Healing


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Healing

Bend into the silence
Let it
Tell you much

Guard your heart
From bitterness 
While you journey
Into
A quiet, sacred place

Just as 
Blind men read
The world in
Bumpy Risen Braille
Cup your hand
Against your ears
Bend into peace
Again

Welcome each
Soft syllable
Let it sing
And heal

Inside the inner
Chambers
Quieting the fear

Gentleness
Speaks to you
In a holy hush
Peace
Amid the 
News
Noise wrapped around
The spinning world

Quite
Deafening

With
Tenderness
It appears
Cloaked in gentleness
Precision in each move

Now
Lift the bumpy, broken language
From a 3-D page
Read it through a
Grace-filled lens
Come heal our 
Brokenness

Awash in crimson stained
Mercy
Robed in
Hope 
As you slowly
Turn the page

Now
Listen
To
The quiet, what it  has to say
The poet
Introvert
The timid one
Afraid to add
Another voice 
To join
The
Popular debates

Lean in close
While
Silence adds a
Voice
Somehow, in some
Cryptic
And poetic way
Remain 
Hushed
To hear
No,
Really listen

Listen to the whispers
Decode unspoken words
That never make it
From their frightened
Lips

The words, the cries
Stuck
immobilzed

A blend of sadness
&
Pure joy 
Her world within a hurting world
Lies in
Layered silence
Buried in the dark

As ruins in Pompeii

Archivist
Unburies and unearths
Beauty from the ash

Cries
Whispered
Asking for
Sweet
Release
Remind us of the joy
Recall for us the beauty

Hidden in the ash

Weak, wounded
The message will break through

Listen to the silent ones
The meek
The mild
The child-like
The songstress, artist
Friend

Bend into the silence
Oh, learn from it 
Again

Silent night
Holy night
All was calm
All was bright
And will be once again

Silence bears
Breathes anew
Silence redeems
Have mercy
Teach us to do the same

Healing 
Come
Healing
Calm

Healing ride on sacred wings 
Born in humble beds of hay
And on a silent night
Oh
Healing come again

With Laura today at Playdates at The Wellspring

Catching Up With Gratitude and Thanksgiving

So there is a place. This space, a canvas, a carved out place. Where there is a gathering of souls. My blog. A gift.  And things have been quieter, a little quieter, recently. Here.

And sometimes when I write in this place it feels like prayer, or speaking to an empty room, or a  crowd of no one, or a gathering of kindreds. Very often it feels like releasing words on wings not knowing where they will fly. But God knows. He always has and He always will. Good and gracious.  Everlasting to everlasting. Eternally. World without end.

So this feels like an accounting and a catching up. And in this season of Gratitude and Giving Thanks, I am called and lead to do both. This week that is ending, is the week before Thanksgiving Week, though I want to live in a place of Thanksgiving  always. And everyday.

And so in a spirit of Gratitude and Thanksgiving I say thank you. For reading my art, my offerings, my poetry, my prose. Thank you for hearing and seeing the words that fly from this place.

You may want to know that for the last 12 weeks I have been working, though it has felt more like playing some days,  in a workshop entitled “The Writing Life” offered by Tweetspeak Poetry. So for 12 weeks much of my writing has been in the form of writing assignments. Some of it will appear here. It has kept me busy, away from here more than usual. But I hope that you will see a new passion in my writing, new focus perhaps, or just more of the same with a little more prose.

You heard more prose, yes you did.

Poetry is driving my writing. It will influence my prose. But I am pushing myself into other genres. Or flinging open doors, taking my metaphors, my lyricism and compression, an economy of words, into my prose.

And I have been scheming and dreaming about my art and where it might go. And how it might look. And what changes I may make and what projects I may undertake. I have some projects up my sleeve. You will likely be some of the first to know. They really just involve more writing. Which is what this place is about.

In addition to being grateful for you, I realize I have been enormously blessed to have had my work appear at Burnside Writer’s Collective. I have a poem running this weekend. I believe it is my fourth there. But who is counting. When it is up I will link to it.

