rough and ragged rust. No Windex could wipe the dirt and bring a shine. Not with the screen.
No cleansing or scrubbing or grit and might. Power and grease from the elbow of her hand could wipe it till it squeaks a perfectly polished squeak.

So she resolved to see through the filter of filth and pain. Past the crosshairs of the wire that warped the view.
And so it was.
She befriended the screen. And grew to love the protection it brought. The shield it was in its role as screen. And she loved the screen and the view from its other side.
No longer did she long for the polish and pristine lens of a clear view through glass.
She saw the door made of screen as a portal of hope.
Hope lead to hope on hope.
And that lead her to see the cross in her hunched and leaning stance
As the cross of hope, seated at the threshold of Mercy.
New.
And she loved the screen and her view from right here. And she put to rest her longing for more.
And grew to love her view through the ragged screen door.

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Beauty, In The End

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Beauty, In The End

Bold proclamations do not come easily to me
A tentativeness attends my tongue

Couched in qualifiers are my words
Shy with if’s and but’s

Strength and power are on the rise
And I can bravely say
Though whispering only, truly, to my God
In prayer

My eyes are set on beauty
Bent in the folds of deep despair and pain
Rising up from ash and cold
Bubbling up like Veuve Clicquot
Dancing in a narrow flute

Beauty, grace-laced beauty
Will find us in the end
Set my eyes on its horizon
Find me always searching there
For

Love, so beautiful through my lense
Lend me Your eyes
So tender, holy and Divine
Rain down your love and shower us
Drench us
With
All that is beautiful

In the end

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