Quietude

wpid-20140611_095308-1-1.jpgQuietude

And I imagine underneath
What seems to be a placid sea,
Life churns the silted sands of time
Years and years
In the making
Marking
Grains of brokenness
Teeming now with signs of life
Cycles of  the salty chains
Concentric circles
Connecting
Old and new, life
In the quiet, creatures spin
Watery webs of
Sea life, below a murky grey tinged
Surface, ceiling to their room
Dwelling there in the
Quiet

And I too
Live
Underneath a paradox of quiet
Swirling, churning, cycles of this
New growth
Birthing
Beginnings
Witness to ends and endings
Too
Too
Many to recount
In this space
This
Quiet

Preparing
I design my own
Land-locked home

And words leak out in advance
Of a watery avalanche
Story-telling prepares
To wash ashore

It will come
Perhaps
On the next high tide
Or the high tide after that
Perhaps

But waiting in the quietude
Life teems with
Pregnant thoughts

The words won’t wait forever

Quiet holds its breath
But for a season
Tides wait for no one

Won’t you come ride the swells
With me
Fueled by
Weeks of
Quietude
The dam prepares to burst

++++++++++

Joining Jennifer Dukes Lee for #tellhisstory

 

 

 

Portraiture: Seasons

 

poem-a-day-dare-tweetspeakPortraiture: Seasons

Portrait of a poet
In charcoal unframed, Spring brought
Oils in tangerine

         ++++

Palette of flesh tones
Tan as brown sugar, sweet one
Summer warms our skin

         +++++

Orange flame burns down
Day, a torch lit long steals night
Fireflies bear light

The Day Spring Almost Tied The Knot

wpid-IMG_20130814_190058.jpgThe Day Spring Almost Tied The Knot

The Earth just opened her new box, waxy smells wafting out, tips sharpened
Virgin points, aiming toward heaven
Like instruments of praise
Whittled odes of rejoicing
Wrapped in slick paper

Names like that of the new season’s OPI
Nail polish
So perfectly given
One cannot tell if the name made the color
Or the color birthed the name
And which, do tell came first
In any event
It is a birthing of new
And to her surprise
As she opened the box
With the ity bity black hole in the back
Low and centered
Round and welcoming
For sharpening, when tools become dull and spent

The whole box was 64 shades
Of green
And creams
Dual monochromatic offerings
For coloring the Earth in her
New garb
For shading the world
In new birth

The world was once again
Awash
In the hues of greeney new birth
Of shoots and leaves
Grasses and stems
Trumpets of new flora and fauna
Vines pressed through the layer
Of dark and dank

She closed the box
Hoarded and saved
This school-bus-yellow
New box of crayons
Perhaps it would be needed
On another day, Winter the tyrant
Has never played fair
Deliverer of death and dark
Cold and fear
Lights off
Lights back on
Mysteriously, again

Unsure, uncertain
And truly afraid
That this was a prelude, precursor
Preamble, only
To Spring

Her box of creams and greens
It may be needed again
To color the world
Brightly resplendent indeed
One day soon

But of one thing she was certain
With no doubt at all
The Earth was her loveliest
When dressed as a bride

Approaching the altar
Both timid and brave
Head bowed in her virginal
Expectant state, behind a thin veil
Of cream lace

She wore a gown of 1950’s Virginal White
And carried a bouquet of  The Grinch Stole Christmas Greens
Loose greens, free and just garden picked

Closing  the box this March Monday
She determined to
Wait patiently for
The Real “true” Spring
Spring Green to arrive
Followed by Pea Soup Green
And Grass Through Your Toes Green
And her favorite, Pistachio Ice Cream Green
Or was it Thin Mint Green

So she closed the lid
And placed her new box of Crayola’s
On the tippy top shelf

And waited patiently
For the bride of Spring

While painting her toenails
Moss At The Base Of The Pine Tree
Green
For the big event

Hunkering Down, Holding On, and Wrapping Up

Today is Day 30. Thank you for being here for this series which ends tomorrow. Tomorrow will be a post of summary and surprise. Will you be here? There will be a bit of wrapping up. If you missed a post and would like to read the collective, it is here. Or click on the 31 Days Series 2012.