And I have a by-line/bio appearing under the tab “Meet Our Team” at Tweetspeak Poetry. This has been a wonderful community for me. A place where I have developed friendships, learned about the craft of writing and had some of my work published on-line. I am submitting a new piece soon. I may have the privilege of having it appear there. I will share it when it runs over there.

So thank you for reading and commenting. For encouraging me and supporting my art.

I have added some new tabs to my blog header and have made a few changes. Did you notice? I am still working on all of it. So thanks for grace and patience.

I hope it is a peaceful place, a quiet place. And a rich and soulful place to come.

Gratefully and thankfully yours,

Elizabeth

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Quiet Is The New Loud

Quiet is the new loud, a reconstitution
of noise, watered down background
Sound, sounds hushed
like peace
and quiet. If it were a color it would be
White
Noise is the new normal.
Transformation is everywhere.
Orange is black.
And simple is complicated.
And renaming is everywhere.
Just calling is so doesn’t make it
but somehow quiet seems to want
to take over and rule me.
And I concede, give up the reigns
Loose the bit and bridle
As let it take control, run away with me.

Because quiet is queen.
And she wears a crown of humility.
A simple garment.
And whispers all I need to hear.

For if I thought I had much or any
Control,
I, thankfully, do not.

Everything I have ever needed to hear,
I have heard in the quiet,
still, small voice,
of a whisperer.
The new reigning queen
Of a quiet and peaceful world.

Hush, you might hear her pin drop,
Her scepter
Light as a feather
makes
no sound.

And quietly she takes her place
Upon a humble
Muted throne.

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Without The Music

Without The Music

Without music
Quiet has no notes to wake her up
From muffled morning’s sleepy headed slumber.
So, instead
She hangs her winsome head,
languishing in her lonely bed.
Hoping that a harp will play, or
maybe a cello will save the day.
Praying a piano quite possibly might
saunter  in,
Or trumpets wake the dead
Say arise, awake
With blasts of wind
instruments, drums and snare,
Replacing thick and quiet air
Violins or soothing flute
The horns will shout forth
an exclamation point.

Breaking the blistering silence of her mind
Hoping a happy stanza
peppered with piccolo will fill the air
But instead the quiet
Lingers, hanging void
The music hidden, lost,
Is nowhere.

Life without a song

Sounds like life
Without a pulse
dull
and fallen
Silence fills the air.
Only black and white
All color gone, no song.
The music must play on.
The strings shall sing, the harmony restore
The runs, the rifts, the ivories,
The keys will sing from lips of fingertips
The music.
Melody and symphony, sharps and flats
Notes from low to high, cascading making merry in the dark
Mirroring or changing the mood within the room
Transforming quiet, into music,
Liquid poetry.

Give me a blessed song that wakes my spirit up.

Turns the sad and lonely mood around
Plays hymns of praise
My anthem raise
No longer will I live my days,
Alone in silence lingering long
Without the sounds of  dancing
On clouds of spirit-thought.
Without
The music
Playing in the chambers,
The rooms of my heart.

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Joining Laura at Laura Boggess dot com for her Playdates at The Wellspring.

Hymn of Praise

          Hymn of Praise


How quiet
Some days sound
Life, a  hymn of praise
Down beats
Press the  foot pedal to nearly mute

For those who watch

What do they hear
Do they see with the
Ears of their heart
The world is loud
My praise  faint
Breathing breaths of quiet
Praise
Whispered murmurings
From the orchestra pit
Is it music to
Him
The Holy one
Giver of lips from which should flow
I am a piccolo
I am a back row percussionist
Triangle, with one winsome note
To play
My life
A hymn of praise, muted
Some days
Feet don’t fail me now
You should be shaking, rattling,  doing the jitter bug, twist and shout
Rattle them dry bones a little bit louder now
And singing your living more loudly
Quiet
You can hear a pin drop
And no one can hear
Your muffled living.
Please forgive me
Love is buried in the quiet
Living
If  praise falls in the quiet
And no one hears
The hymn
Was it a hymn at all
Volume is overrated
Whispers
The poet