Poetic Revisions Of A Familiar Verse

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Poetic Revisions Of A Familiar Verse

Forgive me
It is perfect as it is
But in this fallen, sinful world
And at the heart of this fallen, sinful girl
And at this broken, busted moment in a
Broken busted world
As
We cry out for a collective
Mercy
And lament
While we suddenly identify more and more
With poor old Job
And snark was never my thing
Really but
Sometimes lamenting
Can take you down that path

There is a season for sadness
Weeping and wailing
Wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth

Burying one’s head in the sand
Has its season too

There is a season for turning from the news
It is all so terribly sad
And one for mowing through
Kleenex by the fistful
And burying one’s head in the pile of pillows
While hiding in four hundred thread count sheets
Poster child for First World Problems
At first glance

Oh but and and and however there is also
A time for new birth and  hope
A time for hummingbirds to dance
And songbirds to sing 
And old gardeners to get out
And scratch in the dirt
Lingering in the sunshine while there is still
A sun to shine

There is a time to sit and breathe and count
The mushrooms sprouting wildly on the hill

A time to notice dark green moss
Reaching out to hold your hand
Their tiny fingers seem to reach and wave
And call you to slow down

There is a time to hold on to what is past
And a time for sweet release 
In love
To let it go, loosely

There is a time to say Im sorry and a time
To say
I meant to say
I am really really sorry
Forgive me for my pride

There is a time to say you silly goose
A time to laugh and play
To sit with piles of children’s book
With a child  at heart
Two women who have long turned grey
Slowly savoring each page

There is a time to scatter grace and a time
To count your gifts

There is a time to grieve and say
Life seems so very fragile
Especially today
Oh most especially today

There is a time to call a friend
And talk for hours upon hours on end

To bite your tongue, to hold that thought
To let it go, to take a bite of every piece of
Spirit fruit, especially long-suffering

There is a time to read old words
Savor them once again
To pull out pictures of the family
And tell the old familiar stories
Re-visit your childhood, yet again

To trust and hope, to extend grace
That’s been said before
A time to dance and to rejoice
To whirl and twirl, make sure your music’s
Turned up very very loud

There is always time for poetry
For poets to play with words
To make up random lines
And there’s always time for prose

There’s time for resignation and a time to
Begin anew
A time for patience and a time for even more patience
And a time for ….
Well you see where I am going with the patience thing
I’m preaching to myself
Not at you

There is a time for humor
For belly laughter and tears
To live as a child again
To look past life’s pain
And old worries, anxieties and fear

Rejoice with me in what is good and holy
Celebrate the beauty risen from the ash

And in the end
Settle in each season
Not wishing it to pass.

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Joining Jennifer Dukes Lee

 

Joining Laura for Playdates

Get Up And Go

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Get Up And Go

The idea of an approaching speed limit sign
For an age
Comes racing at me
In warped speed
I am on the Autobaun
Okay with a few passing me
But not okay with everyone leaving me
A sad sack in the rearview mirror of their
Adrenalin fueled lives
I want to join the human
Race
Bowed before the throne of God
WIth my gifts in tact
As I approach the finish line
Shoot the wad, spend it all

The word latched on to me like a barnacle

I carry it more as a compass than a parasite
This “Go”

Mercy attended my soul
In the pages of Acts where poet
Appears
And I was drenched in  grace
Like an oil change or a tire change
Tune up for the soul
For a road weary poet warrior
The day it leapt off the page at me
Was the day I was bone tired with the heart cry
Brittle and parched
This heart of mine
Restless for poetry
For you it may be serving soup at the soup kitchen
It was the day I wanted to trade with
Anyone
For nobler, grander, meeker, more sacred
Hand me the ladle
Bless my heart I am ready to serve

Gifts are sweeter when they come wrapped
In tissue thin paper
My old blue leather Bible hid it until
The time was right
And I was pathetically
Dazed and confused

So I am back on the poetic highway
No yellow line down the middle
Demarcation of prose from poetry
Tuned up by Holy “what?”
Just for me
Laid the questions to rest
No longer scratching my head
Like a dog his fleas
I hear the poetry in the Psalms
And see it in every hive of bee
And crest of wave
Cracked egg and broken shell
Fog and rain, whoop of crane

These things He designed
Pure poetry

I asked her “why”
And she said “why not”
Why didn’t I think of the better
Surer way to skin that cat
Rip open the package
Tear off the bow

Appears I forgot to say thank you

Don’t march this to the jury box
And make it state it’s case
It is a poem
Not theology
Nor doctrine
It is servant’s cry
And Artist God
Relating
Relationshipping
And lingering in holy love there
Mano-a-mano
Though He made me
Poetess

Lover Of My Soul
And creator of the longing
That goes to the back lit
Mac with the apple carved there
It is the one bite out
That reminds me of sin

And poetess prays
Lead me to the raging waters
That are calmed by the
Words on a page

Or lead me to the quiet streams of words
For Yours
And a heart for you

Go with me in to the wordy wilderness
And grant me Your Peace
And now I am not compelled to word search
Poet
For a number to proclaim
But You know me well and I won’t promise
I won’t

Seek and find every bit of poetry
Laying in the lines
Somewhere between Genesis and Revolution

Ladle in one hand
Pen in the other
If you seek you will find
Me, with poetry

I got up and went
Until I break down again
Ever in need of a Holy Hand
up.

