The wind
under the eaves
is moaning
droning.
The ghost
of March
not knowing
April is here.
Flaunting
haunting
as if it would
as if it could
reach in
and pull me
from
safety.
It groans
it moans
it finds
no entry.
It cannot touch
not now
not ever
the stillness
within.
Today concludes the thirty-one-day Slice of Life Story Challenge with Two Writing Teachers. Today I cross the finish line with many fellow Slicers, having written a post each day.
But the writing doesn’t end here.
Nor does the challenge …
That’s the thing. Now, more than ever before in our lives, is a time to write.
The photo above is of a pocket notebook a friend and mentor gave as a parting gift to all who attended her retirement celebration years ago. Her love of writing and advocacy for teachers as writers inspires me to this day. She also passed the torch of facilitating district writing workshop training to me … until this year, when it is no longer offered. But I carry the notebook with me everywhere I go, just to remind me …
Teachers, students, families, friends, citizens of the world, all … today I offer the same to you, in the ongoing composition of life: Write bravely.
*******
write your stories
share your glories
write bravely
write for healing
name the feeling
write bravely
write all your rages
fill all your pages
write bravely
write through your tears
conquer your fears
write bravely
write of the past
save it at last
write bravely
write of your sorrows
and your tomorrows
write bravely
write them for you
and for me, too
write bravely
write bravely
write bravely
Mourning doves are said to symbolize providence, grace, peace, safety, renewal, and moving forward. Their low-pitched song sounds sad or comforting, depending on the listener. I dedicate this lament to the dove outside my kitchen window, whose plaintive murmur I hear in the dark, just before sunrise.
grim gray morning
grim gray news
grim gray outlook
grim gray blues
time to shelter
time to snooze
time to waken
time to muse
dream to endure
dream to choose
dream to escape
dream . . . a ruse
morning to ponder
morning to lose
morning pours out in
mourning dove coos
*******
Photo: Nesting mourning dove. Katy Tegtmeyer. CC BY
public scare
shelves are bare
everywhere
germ warfare
must beware
tempers flare
sad affair
be aware
none to spare
it’s unfair
selfless share
would be rare
do we dare
do we care
nothing there
say your prayer
Ever wish you could keep a small child safe and innocent forever? It’s a wish as ethereal as bubbles in the wind, drifting away like childhood itself. I took this photo last summer. It’s taken this long to figure out how to convey what I felt.
Little girl
blowing bubbles
in the sun
free of troubles
How they drift
on the breeze
turning, turning
as they please
Colors shimmer
ever bright
just a moment
in the light
Wave your wand
my temporary
iridescent
bubble fairy
All too soon
time shall pass
bubbles pop
in the grass
How I wish
things could stay
idyllic as
this summer day.
broken moments
broken things
broken heart
yet it sings
broken flight
broken wings
broken fall
still it stings
feathers here
feathers there
feathers falling
everywhere
who’s at fault
I can’t say
we’re all broken
in some way
fallen is forever
broken is for now
people aren’t angels
anyhow
glue for mending
desire to start
wells within
the broken heart
in breaking through
not breaking worse
from broken pieces
comes broken curse.
Photo: Forgive Me. eddie dangerous. CC BY
After the rings
he bowed
gave her a necklace
and vowed
to be her father
for the rest of his days
to teach her, to keep her,
to love her always.
We put the cookies in the oven
and we wait.
Good things take a while.
Don’t they.
Like Christmas and growing up.
Like wedding days
and having children.
Like heart-dreams coming true.
Like you.
It took a long time.
I had to wait.
My little boy had to grow up
and finally find your Mom.
It took a while
didn’t it
for you to get your dad.
Know what he told me?
“Mom, you’re getting a little girl
at last.”
So much of life is waiting, waiting,
it’s true
like my long ago-dream
of you.
So many books to read
and stories to share
and songs to sing
and places to go
and just to be
you and me.
So we put the cookies in the oven
and oh, we can hardly wait.
Cicada wing. Kristine Paulus. CC BY
A hymn, of sorts, on hearing one of my favorite sounds for the last time this year—it echoes from idyllic childhood summers and the country roads of my ancestral homeplace. A strangely sacred sound, it always lifts my spirits and aches in my soul at the same time.
∞
High in the oaks
against the bluest of skies
the rattling swells
as its season dies.
An oxymoron
this buzzing call
from amid the leaves
soon to fall.
This song of my childhood
lingering still
in the last of the light
before the chill.
Full force, the cicada sings
—doesn’t it know?—
summer’s gone on the wings
of a song long ago.
***
Outside
in the blaze of summer
the barest hint of change
In the crescendo of cicada song
a whisper of waning
Almost imperceptibly
the shift begins
Inside
climate controlled
time suspended
Isolation
but not desolation
as inevitably, in life,
the shift begins
I walk the hospital floor
thinking that cicadas don’t know
Or do they?
Their song throbs loudest
in the summer sun that remains
This same sun that
casts shadows
where I must walk
also casts unexpected rainbows
at my feet.