There is a bundling up on the horizon. These winds that blow, they howl.

There is a wind wailing, wind blustering.

And they gust and grasp, blistering with biting winds, swirling whirling, gusting blasts of artic, cold and cutting crisp.

The words huddle together and bundle up on the page. Shivering, shaking, trembling, quaking.

Cold, yet clustered in the sea of circumstance. The words still rattle and roll, knowing tomorrow comes, a conclusion, a closing an end in sight.

They perform a triage on the ones trumpeting the rallying cry, trumpeting their cause. And they choose for the day before the day of wrap up, circumstances and storms of life.

As the trees tremble, and as the world quivers and quakes, the storms of circumstance take their place in the series.

The natural life collides in the realm of the spiritual.

And the elements on the outside mirror the elements on the inside, of the life.

So we look to see how deep the roots have clung to the soil of Faith, the soul checks her face in the mirror and looks for signs of deep abiding.

Did we prepare for the storms of circumstance by resting in Him, abiding in Him, calling on Him, looking to Him?

All before the storms.

Did we fall on Him, lean on Him, learn of Him, read of Him, know of Him, cry out to Him, all before the storm?

And in the midst too. And right smack in the middle too. With a swirl and whirl and roar of the winds of challenge and change, are the roots clinging hard and fast in the soil. Is the soul rich in Him, in the nourishment and black rich soil of His hand. His offering.

Is the heart fixed on Praising in the midst and Praying in the middle, seeing in the circumstance the what is good and worthy of praise. That there was an element of saved from worse and saved from death.

That the giver of life gives sustenance in the storms, and the Light shines if even dim it shines, the Light of Grace. Mercy holds tight and fast to the soul feeling feint and weak.

Prayer whispered, prayer spoken, prayer humbled, quivering shaking from the lips of the wind blown traveller, they are the life-line, they tie the soul in the worst of it, the all of it. It is the language of the broken. It is the language of the healed.

Do the swells of the seas and bitter of the cold sting to a blistering or are we cupped in the hand and safe in the place of sheltering in the midst, in the middle, right in it?

Hunkering down and holding on, tethering to shore and tethering to a body, strong and bold holds us upright. Hunkering down in the warmth of the Christ-body, holding on to the Word and to the very hand of God, reaching down in the middle in the midst.

Wrapping up in Hope and Trust, bundling the soul in the expectancy of the calm after and the calming of His very breath and presence in the midst.

Don’t miss the very strengthening of the rocking soul in the seas of circumstance rolling in and down and on.

Don’t miss the strengthening of those who made it through and make it through and tell of stronger vessels for bracing and staying safe in all the turmoil, twisting and turning and spinning a soul.

There is safety in the harbor of Trust and Obey and it’s not a pollyanna children’s song. And its not a sugary simple served up platitude.

It is the very essence of the traveller in the storm. To huddle in the flock for warmth and safety, to stay where the Shepherd says to stay, to hear and follow the voice that guides and protects.

It is the body, when huddled and cradled and wrapped in Love and Encouragement that preserves its warmth and keeps the vital heat captured, fueling the life, fueling the heart and parts that beat and pulse, winds ahowling, winds awhipping all around.

And bending low while bowing the knee, the head to Him, calms her heart,  calms her spirit in the whirling wailing  blustering storm.

Was a heart prepared, is a heart preparing, does a heart prepare for all there is to come?

Nestled soundly in the arms, the warm embrace, of the Calmer of The Storms. The Lover of My Soul.

Oh to know the warmth in all He is and all He gives in the circumstances of  this life.

The buds are tight, holding expectancy and Hope.

And the blooms will burst on the limbs of tomorrow, in spite of the raging storms.

Hold on weary traveller.

Be strong pilgrim friend, look Heavenward trembling flock in the windswept tundras of this life.

The blooms are ripe and ready. The melting snow reveals the bloom.

The Christ is in this storm.


Joining Eileen and Jen.