I Am Lovely

Arms high, I am twisting and turning in my kitchen, doing this grace-filled silly song, tension escaping from my fingertips and the first fruits of freedom lifting my limbs into place seeking life in the land of the living kind of dance. I am a grey hair and a new wrinkle shy of this coming fifty-two, and I am wriggling in my kitchen, a balletic grammie-dance for a grand-boy who knows only the joy and laughter of a twist and a giggle, and grammie’s awkward steps are lovely.

I

 Am

 lovely.

 He runs to me and I snap him up in my arms and hold him tight to my heart, and know that he is medicine, God-graced serum infused with hope for the future, and healing for my broken past. He lays his head on my shoulder and we dance, sweet and soft to praise songs and monkeys who are no longer granted permission to jump on beds. But we hug, and we praise, and we jump, and beds in my home are once again messy.

He knows me, as my Savior knows me; fresh and clean. No past tattered life stained mess. Just the purity of love held in eyes wide blue.

And I can earth dance heaven strains with hands made to shirk these chains meant to dig scars into wrists no longer bound. I am Grammie brave dancer with this boy so grand, and I whisper words of faith in his ears, and trust My God Ever So Faithful with his very life, and look to the future where he will stand and dance a freedom dance all his own.

Life Laundered

I can write

yet

Only You can
     protect me from the depth
                               of my
sin.

Only You can

wash
it
pure
     lifting the dark stains
black
and
ground
through
     from the weave
                                of my
life.

Only You can

mix
red
     with miry blackness
finding
fibers
     son-bleached new.

Only You.

I can write
     ink-black words woven
     on linen fresh
 blood-bleached clean
 testimonial

Essence of the Chemist

a
storm
su
b
si
de
s
in
my
heart
and
i
th
i
nk
my
tears
are
tr
a
mpl
e
d underfoot
                 but
n
o they are
                 caught up to the clouds
nest
le
d
precious
            i
            n     His bottle crystal
perfume
            released fra
                           gr
                            a
                           nt
salve to he
              a
              l
wounds
          w             of
          e               t
          essence    h
          t                e

                       Chemist.


                   

An Acquired Patina

The years
               have
rough run over me
face bowed bent knee
earth bound
               corners ruffled
binding loose       am i
a papyrus seeker
                ink  thirsty
creative word      hungry
search for      sustenance


fill my pages
                wrinkled rough
read hard  tear washed
passionate
                purpose


       patina acquired








Patina~ The surface appearance of an object grown
                               Beautiful
                     especially with age or time.                           


                                                        

In Praise of the Map Maker

in
your
paths
only
I
seek
to
walk
timid
toe
tender
heel
in
prints
of 
foot
that
life
reveal
in
this
light
only
I
seek
and 
find
roads
made 
mine
this
map
divine.






Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a lamp unto my path.
Psalm 119:105

In This Family

In

this family

                we love listen

and action-speak it to life.

In this

 Family

we see one another through

                faith-colored glasses

then inspire with hug-words

                and love-verbs.

In this family we live value

                I dream your

dream  in this

                                Family

as you have become

                  my dream

In this family.

Give Me.

Give me
this
a gratitude heart bursting dancing leaps
arms stretched twirls
Give me
eyes to see pure little girl seeking freedom
sighs so heavy released relenting 
now
smiles light luminous
her am I little girl long loved
the daughter wandering
now
hunger gone
sweet sensation raspberry red
am I
I am
Beloved
my Lover soft said


Redeemed.

Fruits of My Salvation

They say
an
apple
today
tomorrow
yesterday
keeps
me
                from the voices
                       in
                         my
                             head
                from   the   cliff
                       i
                        stand
                                upon
                from   the    whir
                       that
                            stirs
                              the brain


an apple a day keeps his needle
                                   at bay...
the doctor
                 or perhaps


a  pomegranate  will  do.

Yes (wo)Man: Living in the Poop-Free Zone

As my adopted Chinese-Crested lies at my feet, and my epileptic highly-allergic blind in one eye bought her in a grocery store parking lot purebred Cocker Spaniel wanders the house probably trying to decide if she should pee inside or outside, I want to whisper some truth to you about my dogs. I am whispering you see, because if I say it loudly enough, I might begin to realize that I am really telling you some very private and otherwise unknown information about


myself


So shhh!