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Sunday Poetry – Through My Lens In Prose

If you are here every now and then, or have ever visited my space  here, or perhaps read my page with a bio. Back  when I had a page with a bio, and not an underconstruction about the writer or  author page, well you’d know the ratio of poetry to prose. ( I have an aversion to bios and struggle to write them.)

For a longish while the ratio has been heavy on  poetry.

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But I find that I  am moving into a period of prose.

Did you leave? Or did you return? I find that humor helps calm the beating heart. And  helps to hold back the flood of tears. Because I come writing today with an overflowing heart. One filled with raw emotion. Maybe even writing about poetry makes me feel vulnerable and exposed. That is different, right, from writing poetry. Right?

Sundays always seem filled with poetry. Maybe it is there Monday through Saturday but the eyes can’t see. Or maybe the holiness of Sunday causes the soul to feel ever single poetic thing. Maybe Sunday created by Creator God to be an eyes wide open to beauty day.

I just know that  yesterday there was an abundance in every turn and fold, step and dash. And I think hard these days of why poetry. For me. In my life. Why is there a passion in me to write it and find it. To unearth it and not miss it. To seek it out and name all that seems poetic in my days.

Because there are those days I truly wonder why. Wrestle hard. Question long. Think deep. And they are more frequent, raising  their heads and shining light, looking for an answer.My wandering and weird journey to poetry continues in tandem with a questioning spirit. Why  do I  feel fire in my belly to write it and explore the poetry of everything. It would be rhetorical to ask, so for now I am living into the call to write and earnestly hope that my art blesses.

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There was poetry for the uncovering everywhere in my yesterday. And while some I captured with my camera lens, some I simply cupped my hands and caught there in the moment, drinking from the vessel of the day. When I see how alive poetry causes me to be, I question less the draw to it. For if God unveiled poetry as a gift for my receiving, then I say thank you, truly and turn it back, release it out and beyond myself.

I can question and create in the same breath. He makes room for both. This is the Grace shown to the artist. And in the revealing of each small beautiful poetic offering in my days, I feel more like one who is undeserving. So much beauty and nuance. Lilting and singing. Swaying and flowing. Wooing and whispering. Calling to come see. To taste. And savor.

In life’s poetry.

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Each verse of scripture read by our Vicar carried me off and out of church on the wings of words. Yesterday. Lost in the lines of the living Word.

Browns and creams, smoothed by years of refining salt and sand, held my gaze for minutes and more. And I simply was stuck in a beauty pause carried in from the sea. Gifts my husband brought home. Porcelain-like. Perfect. Deposits from wave on wave of glory. Now sitting in my home. A reminder of love and beauty.

At dusk, the dolphin danced on the calm waters of Jeremy Creek and I was there in the moment. Because I answered the whisper to go stand by the water at the just right time.  Dipping up, breaking the water, his stage. And I on the banks alone. Breathing in poetry.

I rested my head on my husbands shoulder, smelling the salt the aroma of him whom I love. And  lost my breath. He had captured with his own lens, the swan preening, like a marble sculpture, frozen in time. And the mink stuck in the crab trap. But oh the story of its release told in his soothing voice. And the Oyster Catcher. The oysters and the sea.

And as I tell, I tell myself. It is a gift.

This life. This poetry.

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On Mondays I love to join my friend Laura Boggess. I am there today with other writers. Come visit?

Saying Yes and Saying No

This week I started a study on simplicity. And I began de-cluttering. And I am finishing some writing projects and starting some new ones. And I am putting more on my calendar than I usually place there. Because life is rich and full. Life is complicated and wonderful and simple. There is a place of discerning balance between entering in and holding back. Saying yes, a warm and loud yes, and saying a humble and wise no. 

A no that feels holy and sacred. That restrains in order to give later, to hold back now in order to invest more later. To manage our resources and energy well is to steward the gift, well.

May you and I find refuge and strength to soak in the good, withstand the times of loneliness and pain with grace. And to step into His will with wisdom.

May we be restored by the flames of His fiery love and goodness. And have eyes wide open to notice all His gifts, His sovereignty and sacrifice as we move into the Holidays. The ones where we celebrate all His gifts. May we be mindful daily of the greatest gift, the sacred one of His Holy Birth. Daily, bending the knee, daily bending the ear, bowing at the throne of our Lord. God, the King. God, our Rescuer. God redeemer and lover of our souls.

Amen. With Thanksgiving hearts and praises, words of yes. And whispers, sometimes, of a wise, well-thought-out and discerning no.

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Joining Deidra at her beautiful blog home, Jumping Tandem. Oh how I have missed this community.

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