Tag: poetry

The Poetic, Day 4 (Part 1)

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 9 Comments

Its a challenge,

issued from me to me

let’s not see what Webster says,

we dare not look to a boxed, canned definition of this of all things, though many do and that’s fine too,

it is the first cousin of freedom,

that’s enough for now,

no,

we’ll open the window to the soul and listen for how the heart defines it, what it says

 how it shapes,

with blood, and those pulsing veins, with bone and marrow tacked on too

and flesh, the skin, the cover

the words, they walk out like happy preschool

little ones at recess filled with  pregnant wonder of  running free

oh how they will run when the heavy school door opens and out they go.

the words, they wait on you,

come play, and bring your finest whimsy with you,

come dance, bring your dancing shoes,

we will breathe and I will wait

I will wait  and we will  pause

period

And understanding, heart and mind

and art , they will collide

down the playground slide

one atop another

into a heap of joy- squeeling, happy, word joy

they land, so soft.

And at the bottom

they are there

the words.

pick them up, dust them off,

and glean the poetic from the pile,

of words.

And if you find the thrill too short, that slide it always is

then get in line,

and down you go,

flailing, joy-filled down you go,

its at that bottom that you breathe,

and take a lingering look back up

at how you held your breath, and fully llived

whizzed right down

the short,

exhilaration

that was

the poem.

Thirty One Days – A Series of Words

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 9 Comments

For the next 31 days I will be joining a group of others in a series of thirty one days…..

After pondering about where that would take us and considering how that would shape my writing and this blog, after wrestling gently with ideas, I landed. I landed which means we landed on 31 Days of Wonderful Words.

My heart is beating a little faster and my mind is racing a little quicker and I am churning up on a sleepy Sunday night all of the words we will wrestle to the mat, all the poetry we will read, all the scripture we will soak in, and the art of words we will delight in together.

Here are some thoughts, though there will lots of surprises and spontaneous combustion. And the words will spill out here for 31 days.

Words of encouragement, praise, hope, discovery, faith, love, challenge, redemption, forgiveness, creativity, and the words will swirl and the words will spin and we’ll wrap words around words.

Will you leave a comment if you have a word to add to the mix?

Will you join me on facebook where there will be more words on words.

There will be words of Oswald Chambers, and C.S. Lewis and Mary Oliver and The Word but mostly there will be frail and meager and shakey words. There will be odd poetry and there will be prose with odd punctuation and sentence fragments. Because it will be afterall, mostly my words.

But there will be honest, real, transparent and unmasked words from the inside place, where God speaks and where creativity and art are birthed from His inspired whispers.

Thank you for joining me. I am filled with excitement and ideas, but yours are important….very important so leave me a word about your favorites. Poetry? Prosety? Words of others? A mix and a mingle of lots and lots of words.

You all here… well I am without the words to express what you mean….but I will work on that too.

God Bless,

Elizabeth-Writer
wynnegraceappears

The Stairs

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 18 Comments

I love Amber C. Haines’ writing. And she is inviting us to write with her on a concrete word prompt. Today its stairs. You may recall The Necklace. You will want to go read Amber—she has a truly lovely way with words. Her voice is distinctive and full. You won’t want to miss the words she weaves; art. Pure. Simple. Art. Her words. I write in good company when I write in community with Amber.

You could mark a life
by the number you choose. And by the speed
pace, rate,
like a heart rate.
The rate you take
the sairs.

The child me chose
to ride a bicycle down.
Child me
thought
it sounded
like a good
idea
at the time.

Grown me, well
they never grow
tired of telling
the tale.
It has a life
of its own.

What child rides
a bicycle down
a staircase?

The one who is
child full
of life
and child
full of wonder
wondering what
joy lies
in going down
a different
way. Not the
route
all the others
took.

And two’s and three’s
at a time
mark youth
she skips many
unnecessary steps
tedious boredom
in going a
decidedly predictable
way.
Life has much
to offer.
Why waste time
going up slowly
when you can
run down three-by-three.

