transition

reluctant to
surrender one
blazing leaf
holds fast
to a branch

wind can rustle
it one day
more in a
transition
condition of
beauty that will
not be hurried

the joyful
explosion of
color is
the journey to
its winter

longshadows

w i t h  a  s i l e n t

sinking

g a z e  y o u r  e y e s

cast

l o n g s h a d o w s

behind

m e  a  s e p t e m b e r

sun

s e t t i n g  b e t w e e n

the

s t e a d f a s t  t r e e s

slamming door

just because you
blame me doesnt
mean its my
            fault
her whisper resonates
from the corner (back
to her heart)
            where
she is placed to
think about what
it is she has
            (or
has not)
done

listen

 

what do you MEAN

you cant HEAR her

just SHUT UP and

LISTEN

artifacts

prehistoric artifacts
interfere with the
weathering the
smoothing of the
weaker substance that
holds them together

please dont ask
why some things i find
so hard that make no
sense from the
vantage point where
you judge me

the bones of those
things were
borne long before
you ever laid eyes
on their fossils

muse-ic

how do i lose
the muse
but not the
muse-ic
i am ready to
change the
station but all
i can hear is
static

moves

there are

no moves

left do you

want to

quit this

game

 

oh wait its

solitaire

 

good night

decompression

when you scuba the atmosphere of the ocean depths compresses your body (squeezing out whatever space it can find making you as compact as can be) and your tissue absorbs nitrogen in accordance with that surrounding pressure

the nitrogen may come out of solution and form bubbles (the bends) in your vessels if the change in pressure is too much for your breath to release all at once

it is very important that you come up slowly and hover just below the surface for a safety stop to give your body the time it needs to off-gas all that it has inhaled and to exhale all the waste that the body produces

i have been decompressing from many dives(within the Word within myself along with friends who are diving too) hovering just below the surface to process

the bits and pieces to follow are some of what has surfaced with me

 

one achy cranky morning i was sitting in a

garden not really sure of what i was going to

do or where i was going to go because the weather

had shifted and i wasn't feeling up to moving much

anyway

 

and i could feel the weight of my furrowed brow

and my bad attitude dragging me down when all of a sudden

i had to sneeze enormously and i did and lost a bit of my

equilibrium even though i was still sitting down on the

step

 

so as my head recoiled and my eyes turned upward i

saw these two guys stuck there in that miserable

position on the lip of a stone fountain that was supposed

to add beauty to the flowers planted carefully

along the path

 

and i laughed out loud at their predicament and how

each one blamed the other for the way they ended up and

that it didn't matter that it was raining because a steady

stream of water dripped down each man's nose and

chin

 

clearly neither cared that their actual function was to

beautify but in the very moment of that observation i

laughed out loud not caring who else was watching me

because i was not fixed in stone and my chin was

dry

 

and they couldn't even shake it off or spit the water

out if they wanted to and after a few minutes the clouds in

the sky and the rain that fell got thicker and more persistent

but i took my time as i walked to my car and drove

home

 



language

 

today my heart speaks a
language that my mind longs
to hear

not in the way of a box of grammar or
a closet of semantics but in the
careful stitching of the weaver
of tapestry or of the painter with
each purposed stroke
with the knowing that flows in the
current that moves the confident tide
in time with its mate the moon

today my heart speaks a
language of freedom that
moves me

resurfacing

i crash my head on an unexpected
ledge and the impact shatters the word-well
jar in my brain just like a scrabble
board tossed in the air
            (tiles speckle the floor upon landing)
the letters are

a     l
  l    
                                         v

                                      o    e 
                                             r

     t     h e



                       p     a  c
                          l
                                   e

     (but don't make
any sense)

           my thoughts (also thrown)

