Please Pass The Words

Welcome to Day 7 in the #write31days series, Postcards From Me.

I am celebrating your presence here. It is a gift. Words without eyes and ears to ingest them can get a little lonely. You know. Crickets. Quiet. Pin drop quiet.

To read the series in its entirety click here




Please Pass The Words

There, beside the heap of hot comfort, mashed potatoes
Steam rising up, like Old Faithful
Butter running down, like sweat off the brow

There, beside the pickled beets
Garnet red bleeding wild and running free around
The cracked blue willow plate

Please pass the words
Excavate them from the deepest parts of you
Chisel, unearth them with a horsehair brush

Brush them gently as an archeologist would
Handle them with loving care
A mix of lover and scientist

Cup them in your hands
Clothed in moleskin gloves
Breathe the word fragile, over them again

There, resting beside a decade ago and
Many decades before that, hiding still
Please pass the words, they’re getting cold



Join me won’t you as I journey through the challenge of writing 31 days in October. I am joining over 1000 bloggers at The Nester’s writing home. Come and read along.



In Just A Moment


Thank you for joining me.You breathe life into this space and into this series. Your presence here is a tremendous gift.
Today is Day 4. To catch up and read the series in its enirety, click here or click the tab at the top of this home page marked #write31days2014-Postcards From Me, elizabeth w. marshall


In Just A Moment

The earth will tilt and lean
Press her face against the foggy
Look at us
As we at her
We play a game of stare
Poker faced, straining
To not  look away and miss
The micro moments
She presents

What if every moment
That we see
Capture with our glassy pupiled lens
Was meant to savor
Fragrant earthen soil
And well-lit canvases
She lends

To gather up the
Remember when’s
In just a moment

She will tilt again
On her race around the galaxy

Each moment that she gives to me
In fractured minutes as I blink
To tuck into my memory folds
Filled with all the grainy, dull and fading
Remember whens
I will still say

I remember when
The sun rained down on the precipice of stone-grey rocks
And magnified by a gurgling
Rushing mountain stream
That perfect October day
Destined to meet
The beauty of the earth and I
For I was there
With a front row seat

And in just a moment

We were gone
Fragile is life’s middle name





Joining Sandra Heska King for Still Saturday

Memory Is A Lady


Memory Is A Lady

She is a traitor
Rub the slender bottled neck
With the waist of a teenage girl
And pray she pops out like a genie
Powerful, potent, able to grant wishes
Instant and endless
In three’s

She is a hoarder
Holding on haughty and hard
To the ones you try desperately to find, to grasp
Was it one kiss or two
Nine months or three
Stingy and stubborn, relentless is she
White-knuckling scraps of time
Scenes from the movie reel of you
And of me
At her mercy
Mercifully begging for more
But she hoards

She is a temptress
Releasing parts, never wholes
Holding on greedily to finite detail
Showing fuzzy black and white reruns
When you crave HD, 3-D
Accurate truth
Memories whole, not halved
It is your life and you
Demand it back
From the shallow grave
Buried and hidden
Hungry you cry out
Longing for more

But she is protector and guard she must.

She is creative, witty and wise
She shades the blue teal that you thought grey
You swore it was azure, she insists it was slate
Erases and deletes
That year in New York you were swallowed up
In pain, by fear
Give her permission
She has taken it
She decides what to include
And what to completely
Leave out
Then out of the blue
She shows you a scene
A day in the life
You’d dropped like a dime on the street

The timing is perfect
Like a fig picked from the tree
Ready to  savor with honey
And goat cheese
Like loaves and fishes are multiplied
So does she
Find the best days and parts
To amplify, embellish and increase
And release
Memory of you
And of me

She is a lady holding the keys
To the life, the story, the telling again and again

The story of me
Not exact, not perfectly remembered
But just
As she has determined
It should be
She is a lady
Gentle and kind
Not cruel

I must tell myself
Again and again
Lost in my own
And dim


Joining Laura and Michelle

Tattooed By Grace

hat on the boatTatooed By Grace

All fades
Sun drenched  life reduces Technicolor to sepia
Brown is beautiful
A memory lingering
Is a memory
No tattoos in my mind mark my mind
But ask me to recall
And I will
What is there
What my senses bear
And remember
We are saved, sometimes
By the faint and faded
Waxing and waning
White ink tattoos
Branded, blazed
Dimmed by pain
Flood with memory
Rest, then leap
Dormant, changed
Ingress and egress of tidal
Pools, float, then swell
Framed motion, still life, and movie reels
Shift the pace of going back
And forth
When we can
Peel back the skin, reveal
A healed
Hold the remembering
Not before

A life
By grace.


Joining Tweetspeak Poetry for their poetry prompt this month “Tattoos”.

And inspired in part by writer friend Sarah Markley at Sarah Markley dot com, her words and heart in today’s post “Hope and Grace”. Thank you Sarah, your words are always a gift. And today’s so very very lovely.