Day 225, sorting out the vote

Many Colored Splenda

It's a many colored Splenda
a rainbow of bright sugar free promise
vote this or vote that, but do it because
I promise that is what is best.
I don't trust 'em,
I never will so I must muck
through the information that
they pour from their little yellow
paper packets, promising sugar sweet
substitution, promising almost anything
but both sides. A steady
two-sided buffet of Splendad sweets.
A caloric diet of duality.

Day 224, the plump little dove

He walks about all
a skitter, peck, munch
peck and munch
he is a plump little dove
too greedy to be delicate
too glutenous for grace
he shows up first
and he leaves last
he chases off the tiny
the prettiest, his rotund brown
and grey a natural
camouflage for his ferocity

the rest flee from the hawks cry

but he dances in his solitude

he struts in ignorance

Day 223, the way we hide

It's all about denial and avoidance. What is it you avoid like the plague? What do you try not to look in the eye? It's a silly thing we do but we all do it in some form.

I'm an ostrich with my head
in the sand, I will not look
at the bills, I will not return
that call, I will not look them
in the eye. I am an ostrich
with my head in the sand.
Don't you understand?

Day 222, the busy bee

Worker Bee
she is a worker bee
a busy, buzzing, humming
moving, serving, making
honey, worker bee.
a steady presence
the eye can not confirm
but I felt the rushing wind of
tiny wings, I tasted honey
made from these, resting in
the combs of hive and home
she is a worker bee
a busy, buzzing, loving,
honey making worker bee.

Day 221, the silent poem

Hush
shhh
quiet
now
shhh
hush
listen
now
silence
waits
silence
waits

Day 220, truth and gypsies

Truth

It shimmies and undulates
a bellydance of fact and common sense
jangling coins that jingle
seductively, chanting
murmering
but it will not stay for long
it is always a gypsy soul
it does not lie but moves along
and leaves one musing on
its existence, ever following its
perfumed trail of certainty
ever unsure just where that might be.

Day 219, helium

Helium

It's helium that
Inflates, causes things to rise
A puffed up ego, a swelling pride
But it never stays in one place
Which causes things to deflate
Ego, pride hang rather low
It's evident they didn't know
That helium's a come and go
Magic, a momentary rise
A hovering shame it's only prize

Day 218, he is THREE!!!

He is ever so three
And ever so mine
For this little, tiny
Slice of time

The first, the second
Flew right by, he speaks
He cowboys up, he specifies
He can throw a fit
To beat all fits
Then lay his head down
On my chest, rub my face
And say, "I need you mama"
He is all of my heart
And only one part

I'll kiss his cheek
And tell him happy day
I'll try and capture that
As a forever memory
Fruit snack breath
Long light brown lashes
That diffuse the twinkly blue
Cheeks so cherub round
Your lips don't want to leave
And little white teeth
Framed by lips so puffy they lack shape

I'll do that and shed a tear
But he'll still be three
Ever so three
And ever so mine
For this tiny, little
Slice of time.

Day 217, why I love wisteria

The wisteria vine
Makes a quiet climb
While winters brown
Gives cover to it's campaign
But suddenly a warmer day
A yellow haze blows our way
And a lavender bliss takes
Hostage the umber hues of solstice
Its fragrance a dancing mirth
Of comfort and new things
The dripping birth of the accessory

Day 216, where did Shiloh go?

I tried to console and comfort someone who loved a little boy that drowned this weekend and I realized there weren't real words, no platitudes would do, she was hurting. She was missing the home of the thing that left. A soul moves on, lives on but the place we spend our time loving it changes when someone dies and nothing replaces that. I was reading 1 Samuel 6 when the Philistines take the ark of the covenant (the very presence of God) away from Shiloh and Israel all together. Israel grieved it's loss and eventually the Philistines brought the ark back to Israel but somewhere along the way Shiloh is never mentioned again, it was destroyed and the ark never rested there again...

Shiloh


You disappeared like Shiloh

a center point, a gathering

was your tiny soul, a tabernacle

for our joy and hope

but a Philistine fate has

robbed our hearts

walked away with our mercy

bobbing up and down in rhythm

to their march, a vanishing point

so the sun sets and grief rises

a keening erupts from our throats

this ark, this covenant is without

it's home, it's presence a frightful

thing indeed. For an ark without it's

tabernacle feels godless and empty

and a heart without it's joy the same

and in the travels of this Holy thing

a nation soon repents, a covenant is

restored but Shiloh, Oh Shiloh!

Where did you go?

Day 215, homemade bread is what she baked

For Mrs. Maxine Prince and all the people that stop to love our children and do it for no other reason than their hearts are that big.

Homemade Bread

Homemade bread is
what she baked
and they remember that,
years later they recall
the taste of warm
sourdough melting on
their tongues. He begged
me to make the same at home
and, Lord help me, I tried
and so did he but it was
not Mrs. Maxine's...

and he told me so in the
sweetest way, he told me
how her bread should taste
and feel and one day I
hope to bake that way
to knead and rise and
nourish souls with the taste
of my love and care,
with the taste of my heart
for the Lord melting on
little tongues. One day
I hope to bake
a bread just like that.