                                 plunge
                                 to
                                 the
                                 bottom
                                 of
a viscous sea i hear their muted
calling but from (where i rest) the
net is
           too short
to reach so they settle
far below me


after so much time tide dredges buried gems


if i just let the boat drift they resurface nearby


i hang over the bow careful not
to disturb to resubmerge them scooping and
landing my thoughts on
deck to dry out resuscitate and
breathe life again

poemcrazy: asleep, awake

asleep i am awake with worry
that closes any door to
far off places or
resolution of issues or
closure of lists of things
to do to help to care to try
and forget

awake i am dreaming of anywhere
but right here where to go
next year and what the spring
blooms will smell like when
they are mixed avec du pain et
du cafe across the street from
a musty bookshop and what it
was like succumbed to another
atmosphere but not drowning
because air was delivered to
my lungs from a tank strapped to
my back


Susan Wooldridge, in poemcrazy,writes: "It's hard for me to see myself...A mirror shows me my face, a poem shows me my soul."

this paradox of sleep-waking and wake-dreaming was shaken into my consciousness so i allowed myself time and open notebook space to actively remember some of the places i have been...here's one of them:

...the whole group was moving slowly upcurrent hovering over the ocean floor far enough to see what was moving around below with detail but not close enough to reach out and touch or stir up sediment with our fins.  i always hung toward the back of the pack just so i could have a little space to move from side to side not wanting to miss a grain of spectacular sand along the way.  long sip of static-sounding cool air inhale through the regulator then an equally lazy exhale with bubbles percussing ears and tickling my skin as they scamper up my cheeks through my scalp to the surface above.  all of a sudden forward motion became entangled as divers tried to stop themselves short of something that took them by surprise looking like a pileup on the freeway at rush hour.  it was no real threat just the end of the ocean floor or rather the end of the shallow plate we had been exploring and before us loomed an abyss.  to earth sight it seemed we may have fallen like Wile E Coyote to a devastating wreck below but in our current actuality we kept on swimming and needed to dump some air to descend the wall.  closest thing you could get to falling off the edge of the moon to swim away from the ocean floor to let it drop from beneath you and to be stable hovering in this new atmosphere that defies every sense your brain and body has come to know...despite the depiction my brain projected about the little my eyes could see i was no more at risk than i had been safe a few feet before.  even now as i remember the wonder of this fabulous dive all the tension in my tissue vacates as my breath slows and deliberates and i am floating away to a worryless sleep to be visited by these words...

i am moving away

from the ledge of the

ocean floor to

scale the wall

that intrigues and invites

weightless in my skin

waitless in my mind as i

hover above this abyss

and breathe

poemcrazy: listening to ourselves

"We have to start with ourselves before we can reach beyond ourselves." Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge, poemcrazy

i am a waterfall

     pummeling the cool pool rocks
     that await below

     disturbing your slumber with
     a bolt of lightning liquid
     chill

you cower and crave me in synchrony

     resisting the weight of
     my current
    
     strengthening in the
     isometry of our
     acquaintance.

I am afraid to be exposed, but here it is right on the page. The exercise Woolridge offers is to listen to myself, by answering a list of questions with the first word that comes to mind. After all the words and questions answered, the poem that emerges is not really about me at all but myself in relationship to something or someone. This is where it is easy for me, to see myself in light of other people. But these words are my ticket to go deeper and keep writing...who is just me?

In another section of the book, the exercise is to write about "where do you come from".  I am left-handed so I decided to write using my right hand (another suggestion from the book)and these words emerged:

"i come from a land that is foreign to my soul, chaos erupting
from rage overflowed my half-filled cup like a cheap soda from a shook up can. what should have been a satisfying delight a sip of sweet fizzle was instead an ambush of sticky liquid and uncontainable foam. and the responsibility to clean it all up.  my soul was made of gossamer, at least it started out that way.  over time and exposure the silken threads hardened and wore away until they resembled more of a potato sack burlap. itchy and porous and dull to the senses."

Maybe my shadow is awaiting in my right hand?  I am not sure who she is but I will listening more to what she has to say.  Her voice, though unfamiliar to me, is sure of what she knows to be true. 

artist's date: soho walk

I love to walk SoHo streets and soak in the urban artwork: random postings and graffiti that slap themselves irreverently across walls, poles, doors and windows, entertaining me, the slowly passer-by. After some uptown morning business last Saturday I drove downtown and parked...and walked... 

peering into holes in a fence;

gifting my sight with the texture of inconsistent order;

 

 

receiving a reminder for my frequent rumination...

