A Circuitous Route

wpid-IMG_20130501_094144.jpgI am walking by the  way of winding.
Stepping back and moving forth.
Finding paths  like Mother May I
Stops and starts and winnowing backs.

I am breathing deep the air of waiting.
Laying down in fields of pining.
Grasping roots of ever-changing.
Finding great in fair to midland, growing.

I am holding on to glory
Surprised by every simple turn en route
Seeing through the lens poetic
Covered in sweet redemption singing.

I am walking round the labyrinth
Praying for the walk to bring
Joy in seeing eyes wide open, squinting barely letting in the light
Weeding out the root, watering dry soil.

I am seeing like a child again
Each turn of spoke and wheel
The way circuitous though it is
Is marked with everlasting wonder, change.

And I am seeing bends and breaks
A slowing with the margins wide
The ratcheted down, down gear shift
The death though slow of pride

Yes I am seeing childlike
The awe and wonder on the route
Parking trains, planes and automobiles
Awhile to walk the more
Circuitous route.

I am holding on to slippery Trust
Blinking back the saline droplets
Finding fresh the seeds of simple
Watering the heart to burst wide open, stretched.

I am knowing in deep places
That the dizzy winding way
Littered with uncertain lingering
Leads me still beside the place I am born to be.

So walk with me the route circuitous
Stumble on the rocks that bruise the skin
Run the race with wheels made to turn slow and steady
Trust  the way of wonder, winding serpentine with grace.

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Joining Duane, Shelly, and Jennifer

Don’t Tell The High School Guidance Counselor I Said This

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I bought a calendar.

I thought that there might be some sort of freedom in being without one. Or was I trying to stretch my capacity for memorizing facts and dates.

I struggle with a faint fear of losing my memory one day. The one who bore me has dementia and it could be in me waiting to pounce.

Sometimes I write and I pause at a word and the word comes slower. So I write more and more. It’s as if a muscle is being worked in the gym of my mind.

I want my children to have my words when they don’t have my words any longer.

When I first started blogging I was determined to use the word I in my posts infrequently, verging on the never.

Today I am breaking my rule of no I’s in my posts. It is a selfish pronoun but it is necessary. I could shift to the third person but that would be silly because at this point you know it is me to whom I am referring.

Putting things on my calendar yesterday felt like a good and needed discipline. There is a tension in the space between spontaneous living and purposeful, intentional living out of days.

I see things less poetically if I am strapped down and bound by restraints of time and space. You know there is a quote about that, the poet is working when she is staring out the window. I need to look up who said it because it is true and brilliant. And it helps me understand where poetry is born.

If you have been reading here for awhile you know the focus on poetry. If you haven’t you can read the title of the blog and then you would know. I think poetry is saving me and giving me new eyes. Both.

Therefore, poetry is important.

There is a way of seeing the poetic in life which comes from breathing deep and walking slow. Of staring long into the places and moments of a day.

If I look out the window long enough I see the beautiful, not the dirt. And I long to write of the beautiful rather than reach for the Windex.

Yesterday I met with my daughter’s guidance counselor to go over her graduation plan. She was doing her job and she does it well.  We were making her schedule for next year and picking courses. This planning of my youngest’s senior year is heart wrenching work.

I starred at her blue eyes and drowned a little in the talk of college.

We talked of AP Spanish Four and of AP English too. Of her plans to be a Pediatric Dentist, of GPA’s and SAT’s and Class Rank. And I felt really hemmed in that office. And thought a bit about how things change.

And we are making plans so far ahead and so much can change. And I know that we need this dance of the deliberate and the planning out of a life.

But where is the dance of the poetic. And what if the dreams change or crash. What if her heart changes her mind.

We would walk in and write out a course change slip and off we would go to a new dream and a new class. Plans and changes of plans. The now and the surprise of tomorrow. The dance of uncertainty and the plans for a life well lived.

There is so much beauty in the savoring of now. And intentional living keeps wandering minds from going too far off track. And we need a plan and a dream and a schedule.

I dance between these two worlds daily.

I am off to work on my calendar and write down some important dates and plans and appointments and a writing schedule of sorts.

And I hope that I don’t lose my poetry along the way. I hope my dancing shoes don’t fall off. It has taken me a lifetime to learn to dance in a place of the poetic. And I don’t want to stop now.

The high school guidance counselor does important work. I am grateful for her and her ability to keep folks like me on track.

I wonder if she saw my mind wander a bit. But don’t tell her I said that. Sometimes the mention of SAT and Class Rank cause me to glaze over a bit.

I am writing now like there is no tomorrow and I am finding great relief in doing so. I knew I was really drawn to the words of my favorite poet Billy Collins.

I wonder how he feels about the use of the word “I”. I have used my quota for the month here.  I wonder if my mind is fading and how long I have with it.

I will be writing a lot in the months to come. And there I go making plans. Maybe I was listening to the guidance counselor after all.

If you subscribe you may want to stop following as it may get a little too verbose in these parts while I exercise my mind in the gymnasium of my heart by lifting the weight of the words.

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joining Eileen and Heather295b3123-4a67-4966-8a77-222919b9921c_thumb_BR_44

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How You Love Me

After a very long “sabbatical” from Lisa Jo Baker’s Five Minute Friday’s, I am joyously diving in today, again. And the prompt today is again. Writing for Five Minutes, with an ounce or two of grace.

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The words regenerate my soul

They speak life and love into my deepest parts

Life springs from them, like watering seeds of need in me

Once is never enough, its like the steady stream of mountain rivulets that feed the ocean mighty strong

The repetitions of the beautiful, of love poured out

Tell me again like Jack and Jill and all the early once upon a times we read as children and to the children

Say it again, soft and low, long and sweet

There is no sameness, dull or colorless odorless in the repeating

Feed me like open-beaked bird who needs seed on seed on seed, at feeder long and wanting

Blanket me fresh, my cold and weary soul needs the warming words from your tongue

Tell me again and again and again

Just tell me how you love me.

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The Fear Of Forgetting, The Art of Remembering

heart bright in woodShe recalls the smallest detail from years ago.

She recalls the long ago.

And she forgets the half a moment away.

Mystery in the mind, mystery in the aging

of memory.

A life gets blurred like watercolors on a canvas.

Color present, color faded, lines and detail run away and off the page

Until a version of  blurry new is present in the present.

And what will I recall.

What will I remember.

Will the written anchor memories of each, of the three, the best, the challenges

I dream a dream of  capturing it all in bell jar, lid light,

In marked detail , the love and laughter

Growing up at my feet, at my bosom for years

If you add them, all the days between the three

It would make one old child, but they are three

And will the words help bury memories, encase them in a time capsule

Just in case the mind and memory fade as it does and as it did for her

She says remember when you and how could I, barely I do, I barely recall

I the child she the mother of this obscure event, no event is unworthy of recording

All are worthy, all are worthy.

If I write and when I write may it be a doubled effort to recall

The smallest moments in their, our, this life.

Branding, blazing all the breathes in ink, in stone, the sacred ones

The what He gives, the what we take

No it is what we receive, and remember and  offer back

By recording, all the moments in an effort

To remember.

She remembers the smallest detail from long long ago.

May I remember the smallest details from long long ago.

And begin to see through her eyes, a glimpse, a slant of how

She saw and how she sees

That is grace.

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Joining Emily at Imperfect Prose for her one word prompt this week…Mother.

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