An unexpected gift this week
a means of keeping time
calling to me stop and seek
the sounding of its chime
a reminder at each passing hour
when crystals dance and music plays
to hear the song and tap the power
in every moment of my days.
The clock
On Poetry
Bookends of winter days
Winter mornings
dawn in gray monochrome
before the sun bursts on the scene
like a passionate artist
with its gilded palette
Driving to work
in this gray in-betweenness
I note the doves
always sitting on the power lines
like heralds
their plump bodies
of soft sandy colors
framed by the oyster sky
reminding me:
look for the peace this day
live as peacefully as possible
this day
Then, in the strange way
of life
as I drive home
weary and worn
the golden part of the day
nearly spent
what should I see
on other power lines?
Hawks
big and breathtaking
still as statues
painted in shades of rust
They might remind some people
of raw bloodthirstiness
or predatory fierceness
but their beauty
fills me with such awe
that it’s all I can do
to keep my eyes on the road
driving home
as I think about how my winter days
are bookended by birds
and how there’s something
inherently sacred
and profoundly satisfying
in that.
Dove. Jim, the Photographer. CC BY 2.0
Red-Shouldered Hawk. goingslo. CC BY 2.0
(One of these days, when I can stop the car safely, I am going to get my own photos of my hawks…)
*******
with thanks to Ruth at SOS-Sharing Our Stories: Magic in a Blog
for today’s inspiration to write:
“You are invited to linger in your winter memories, reach deep and pick a golden moment to share.”
Putting on awe
Funny how I ordered “awe”
and when it finally came and I put it on,
that very night
I dreamed
of finding my grandparents’ old car
the ’64 Ford Galaxie 500.
It was restored
shining, fire engine red, beautiful
and I drove it home
(of course I’d just been
writing poems about this car, so…)
but in this same dream
on the night I first wore “awe”
I left the Galaxie in the parking lot
and the light turned gray
like it does right before dawn
and I heard one lone cicada rattle
one of my favorite sounds in all the world
again connected to my grandparents
and summers at their country home
except in the dream, I knew it was January
and it is a miracle, isn’t it,
to hear a cicada in winter…
don’t ask how I ended up in the backyard
-this part of the dream is erased, alas-
but I found myself standing in the grayness,
facing the woods,
watching a bright red cardinal
feeding in the grass
maybe because I’d actually seen one doing that
earlier in the day
of course, this was Grandma’s favorite bird
-I am sensing a theme-
then, then, a little bird was flying
zigzagging overhead
so I called to it,
held out my hand,
and it LANDED THERE,
right in my outstretched palm.
I could feel its tiny feet,
its tiny beating heart…
I spoke to it, and it flew off…
but I was not sad,
just amazed
and filled with joy
all this I dreamed,
the very I night
the awe I ordered arrived
and I put it on.
Micah smiles
a tritina, with love – Franna
How you make me smile,
your sweet head adorned with ribbon,
eyes glimmering with light.
Such a celestial interplay of light
across your face when you smile,
recognition just beginning to ribbon.
Gift of my life, tied with ribbon.
I’m dissolved by the light
of this angelic smile.
Your smile, a ribbon of light in my soul.
Micah, three months old
Sunday is a stillness
Sunday is a stillness
in my week
not restful
for a pastor’s family
but restorative
and right
the church standing tall
like a father
doors like open arms
welcoming the penitent child
wrapping me
in belonging
Sunday is a stillness
in my spirit
ever how fierce or frayed
ever how dismayed
like a calming infusion
like a healing balm
the stillness seeps
so deep, so deep
for in all the unholiness
the holy remains
Sunday is a stillness
in my life
for the living
for the forgiving
for the remembering
for the mattering
for my walking in the footsteps
of those who walked before me
in the rhythms of grace
singing old songs of belief
through all our yesterdays
until our eternal Sunday
comes at last.
A game played long ago
This morning I woke to the sounds of wind gusts and snowflakes striking the window…brought back the memory of my oldest boy and a game we played long ago. A pantoum:
A game played long ago:
Little boy crawling into bed, whispering
“The North Wind will blow,
we will have snow!”