The first
time he said I love you
there on a flight
of fancy stairs
frozen there
on them
frozen
by the words
Numb in love
The Patient One
held me
captive
in and on the
stairs.
Caught in a word web
of love.
The bridal portrait
tells a story
hanging from a nail
in the well of the
stairs.
She said I do
He did too.
Months later
bride me
portrait
speaks
to words
said in love on
the stairs
before the three
steps to the altar.
After that
its two by two tandem
taking the
stairs
together
for life.
Taking the stairs
A baby
In tow.
More babies
In tow.

They measure the heart rate.
After all. They mark
they measure
they record.

And after a new hip
Older me practices the
drill
in the stairwell
at the hospital
You can’t go
home until
you can climb the
stairs.
I am 52 with a body part
man made, not God-made.
My first prosthetic.
She climbed with a limp
for awhile.
She climbed
with pain
for a season.
She left her limp
behind.

They measure like a
metronome.
They measure speed and rate
Like rings of a tree, telling
age
They tell the narrative
of the life.

Up, down,
slow
fast
alone
well
sick
whole
scared
hopeful
tired
lonely
in love.

The steps on the steps and the stairs hold secrets to a life, lived ascending and decending,

The stairs.

Measuring marking a life, like breath.

Writing the story with every step taken,
a page turns.

the

stairs.

until she’s climbing a stairway

to
heaven.

the

end.

Counting gifts with Ann. Grateful for

*A crisp cool air in the warm deep South, peeks of a change, her name is Autumn

*A walk and a talk with a friend

*Such sweet new friends through the blog

*Such generous and kind friends through twitter

*Restored faith in social media for the good it can be when used rightly

*More and more a passion for writing and more and more grateful for God allowing me to see, use, and steward the gift

*A glimpse into the hope-filled future for a child and his college plans. God is good in revealing daily, that there is a hope, always. Hope for good things. Trusting Him to show us His plan.

*A long heart to heart with a friend. We sat in the dark at church after the last light had been turned off and dove into parenting with our hearts and our words. Grateful for this friend. Grateful for common ground on parenting daughters.

And linking with Ann today at A Holy Experience dot com.

And with Laura

Bliss, Whimsy, and Wonder(Autumn Is A Lady)

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 11 Comments

When Autumn rolls around in the deep South
Sometimes you get to crack a window.
Sometimes you get to raise it high
At night in the fall, every now and
Again.
Every once in a blue moon, you cut off the air
And breathe in the fresh,
At night
In the South sometimes.
And if you do
And when you do
You enter a Lewis Carroll world of wonder
And whimsy resides in the night and in the dawn.
In the South after summer when the fall rolls around
Like a big sweaty mess she arrives.
But sometimes she sits still
Long enough to cool off and breathe deep
A touch of crisp
Fall air
Blowing in the window raised high
Or even two up to catch the wonder, catch the breeze
Hear the whimsy in the morning
Like Alice.
Wipes the dew off her brow, we don’t sweat, we Southern women
And Autumn is a lady.
Fanning herself in the cool of the evening, sipping tea
And blowing her fresh air through the curtains,
Billowing, white cotton- grandmother’s.
There is a feathered one there at dark early, dark thirty.
He sounds like a feathered stand up, doing his best to sound
Like a bird.
Truth is stranger than fiction.
Truth is its a bird chirping out bird morse code
In the dark, in the wonder, in the whimsy.
Truth is he sounds more like a psalmist
Announcing the new mercy of the morning
In the cool, in the dark, in the deep South.
Truth is he invites by proclamation.
Come wander in wonder and wade in whimsy
And see what new awaits
In the cool in the fall in the South.
He made, He invites, He extends
A walk into new, a journey
with Him
On the trail of the psalmist bird, dropped
Like breadcrumbs, wooing us
To the wonder of it all.
When Autumn rolls around in the deep
In the South
At His command.
And the small feathered ones
Seem to always know first,
As they call us out
Of the sleepy
Place,
And wake us up to wonder.