Day 214, the fit

He screams
I cry
He consumes the air
With his red faced anger
He is so Miniature
Like china he is perfectly crafted
And full of force, full of emotion
He screams
I cry
But we will be
All right

Day 213, is my life the story I want?

What's your story line? Are you happy with it so far? If not, what's holding it up? What can you do to change it?

Is my life the story I wanted?
who is writing the words?
am I chaff in the breeze
or grain on the threshing floor?
do I have integrity?
I do not know the ending.
Am I the author, the editor
or the reader? a puppet?
I'm all tangled up in a story line
and there are days where I feel
able and days that I do not.
What Lord, are you up to?

It's all uphill.
As it should be.
I like ease and comfort.
You won't in the end, not in the end.
I love happy endings.
Me too, but wait for it.
Don't make me look like an idiot.
I can't control that, it's up to you...
What happens at the end? Am I okay?
Am I old? Am I loved?
silence
silence
silence
I do love a good story, don't you?
I do.
I do.

Day 212, my nation

It's a carefully draped hope
A mantle for broad and strong shoulders
Free. Under God. Hope
An embroidered tapestry of opinion
And prejudice, shrunken wool
In a bath of blood red dye
Comfort and warmth its gift
The rust red color of sacrifice
Its cost.

Day 211, moldy manna

I gather days like manna
Free gifts of time left like dew
I'll taste it tomorrow
My busy hands declare
I'll flavor it and bake it
Add to it, tomorrow.
You see Manna is not very delicious
it begins to taste mundane
But in the morning the manna
Is a molded testimony to my delinquency
While waiting for the flavor and taste
My own heart craved I starved
My own soul from it's intended sustenance.

Day 210, choosing a ruler

From the Mountain Top

From the mountain top
he cried, he shouted to all of Israel
"Don't let the bramble rule!"
Here was his brother, his flesh
and his blood, but not his equal.
The one of seventy that should
have never ruled.

But Israel honored the bloody rock,
honored the thorn from the vine
desperate for a leader, hungry
for guidance they chose a murderer.
Gaunt from their own choice of
nourishment they greedily
grabbed for a feast
but they became the prey.

So Jotham ran.

Day 209, dusty day

It's a dusty day
and I don't mean that
Figuratively, it's quite
Actually dust that I stoop and clean
And lean to wipe and
What I wish were that my heart
Would be this easy to improve
This simple to gather
All the clinging cobwebs
Webs of pride, swipe. Gone.
If it only worked like that
If it only worked like that.

Day 208, a woman can!

Had to go there today while reading Judges and the story of eborah and Jael. No offense to men at all. Love them, couldn't live without mine! I need him and glad I have him, just saying that a woman can do the same hard things with the right motivation...

I am neither feminist
or humanist but wholly
satisfied to be female
comletely at ease
with my task
A woman is a warrior
who needs no battle
training, only the proper
cause to defend. No one
has to teach her to protect
or defend the things she loves.
She will fight and fight well.
So I find myself irritated
by the pondering,
"Could a woman make a tough call?"
"Could she orchestrate a war, could
she leave out her emotions?"
She should never leave out her emotions!
only be sure she loves the things she
swears to as much as she swears to.
Then she will be as strong as any man
perhaps a little more so for love is a
mighty muscle and a woman knows this
better than a man.

Day 207, one hour lost

The tender hour of morning
that gives me time to dream
was ripped away last night
in a funny little scheme
of give and take
of night and day
and my coffee cup
can't fill the void
it just can't fill
this void.

Day 206, forgetting

Forgot a few important details to my week :(

Forgetting

It's when you forget
you remember
it comes flooding back,
the amnesia gone
and it stakes you down
plants you in the moment
"ah ha, I've got you" it laughs
maniacally. "Remember?" it
jeers. and remember you do.

Day 205, the Artist

It's the way you painted
The sullen afternoon waters
With a single streak of gold
The bulbous sun hanging pregnant
Insignificant in the dusk
A pearly blue sky ashen
Grieved as the cashmere grey
Of night bleeds in
But I find it serene, mystical
Majestic. Intended.
It makes me want You
to paint me too.

Day 204, a latte mecca

With sleepy minds we push the gas
We deliver heavy backpacks and tiny kids
In a flurry of hurries and I love you's
And. Then.
A wafting mocha breeze
Occupies our anxieties, soothes.
The SUV steers itself confidently
It's daily pilgrimage, it's Mecca
Just ahead. A simple green circle
It's a yin and yang of addiction
and contentment all steamed to perfection
In your cardboard cup, want and need
All tangled up on the holy ground
We call Starbucks.

Day 203, what's CR to me?