Little boy crawling into bed, whispering
“It’s so cold—I can’t get warm.
We will have snow!
Let me sleep here in your arms.”
“It’s so cold—I can’t get warm.
Until I am grown and gone,
let me sleep here in your arms”
—the memory of these moments!
Until I am dead and gone
the North Wind will blow
the memory of these moments,
a game played long ago.
The learning fire
cold cold classroom
how can anyone learn
teacher, wrapped in a blanket
kids wearing their coats
the teacher lights a fire
as good teachers always do
in some way or another
even if this one gives no warmth
it calms them, she says,
just the sound of it
popping and sparking—
like magic, the children get to work
the fire blazes, there on the screen
bright and merry, not consuming
—if not brought by Prometheus himself,
certainly sent through his Board
Lulling the learning: A Promethean Board casts its calming spell
in a cold classroom while the heat is repaired.
A bit of whimsy
Who wouldn’t love a seahorse pen?
Hippocampus reigns in hand and brains!
Iridescent eyes awaiting
My planner for updating
See the daily reminder here…
You are made of magic.
This really is my seahorse pen and planner. Just sayin’.
Dedicated to my blogger-friends at SOS—Sharing Our Stories: Magic in a Blog
in light of the challenge to capture a bit of whimsy
Burns night
If you’re aware of National Today, you know there’s a list of celebrations for every day on the calendar. Yesterday happened to be, among other things, National Macintosh Computer Day and National Compliment Day. Tomorrow is National Spouses Day—make it special!
I didn’t know, however, that tonight is Burns Night.
It honors the Scottish poet Robert Burns, born on January 25, 1759 (happy 263rd birthday, Rabbie). I have learned that Scots hold suppers on this evening, often with traditional dishes and bagpipes.
I’m not of Scottish descent but as I have loved Burns’ work since I was a teenager, I thought, in honor of Burns Night, I would at least share my favorite lines from his poetry. His best-known piece: the New Year’s song “Auld Lang Syne.”
My favorite Burns poem, however: “To A Louse.”
That’s right. The parasite. As in the tiny bug that infests your scalp. The horror of every school. Burns saw one crawling on a lady’s fancy bonnet at church and composed the rollicking verse, a particular delight to read or hear in the Scots dialect.
The lines that I have loved for most of my life come near the end of “To a Louse.” I find in them invaluable perspective:
O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
More easily understood as Oh, would some Power give us the gift of seeing ourselves as others see us…to “free us from blunders and foolish notions,” the poem goes on to specify.
Most often, though, the lines come to mind when I encounter people who just don’t seem to realize their incredible worth…and not just adults. Young people and children who struggle tremendously with self-image and self-esteem. I see them every day.
So on Burns Night especially, a prayer for them to see the beauty, power, and potential within. To see themselves as others see them. To know how much they are loved.
And a toast to the uplifting power of words.
Magnetic metaphorica
Writing leads me
on so many journeys
today it was
to the center of the Earth
it all started with
using “compass”
as a metaphor
which led me to wonder
what really makes a compass work
why the needle points
to magnetic north
which led me to
the magnetic field
and crystals in the Earth’s core
and to the discovery
that these crystals
are a type of snow
(iron snow,
but still)
snowing there
in the molten middle
of our planet
and now I’m swimming
in metaphor
the compass nearly forgotten
because in my mind
I see it snowing in Earth’s core
and I know
it doesn’t look
anything like what scientists
are guessing at
and that’s okay
because I started
with only a compass
not even a tangible one
and I found myself
pulled into fiery living snow
hidden from human eyes
and I felt the flapping
of a majestic blanket
as it rippled far
into the heavens
making the auroras dance
to its rhythms
trailing their long veils of light
-where was I?
Oh, right, the compass.
The journey, the journey.
It’s why I write.
NASA’s THEMIS Sees Auroras Move to the Rhythm of Earth’s Magnetic Field.
NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center. CC BY-NC 2.0
lit bits and pieces 