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.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

one word 350

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When Peace Walks In And Takes A Seat

Peace walked in at five o’clock sharp, sat down in comfy chair, sat fireside. And chatted like the days that never were before. Under a roof, and in a house, this one. All shiny penny new. There was a grown sound in the belly of the boy about to be a man. And he had caught Peace like you catch a cold. It just covers you up and you need boxes of Kleenex and some tender love from a momma. But here you need all eyes open wide to see that Peace has come and it was not caught, it was prayed for and waited on, and there are bits and pieces of the Prodigal all over this like one walks through the woods and picks up beggar lice. Its grace. But we’re not picking any of this off. No a momma thanks and praises and tells others like she did the other day. She told the momma with tears in here eyes, you stand on the edge of the cliff in that waiting. You stand hanging by the thread of hope, all worn and weary and dangling, and you never give up. You hold tight and hold fast and you pray hard and you claim and cling. And when the Peace stays longer than you thought you finally breathe and you exhale and you pinch your own skin and say it is not a dream. It is a walking miracle sitting by the fire and talking all grown-up man. A language so new and beautifully different, as foreign. And if they ever tell you otherwise, those who lose their hope and lost their hope all along the way, you say yes yes it comes, the peace. The journey walkers do walk in one day and drop their peace on a home. And the bag is full to overflowing with letters dipped in grace. Unwrap and open each one slowly. There is beauty there. Always cling hard, you momma warriors to the knowing that the one day peace will come. And maybe even at five o’clock sharp, as promised. But this time the promise kept, and the heart filled with peace and a new fullness of maturity and ripeness for the picking. With the tender fingers of the momma’s heart she picks up the pieces of the peace, holds them to her bosom. As longed for, waited for, peace settles on the home and sits by that crackling dancing fiery flame of warmth. She re-reads each letter sent straight with piercing to the heart. A bullseye to her soul. Savors the words spoken, written on her momma heart. They are good. And they warm more than any flickering orange flame from the brick laid hearth every could or would. Peace walked in at five o’clock sharp. I hope she’ll stay awhile. She warms the once cold places as she settles in and makes herself at home. I close the door and bolt it shut. While making up the guest bed, I pray Peace will stay a good long while.

joining Laura today at Laura Boggess dot com and with Jen at Finding Heaven Today and Heather for Just Write.

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A Letter To My Son

Dear Son, loved and treasured One:

When you go to the movies,tonight, with this sweet sweet young girl, young woman even, remember these things.
Dwell on them, never forget.

It’s hard to wrap a lifetime of learning into a very short letter. But I shall try.

And I’ll stammer and struggle and try to bleed my love for you as a man, in days now, my son, on this white page.

And what I want for you in all your relationships, but most especially with women.

Be gentle, be strong.

Be both.

Be a rock, a strong place to lean on. With big ears and an enormous heart. With room to grow and room to love.

Your Dad wooed me from the very beginning with his strength and gentleness, his compassion, his caring.

I never told you, and you wouldn’t care much before now, but early on, very early on, as we sat in a restaurant in New York with friends, he cared in the smallest of ways for me and about me. My memory fades like early morning fog, but I remember my hair in my plate or something similar and he loving pulled it out. He is gentle and attentive that way. He still married me.

Be attentive to the small.

You have watched your father cherish and care for your sister.

Care. Every time.

Do not follow the crowds, the throngs of people following the culture and all its siren song ways. Just rest in who God created you to be and be yourself. Comfortably you.

You, my son, are witty and funny. Enjoy that, but don’t be a peacock, calling attention to yourself. Use your gifts gently.

And you are creative, oh so creative. This is a gift to use for God and His glory.

Look to Him and His beautiful plan. Look in His eyes and ask and seek. Ask, be bold, ask. Then listen.

And listen well, my son.

Your Daddy does that so well now. Watch him listen and bend an ear to me.

And be selfless not selfish. In all you do.

Argue, not. Demand to be right, never. Be a peace-maker. Discuss with a gentle spirit. There is no need or time to fight. A gentle tone will take you far, strong one. Stand firm, yes. Find your balance with your words. Stand on what is right, noble, honest, pure, worthy of praise, and lovely.

You don’t have far to look, my son. Your oldest brother is tender and gentle and strong with his girl.

Follow these men, be yourself, be a gentleman, you were raised in the South, the premium on this is huge. Its our tradition. Carry it on.

Think of your grandfathers. They loved you and love you. And all their ways. Carry on traditions of kindness and gentleness and strength.

And look ’em in the eyes. Always. Everyone. Don’t look away, or look astray or wander off, not in their presence. Be fully present. Your beautiful blue eyes have always been so big, so unimaginatively handsome, these windows to your very soul.

Be right where you are, in the beautiful moment and savor it all. Remember the details as they unfurl.
Your father is my memory. He remembers often for us both. He has seen and he has remembered the details of a life, our life.

Pay close attention, such close attention, to the details, that are your life.

Listen to music, enjoy art, walk on the path outside our house that leads to the shore, often, daily, savor that salty place. Share your love for where we live. It’s glorious, its gift. It’s the ocean and the river, it’s God-beauty all around.

And get into those words God wrote for you, for us. And linger there, you man, you son, you child of God.

Your pecan pies and all your masterpieces, offer them in love.

And know that you were always loved by us, by Him.

Enjoy the movie. And be a gentle-man. Be respectful, so full of respect for others, for women, for all people, always. Shower others with a spirit of respect. And dignity.

Hold your shoulders back, your head up, wear your seatbelt every time.

Loving you this day and always, your very verbose,

Momma

P.S. I wrote you once before. Please remember those words too, of love to you. I wrote them in the summer months. These words from down deep in my soul.

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.