Celebrate Recovery is like walking up the high dive. I didn't know, I didn't understand a couple of years ago... I had no clue. There's this roomful of honest and brave people, scared, unsure, hurt but their smiles... My promise to myself has been not to labor my words and bore you with my every thought but put it to poetry. I'd rather write it but here it goes...

Celebrate Recovery

It's a room full of weakness
a shrinking of self
a scooting over to make room
deflated of their own power
they radiate hope, they raise
their hands and they know
they need Him, they get it
this needing, this hoping
this trusting. You see they
don't lie in the pseudo-security
of checking off the chore chart,
of little shiny stars persuading
our to-do-list hearts of our own
goodness.

It's in this room, in their
presence that self righteousness
suffocates, it's spark simply
deprived of the arrogant breeze
it needs to thrive. There is no hope
in our own strength, no star shiny
enough to brighten the darkest
spaces in my heart, only a Lord
a bright shining daylight God
ready to illuminate.

I watch them praise, laugh nervously,
repeat the guidelines. I watch them rely
and admit and release. They have no idea
how this honesty bruises my prideful heart
how wonderful that feels each and every time
I leave that blue room full of His light. They
scooted over for an hour or two, they left room
for Him and He sits and dines each Monday
night and they teach me, oh Lord they teach me!

And a thousand quiet praises later I still
stand in awe of these, the brave and honest
souls who dare to doubt themselves
in a world that preaches self confidence,
self reliance, a world running on "double As"
a battery powered hope. Not in in this room,
NO, it's a solar powered operation altogether
my city on the hilltop, a well lit horizon for my soul.

Day 202, it's all staring me in the face

The Staring Game

It's a long funny gaze
The way your blessings
Stare at you, too soon
You give and turn your eyes
And see the dusty floor
The squeaky noise, a noticing
Of all the things that hide
A sinful sort of safari
For the lurking beast called discontent
His roar a far off threat, it's all
You can think about, his stalking breath
But blessings never quit
The game, never dropped it's gaze
Only blessings are no predator
But simply the smallest and gentlest
Of the hunted, its scrubby pelt a perfect
Sort of muff to hide the distant growl
An easy catch in an impossible game.

Day 201, premature spring

The Dogwood Tree
It's spring, she muses, and burst
forward in a lovely piroutte
suddenly, gracefully
all hope, all desire remembered.
She truly is a prima ballerina
all grace and confidence
Her arabesque is perfection!

A dainty little derriere appears
in the middle of winter.
the curtain thrown open
far too soon, she stands
and scuttles embarassed
withered to a humble plie
shivering in her little pink tutu.

Day 200, jazz

The saxophone
Speaks my dialect
Levers, buttons, hot air
The trill and moan
Of ups and downs
Secrets, sorrows and
A peek a boo joy
It brassy laughter
The exact color of my soul

Day 199, basketball

Busy day, poetry is done on the run!

It's fingertips and elbows
Dance. Bounce. Pivot. Shoot
Dance. Bounce. Pivot. Shoot.
The swish then Swoosh of net
A mighty cheer a mighty sigh
One loser
One winner
One four quarter high

Day 198, electric air

Thought I'd try a little old school poetry formatting...

Cinquain Poetry Type has five lines. Line 1 is one word (the title). Line 2 is two words that describe the title. Line 3 is three words that tell the action. 

Line 4 is four words that express the feeling. 

Line 5 is one word that recalls the title

Atmosphere

damp, electric

swirling misty air

static wishes clinging tight

zephyr

Day 197, laugh lines

So I am going to be sort of honest and use my own pic for this only because it seems terribly wrong to use someone else's wrinkles. That being said, it isn't really laugh lines I have so much as indentations but let me assure you they are new ones, from getting older. I will never show you the picture I tool of my actual laugh lines, uh-UH!


Laugh Lines


A hard won door prize
a goody bag given from time's
zealous hands, proof
to the fact that you showed up
that time blind folded you
and spun you around
but you took that stick and
beat the candy out of that piñata,
you pinned the tail on the donkey
and had your share of cake too
that's what a laugh line is...

Day 196, wat, wait, WAIT...

It's a waiting game this waiting thing
You sit you stare you fix your hair
But you do not move, you you do not move
Be it DMV, private beauracracy
You sit and wait and imitate a happy fool
Or a grumpy Gus, but you wait no matter
No matter what...

Day 195, take 2!

So I tried this one again since I got cut off yesterday... I still don't know about it but it's always nice to take a second look and touch one up.

The rumpled silk river

drifts hushedly below the bridge

acquiescing to the edges of earth

that define it, deceptively compliant

A milky silver and bronze complexion

dancing, a divine sort of intoxicant

It's top waters are steady hands

But underneath is all turmoil

a rushing, moving flurry of

push and shove

The river wags its fingers

saying, come along, come along

and you begin to imagine

the way the water feels next to your skin

hear the indulgent splash of your body sinking in

never realizing just how deeply

you'll have to dive to swim

it's currents, nothing but an undertow

of hidden bitterness

your dreams its flotsam

An enchantress of silky deception

the silver sheen of lust her siren call