Ready to Make Friends with Poetry? ⟶
Ripping paper tears,
tape(d) to the back
of yesterday, rends
asunder the frame
of today’s reality.
Too bad the glue
that held the lives
in place, frame-wise,
could not extend
to the flesh and blood
heart-wise.
~~~~
going through family photos and sorrowing over the lives of people torn apart by life.
There but for the grace of God go I.
Writing comes from listening, so I’ve taken quiet steps outside away from the loud to hear better. Eyes open this time to see AND hear–this– the delicate drops of fuchsia, ballerinas fluttering like so many upside-down firecrackers, fragile, full of beauty dropping feathery tendrils to the silent air.
We were made for Edendwellers with Godin his greengloryand goodnessamong the viningwonder and fragrant trees.We came from dirtcreation,witness to his fillingof this face of the earthwith his endlessimaginationnamed“witch hazel”“flowering quince”“red currant”“sweetbox.”He charged us ascaretakers of His Garden,resident keepers inhabiting the Heaven here on Earth (truly)made for eternity (Ecclesiastes 3)but shorting out our livesby seeking solace elsewhere.We sit…
House finches flit, flit, flit and hummingbird whirrrrrs, hovering over birdseed an arm’s length away. Red finch jets elsewhere, bearing left at the bushes and the chickadee perches, eyeing the feast. Crows alight silently on the trees straight ahead, swooping at nothing as they loudly announce the morning. The waterfall sound of freeway cars and…
Son, ferried within water, the womb of his mother. She, comforted on the back of a donkey, led at the hand by a hopeful man, father, to the House of Bread.Seer, sounding words that seared the hearts of those who…
Facing the stove, I busy my hands with this thrice-cooked fowl, weaving waterherbs and onions to conjure a warming repast for our souls.Skin holds meat, meat holdsbone (or is it the other way around?) andas chunks slip and slide into the bubblingpot before me, I wonder, wordless,at the speed with which we revereand revile our…
Something has been said about “writing down the bones” which sounds like a good practice if you’re learning anatomy. But the first time I heard the phrase, I thought it was “writing down the poems,” So I am. Writing down the poems moving my bones, the ligaments lightly holding the pen– black on paper, blue,…