 Now here it is: I realized this morning, as I was dressed in my super-hero cape, and proudly performing my duties as the Yes Woman, that my dogs were happy to follow me around the yard as I cleaned up their stink and didn't even mind taking a sniff or two of it's delicate aroma. Not only did they act as if they had no idea that it was di-sgust-ing, but they seemed to think that the spots I had just cleaned were designed for taking a perfectly public squat in AGAIN. There they were, butt poised for action, ignoring the prominence of my cape, and for that matter my presence, sullying up my poop-free zone. I mean no shame, none, Nada, No Sirree! 


Anyway, I want you to know, I am good for my word, and I cleaned up that doody, and even managed not to step in it. That is until my husband called mid-way through my treadmill extravaganza to ask me if I could do a kindness for TheOneWhoDoesNotLikeME. Yes Woman had stowed her cape so as to not get it caught in the gears of the incline, and Ms.Reticent-to-do-anything-kind started to publicly, well you know...


A wrestling match ensued between Ms. Reticent and our ever amazing Pooper Scooper, and eventually, after some flatulence, a little time change, and an inner scream, the super-hero won out.


Ah, the Italian just called and said his key broke and now he can not start the car. The burly tow man or the Yes Woman? We shall see.


Hope I don't step in it.

Yes (wo)Man: I Could Have had a Pony Ride and Other Lessons in Listening

It is interesting the mystical change that takes place inside of the human mind, when genuinely you think that you have learned at least in some small way to listen, to love, to let someone else lead, or even to allow them to have an opinion, and then all at once you realize that you have just been writing the script in your own thoughts and missing the greater portion of what those you love are trying to communicate. 


And this leads me to the adventure of Day One as the amazing and often hard-of-hearing Yes Woman.


I missed my first two opportunities to say Yes entirely. The words passed through my ear lobes and technically my ear drums worked perfectly, but then mysteriously his words ricocheted off the grey matter numbing it in the process. It was done, over, finis before I even realized I had rebuffed the man once again! And I could have had a pony ride, I mean literally, he wanted me to go for a ride in his classic 66 red mustang convertible. I know, I hear you! Nave. Rube. Call me what you will, but just don't call me quitter.


 I am excited to tell you that another opportunity came my way, and being that my husband must meet with associates from the great state of Kentucky in the early morn, I had the proud and joyful honor of saying YES, YES, YES! 


Yes, I will pick up the dog pooh tomorrow morning.


Now to just remember to follow through, and perhaps sign up for a course in the fine art of listening!

Yes (wo)Man!

I got my husband an electric razor for Father's Day. Completely devoid of any semblance of romance, creativity, or mystery, I know, but way back when, even before I was born, a wise one said that the gift should be something the receiver actually wants. And so, I bought my husband an electric razor for Father's Day.


This is not usually the type of subject I write about, I usually prefer inspiration, encouragement, or on my angsty reflective days I go for, well, angst. But this post is not without purpose, as I have chosen my miniscule, yet mighty group of followers to keep me accountable as I give my husband an additional and perhaps more creative gift. For the next thirty days, I am going to make it my goal to "just say yes," barring of course the illegal and immoral (I mean what is He doing asking for either of those anyway?). 


I have only been married to the Italian for two years, but in my "hey, I'm a big girl, and my half a century of wisdom means I am smarter than you" bad attitude, I find myself saying things like, "No, I don't feel like walking around the park with you," and "What? We have to use those stupid free tickets to sit in prime seats at the local pro-teams game?" 


I am feeling like an old-lady, and soon I may have to go buy, well, granny-panties. So in honor of Jim Carrey in Yes Man, or perhaps as a my own little Love Dare, the stubborn-head Irish girl is going to learn how to say Yes! 


If you care, thrown in between angst and inspiration, I'll keep you posted on how it goes. If you don't care, just don't read, or don't comment, oh wait, I mean just keep doing what you already do...or just say Yes Woman!!! and then I might even smile, and feel so good about myself.




P.S. My husband is one of my followers...but since he is a going to the gym, gotta watch the news at all hours of the day kinda guy, there is little chance my plans will be foiled...(insert evil laugh). We shall see.

Thread Count 400

Wearing my heartbreak

on

my

collar

buttoned

too

tight

stiff-starched

head held

appear

             direct

heart hidden

beaneath  pima cotton and

mother of pearl

no care

             reflected

stitched shamelessly

piercing

               provoke

intrude and escape

hold me together.

Notes on Writing:  The first line of “Thread Count 400” started as “wearing my heartbreak on my collar buttoned too tight sometimes,” jotted quickly on my notepad at home one day. The rest of the writing came several weeks later, rewritten several times—with intermittent consultations from my thesaurus and my fifteen year old daughter. I truly worked this poem on paper, as opposed to letting in run through my brain until it was worthy of the page (at least in my mind). This papyrus editing process is new for me in the poetry realm and was previously used only for greater (read more words) works.

At the time I was working on this reflection, my son was six and suggested that I write a poem on dishes, and so I did. In conclusion, I would like to share it with you for your reading pleasure:

I wishes I didn’t

have to do dishes.

No Remorse

Life in a shambles on the  ground

                                    bittersweet

                                      at my feet

Memories  in   color   all   a  heap

                              blue and green

                                        acts unseen
Threads lying limply questioning

                                what the cost

                                          battle lost

         Worn well and emptied

                                        no remorse

                                 worthy course

Life in a shambles on the  ground

And so

i did the laundry

Writer's Remorse

I sat down

and dug from my soul

and laughed

and cried

tore up the papers

the pieces

of my mind

bared

to myself

more than I wanted to



remember.






Notes on Writing: Writer’s Remorse was originally birthed as a doodle in a Creative Writing class. It was nestled among notes that read “Inspiration” and “Writing-a sensual activity-Paper and Parchment.” It flowed from my expensive Montblanc pen (a gift) onto my cheap, but serviceable yellow tablet (my own purchase) in one lump sum. I tried to name it "Remember” but later realized that it was truth incarnate of what I was to face if I chose to write again- and so “Writer’s Remorse.”

Baptism by Fire

I want to belch out these dark days
like a breather of fire
until my lungs are washed
spirit afresh
the goodness
of
my God so Gracious

breathing in sweet savor alight my soul

Honest Seeker

i am as lost as I have ever been
hope shoots across the sky as heavenward stars
only to leave tear stained valleys on well worn cheeks

suffocating despondency
rote rituals

to get me to the other side of day
make the bed wash the dish feed the pet
stand in the steamy shower
balmy baptismal
weary-washed soul seeking

Need You
Need You

honest
seeker

Humility

praying for humble

as my fear does a tribal dance

around my pride

as if to protect the last staunch vestiges of

self-so-useless

I bow

until the stretching seems ripping tearing

crying aloud my hardened then hungry heart

feed

me

knees reaching earth

a distance so far

NEED

You

humble she

praying

remembrance

This was absolutely the last time the bearer of the seed would give a gift that was singularly meant for her and only her. Seeds that grew into little voices that giggled and whispered and laughed like the gentle murmurs of the sea, with blue eyes that beckoned the same as its reflected white tipped bubble-bath waves. This was the last time. The seed bearer was long gone. Gone by choices of his own it would seem, distant, but still exactly where he was meant to be for this season that seemed so elongated for the one who had always been so delighted by his gifts. Her understanding limited by the daily passing of the yellow softly glistening on the pale strands of her little gifts, and the bluest moon reflected again in innocent eyes.

Day and night was so long for her. Often so long that the voices of the little seeds sounded like noise where musical rhymes had once fallen, and blue eyes beckoning her to dreams so sweet seemed bleak eyes begging for more than she had to offer, and she could not seem to find her own gifts to give.

The littlest seed was not unlike the seed bearer himself. His eyes translucent in colors created to comfort, as if hand-painted by the soft haired tip of a gentle brush wielded by a purposeful artist. And the little seed grew with words that washed the sands on the shore soft, and smiles that made all the other seeds shine more lovely in his presence.

The little seed needed her tending, a word of water, refreshment for stretching arms and roots seeking the solidity of the seed bearer. Shimmering mirror in which to peer and find portraiture of the seed bearer himself. She needed to reach her own arms into the passing yellow and wrap them around the moon so blue and hold the little seed until it stretched strong armed to bear blue eyed giggling gifts drawn innocent as the bearer of the seed, and then to open wide hands beautiful made by the given gifts and release them to bear again.

She needed to give from hands empty, his fullness.

She had thought the seed bearer had left her, his gifts a distant wave washed melody. She had believed his lilting laughter would wash never again eyes turned up to smile upon his goodness. She has believed in his absence no presence could make blue and yellow the symbol of his daily gifts.

She was wrong.

live!

Let not the moments busy
Filled with lists
that list
the lists of do’s to do
act as barons born to rob me
of the joy
a birthright mine
He has called in whispers
thundering
in cloud bursts
beckoning
in verses kind
sweet the sound my master’s messages
by name the calling comes
live! He breathes
in words
demanding
refresh my soul with wild abandon
I am yours and yours alone
an invitation words of wonder
live! I will

Gratia

Have I slipped from Your favor

No

I removed my own eyes from it

Playing a game of

peek-a-boo

and holding my eyes shut too long until I could not remember

who

I would see when I opened them