 



on my way to lunch at a cafe I've never been to before.  I paused on the street to read the menu and the server who was standing outside smoking his cigarette told me that this was where I needed to eat.  Not long after speaking my order, the waitress places my garden salad on the chrome-topped table in front of me and as I take a slow, deep breath I can smell the sweet aroma of the cucumber quarters.  They taste like spring that is hoofing at the gate in our atmosphere (sun shining brightly but air too chilly to let it break through).  My coffee mug has a faint lipstick stain on the rim but today I am bold and  unfussy so I just wipe it away and turn the mug around. A Coldplay tune is on the radio overhead and now the waitress is sitting at a table perpendicular to mine with a basket of silverware and a pile of fresh white paper napkins  expertly wrapping the place settings while she awaits the completion of the next brunch order on the line. I bask in the light filtered from the skylight above and look at each object edge illuminated:  frosted plastic water tumbler, stainless steel fork and knife, green glass water bottle, the stainless caps to the salt and pepper shakers.  I turn my head millimeter by millimeter to the left and to the right and invite the refractions to feed my brain with their dimension. A sulky kid from across the room wonders what it is I am seeing and if he can see some too.

It's time to walk again and this I see and my heart screams YES.  I am laughing after I take this shot because a sweaty boy ran so fast right in front of me as I was focusing that he did miss being in the picture but startled me so I flailed on my feet.  Another man on the curb saw me jump and we laughed at how stupid people can be(me or him?) and he stooped to pick up my lens cap when it popped off and clankled on the sidewalk.

I saw him later walking down the sidewalk across another street.
 

And this, the last message of the day.  In my brain, after poked is giggled...and this giggle is what I have been lacking for many months. This word giggle has shown up in a few pieces recently and I know it is my spirit demanding that my mind lighten up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

artist's date: admit one

I took my Artist's date to the floor of the Spare Oom in my house.  It is a smallish room that has continually transitioned over the last 10 years, but mostly ends up as a space for unwanted items or things that need to be packed away.  It's been clear for a few months now;  the floors are painted spicy chocolate brown, the walls giggle in coral buff pink.  The Spare Oom houses one oval  mirror, an almost-full-to-the-edges bookshelf and fabric waiting to be sewn into curtains.  I am in no rush to fill the room or even to name it, but love the space it contains for potential.  There are no bills or chores or obligations in this room and with the window open on this  sunny, chilly spring afternoon I can rest without boredom and escape with my ticket to a new journey.


"A ticket lets you in somewhere.  On one side of some tickets it even says,'Admit one.'  Like a poem, a ticket is small, often colorful and valuable, allowing entrance to a special place." Sarah Goldsmith Woolridge, poemcrazy

like worry that
dragoons me from rest
the spool of tickets taunts
from the floorboards
a marching army spiraling
toward me pressing for
a word adMIT one adMIT one
adMIT one fear adMIT
one hope adMIT one
love adMIT one joy
adMIT one more one more
one more until i submit
and spill it forth in
the light of day


As part of April's National Poetry Month, Tweetspeak (for more info click here)  is hosting a book club experience featuring poemcrazy by Susan G. Woolridge (for more information click here ). 

Good morning!  This is my first attempt at "Five-Minute Fridays" so I have to say that right now I am mostly just pre-occupied with taking the first step.

Rest...something I have learned a lot about this past year when my body just quit on me and I could barely stay awake for a few hours each day

Physical rest and learning how to listen to my body...there is a time to go and a time to stop

Sleeping is rest for the body but may not be rest for the mind or the soul

Resting in Him is the peace that comes before the answer to prayer is heard or the resolution to conflict is in sight...and that thought has stayed with me since a young woman in my high school Bible study spoke that truth as part of her testimony

Resting in Him is grieving in hope and knowing it is okay to feel

Resting in Him is having people around to share those tears and to help carry a burden that only the heart can see

Resting is the experience of knowing how great and good God is when nothing before you (or behind you) feels anything close to great or good.

Linking today with Lisa-Jo and others at: