Retro Night!

Tonight was our neighborhood dinner and the theme was “retro" night. We have six families who eat together every month and somehow it’s morphed into a different theme for every month….. sometimes even with costumes! (Tonight one couple came as Mike and Carol Brady. Hilarious!)

Everyone brought food they ate as kids. We had hamburger biscuit casserole, Salisbury steak and gravy, peanut butter filled celery sticks, creamed corn, and cornbread.

I brought BBQ green bean bacon rolls and pear-mayo-cheddar cheese salad! :-) (They are better than they look, promise!)

So this is my creativity for today – cooking with lots of color, photographing, and “retro-ing” it up with Photoshop.

I also met with a new friend plus an old friend to begin a writing group. We discussed how we thought the writing group might work and did a short writing prompt together: “Write about two rivers that join together.” I like the direction mine took and may rework it this weekend.

And – oh! This weekend!! Big plans and I’ll be sure to share!

Finally, one of the three most creative things I’ve ever done and her name is Mary. Precious, isn’t she? Taller than me at 12 – hard to believe! Smart, funny, makes me laugh all the time. I love her!

PS. Don't forget to take a look at today's postings for AEDM! I've found some lovely places to land over there.

CONTINUE READING...

The Music Man

I mentioned in an earlier post that there's a "sister" (probably more like a "brother") blog to Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides that gives several writing prompts each week. It's called Promptly and is written by Zachary Petit.

Monday's prompt was:

PROMPT: Morals and Movies
In 500 words or fewer, funny, sad or stirring: You have just purchased tickets for a movie, and someone approaches you, tears in his eyes and something gripped in his palm, and asks a question—one that leaves you speechless.

Here's my 500 (exactly!) words. Not exactly Pulitzer Prize writing, but a good exercise to get me going:

We settled into our chairs, taking up almost half of one row in the dim theater. Letting out a deep sigh I rested my head briefly on one shoulder then the other. I felt some of the tension release that had been accumulating all day, like dark thunderclouds. It was such a relief to be with friends in the cool theater, hidden away where no one could find me to ask a question or demand a need. Lisa had called just as I was leaving the office with an invitation to join her and four other friends for a girls’ night out. We were seeing The Proposal, a reportedly hilarious chic-flick that none of our husbands deemed worthy of their testosterone-laced attention.

Seated at the end of our row, I relaxed into the chatter and laughter and waited for the previews to begin. I must have dozed just a bit because when I felt the hard tap on my arm, I jumped.

“You’re in my seat. I have a ticket,” a small elderly woman with a wrinkled face like a walnut looked down at me with watery eyes. “The number is right here. You’ll have to move. This is my seat.” She was shoving what I guessed was her ticket stub in my face.

“Wait, ma’am,” I said, fully awake now. “There’s no seat numbers here. You just sit wherever you like.”

She pushed the stub at me again saying, “Here, look, I have this seat. It’s mine. Do you want me to call the attendant and have you moved?” Her voice began to rise and the white cardigan draped over her thin shoulders slid off on one side. She pressed the ticket stub into my hand and I could feel the slick pads of her fingertips rest for the briefest moment in my palm. They felt like something expensive, like silk or fine china. Her knuckles were large and swollen like the sugary gumballs my girls begged for every trip to the grocery store.

“George ordered these tickets a month ago. It’s a special day – our anniversary – and all I want is to see this show. Now get out of my seat!” By now everyone around us was quiet, watching the exchange between me and this fiery little woman. The cardigan slipped off her other shoulder and fell to the greasy theater floor.

“Mrs. Marble! There you are! You’re in the wrong movie. Lord, you scared me.” A large woman in nurse’s scrubs came up the aisle, swooped down rather agilely for a woman her size, and picked up the cardigan.

Gently taking Mrs. Marble’s arm, the nurse leaned over and said with a small smile, “Thinks she at a Broadway show. The Music Man. Sorry she bothered you. We’re here for a little outing with the nursing home and Mrs. Marble got away from me. She’s a slippery one.”

As they were walking away I heard Mrs. Marble say, “George is meeting me. He came straight here from work. He’ll be worried.”

CONTINUE READING...

The Truth Teller

I haven't written much poetry lately...not since I left to go home to take care of my mom who had open heart surgery in June. My creative juices were all dried up. A few weeks ago, though, I spent the morning with a friend who was having some scans done to determine the extent of the cancer that a biopsy had revealed. Ever since, these words have been rolling around in my head. I liken it to my living room floor that is in desperate need of sweeping: dust bunnies in the corner, bits of paper here and there, a stray dog toy or two. Then this morning, I dropped by Poetic Asides for their weekly prompt and found this:

For this week's prompt, I was inspired by that line "telling the truth can be dangerous business," and I want you to write a poem that deals with telling the truth--or even with telling a lie. It can be dangerous business, especially if the news is bad.

The idea of the prompt kind of jelled it all together and I swept up all the words and phrases in my head and ended up with this in the dust pan:

The Truth Teller

Inserted into the machine’s gaping maw,
baubles and clothing removed,
I lay as if dead and
wonder:

How many other breasts has this gown covered?
How many other fast-beating hearts
pumping blood to aching bones?
I shiver.

I am scanned and searched and scrutinized with
magic rays that burrow into my flesh,
probing down to sweet
marrow.

This truth machine, better than any serum, will tell
the tale of secrets hiding beneath my skin,
secrets I know but am not yet ready
to speak.

In a day, maybe two, these docs will call and I will
gaze at my electronic body, splayed, as
they point and say, “Here and
here and here.”

Cells – astray, askew, akimbo – must be brought
to submission, chemical warfare waged,
and weapons of mass destruction
injected.

But as for today, I dress and leave, no one yet the wiser.
Dark and wet and vibrant, they move with me,
patient, waiting for the battle
to begin.

A lot of this came from my friend telling me she already knew the test results: "You know how sometimes you just know in your knower?"

Yes, I do. Blessings to you, my friend.

CONTINUE READING...

Unexpected, Unbelievable, Unbounded Grace

The prompt this past week from Poetic Asides was to write a poem about something "unexpected." As I get ready to leave to care for my mother recovering from open heart surgery, I have been praying a lot for grace - grace for me and grace from me. This is my prayer:

Unexpected, Unbelievable, Unbounded Grace

I am praying for compassion –
not for me but from me.
I simply need grace –

unexpected,
unbelievable,
unbounded grace.

Grace that will drip from my
fingers, ooze from my pores,
shake loose from my hair.

Grace that will turn hard words,
brittle as old-lady bones slipping
like shards between my teeth,

into words that are true but
kind, words that are holy yet
humble, words that will rest

on others like dew in the morning.
I ask for Daily Bread, yes. But more –
I ask for these hands that will bake it

to be gentle and steady, cupped full
of peace and joy – each morning, but
each hour and minute and second, too.

Your will be done and please forgive
my debts – but only as I find grace to
forgive those indebted to me. Place

in my path no temptations – of self-pity
or anger or pride. Deliver me from the
Evil One. But first save me from myself.

CONTINUE READING...

Tornado Watch

Decided to keep going with writing poetry using the weekly Wednesday prompt at Poetic Asides. The theme for this week was "spring" which I guess leaves the field pretty wide open. Here's mine:

Tornado Watch

The sun leaks overhead through cracks, casting
odd shifting shadows. We obediently watch for
tornados, the air heavy with a damp promise.
(Which is worse, a watch or a warning? I can’t remember.)

Under clouds, piled up and turning purple like
a day-old bruise, we set out on a fast two-mile
walk through the neighborhood before dinner,
before the storm breaks, out and back like two yo-yos

thrown down and then yanked home. We talk
about our days, our work, the foolishness of
men. It was good to hear you laugh – your mother
weeks in the grave, your father barely a year. You’ve been at

the bottom of a lake stocked with grief, knees
pulled in, head down, holding your breath and
counting. Waiting at the surface, I think you’ve
finally pushed off to shoot back up for air. We’ve made the turn,

all downhill now, and a gust hits us hard from
behind, parting our hair like our mothers used
to for piggy tails, making our big t-shirts blow
full like sails. “Feels, good, doesn’t it?” I say. You smile, “Yes.”

I decide then not to tell you about my own mother –
the chest pains, the tests tomorrow, wondering if I
am starting down the path you’ve already trod. Not
for today, not for you to carry with me yet. We finish well, breath

coming quickly, sweat on our brows, hearts beating
fast – but steady. Back home, to our men, our girls, a
‘breakfast-supper’ of pancakes and bacon and biscuits.
“The storm missed us,” my husband says, kissing me. I pray he’s right.

CONTINUE READING...

Farewell to April's Challenge

Ah....the LAST prompt!! Here it is:

"...write a farewell poem. After all, we are saying farewell to another wonderful National Poetry Month. Say farewell to this month; say farewell to a vacation spot; say farewell to a bad relationship; say farewell to work; say farewell to school; say farewell to saying farewell even."

It's been a good month, a good discipline to make me write something everyday. Even though my favorite form of writing is definitely not poetry, there's been some good ideas for projects I'd like to work on from the poems I've written. And as always, writing anything is a way to get out what's on my heart...massage it, look at it, and bring it to God.

And who knew what talented friends I had? HT was no surprise at Home Schooling in the Heartland...she's one of the most creative (and funny) people I know. BUT...who knew her hubby DT at Cayenne Lemonade could get all that sarcastic wit to rhyme?? Wow! And then there's my secret writing friend, M, who won't publicize her poetry, but is very, very talented. Good job, M! And thanks for sharing with me.

There's been soooooooo many postings at Poetic Asides each day that there was no way I could read through them all....or even HALF of them for that matter! But, quite randomly, I've found a couple of poets I think I'll follow. There's Jane Beal at Sanctuary Poet and Ginger at The Gingerbread House. Plus, looks like Robert at Poetic Asides has a poetry prompt every Wednesday that I want to try to keep up with.

I've learned a lot and had some fun, but now it's time to say good-bye to National Poetry Month! Cheers! Thanks to my bloggy friends who have suffered through 30 days of (mostly) bad poetry postings!! :-)


Farewell to April's Challenge

Thirty days of stringing words
like beads on a necklace.
A few I found were precious jewels
that I will keep and cherish.

Others, though, I have to say
were better left unsaid.
I should have kept them floating
in confines of my head!

So farewell April's Challenge,
I bid you all good-bye.
These last words I type
with a much contented sigh.

CONTINUE READING...

Never

Almost done! Just one more prompt after this one:

" ...title your poems "Never (blank)" with you filling in the blank with a word or phrase. Then, write a poem based off your title."

I just went with "Never."

Never

Never miss a chance to pause
and look at blades of shadow
falling from the morning sun
on your love’s sleeping face.

Never lose that friend who
sits silently down in your
sorrow, takes your hand,
and waits for it to pass.

Never forget the wonder of
holding your first baby, how
the force of your love almost
cracked the earth to its core.

Never doubt that hope is
always an option, a skill
you can learn, an ability
that can belong to you.

Never believe God is not
with you, always waiting
for you to call out to Him,
to seek His beautiful Face.

CONTINUE READING...

Yellow House

The prompt yesterday from PA was:

"...to write a sestina."

Huh? A what?

Apparently, to write a sestina poem you need to pick 6 words, rotate them as the end words in 6 stanzas and then include 2 per of the words per line in your final stanza. BEWARE: THIS CAUSES MASSIVE HEADACHES. DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME WITHOUT A BOTTLE OF ASPIRIN NEARBY! Click here for a really good tutorial on how to attempt a sestina.

We only have two more prompts left to go, thank goodness! It's getting painful....for me and I'm sure for my bloggy friends out there that are still reading my drivel! :-)

Really, this was super hard for me. The topic that's been running around in my mind is the fact that our good friends' house across the street just closed and new people are moving in this week. The new family took the old family's name off the mailbox yesterday and it made me very-very-super-sad. They've been out of the house for many months now, so I was surprised at how upset it made me. Blah.

Anyway, here's my six words: family, house, first, remove, name, neighbors.

Yellow House

Today I watched a new family
move into the big yellow house
across the street. The very first
thing they did was to remove
from the mailbox the name
of our previous neighbors.

Slowly I’m sure the new neighbors
will become friends of our family.
We’ll get to know their names,
their plans for changing the house,
which trees they will remove,
what bushes they will plant first.

But, honestly right now, just at first,
I’d rather not meet new neighbors.
I’d really rather they didn’t remove
the marks left by the other family.
Don’t worry, I know it’s their house –
that it’s right to change the name.

But I don’t even know their names
yet. Not their last, nor their first.
I wonder if they will love this house
as much as our old neighbors?
Will they bring up a large family
here or be quickly on the move?

From a window I watch burly movers
cart boxes marked with the names
of each place they belong - family
room, kitchen, den. A good neighbor,
I suppose, would ask to help out at first –
bake cookies, an offering to the new home.

And so I sit restless in my own house.
It’s hard to make myself go, make a move.
I miss my old friends, my old neighbors.
I knew them so well – not just names,
but so much more. Even at the very first
they were like missing pieces of family.

Yes, I’ll go to the new neighbor’s yellow house,
meet their family, offer to help with the move,
learn their names. It will just be hard at first.


(Art by Andrea Pratt)

CONTINUE READING...

A Needful Thing

Yesterday's prompt from PA was to:

"...write a poem of longing. You or someone (or something) else should be pining for someone or something."

The question "What are longings if not prayers?" popped into my mind and was the beginning of my poem. It didn't make the cut, but the idea of "prayer" did. I pictured my prayers as being great birds that I set free over a tumultuous ocean hoping that they will make it to God.

A Needful Thing

A voiced and needful thing
loosed from my lips and sent
circling and cawing and calling;
talons once buried deep in
the flesh of my heart unfasten
and fly Heavenward to You.

Standing in the surging surf,
I watch my plea rise in hope,
only to see it dive deftly
into the black depths
below, abandoning me.

Surely, there could be no
survival – for me or my prayer.
It has failed to reach
Your Heaven,
And I have failed attract
Your notice.

But I wait – what else is there
to do? Where do I have to go?
And miracle - I find my prayer
floating on rocky waves, satisfied
and full, one with the storm.

So, this is it. I understand, then.
My longings, entreaties, cries-
sometimes must first dwell in
deep darkness, and all I can do is
stand and wait and watch.

CONTINUE READING...

Miscommunication

Ack! I'm plum out of poetry! Well...here's yesterday's prompt from PA:

"...write a poem involving miscommunication. It can be miscommunication between two people or misinterpretation of some sort."

And here's all I could come up with...

Miscommunication

But, I thought-

He said,
She said,
You said,
We said,
They said?

Miscommunication
Rumination
Fabrication
Libation
Ablation

Perhaps we should consider
abbreviation?

(Artwork by Carl E. Moore)

And please do check out Cayenne Lemonade's latest poem...Not sure if this one is based on the "miscommunication" prompt or the "longing" prompt or was just found in some dark recess of DT's ingenious mind. Love you, Cayenne Lemonade!

CONTINUE READING...

Sabbath Morning Prayer

Yesterday's poetry prompt from Poetic Asides was to:

"...pick an event; make that event the title of your poem; and then write a poem."

I thought of today being the Sabbath and decided to make that my title. Here's what came out:


Sabbath Morning Prayer

“The end of all things is near,” I read in
First Peter this morning while everyone
slept. Praying, sitting on the porch, I
watched the sun rise through the trees,
and sipped coffee from my favorite mug.

“The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,”
we sang in church, hands and voices raised
Heavenward, beseeching. Outside, the clean
April heat waited to envelop us, promising
long summer days just around the corner.

How hard it is to keep the end in view, to
believe this world to be fleeting, when by
Your Grace the sun rises and sets every
day, the seasons come and go every year.
Help me, Lord, to live each day as my last.

CONTINUE READING...

Four Corners

The prompt yesterday from PA was:

"...to write a travel-related poem. It can be human travel, the migration of swallows, the trafficking of drugs, etc. Some sort of movement from point A to point B."

I think I'm hitting the proverbial "poetic wall." Nothing too profound today. All I could think of was a photo my mother has of me at the Four Corners Monument from one of our very few family vacations. And, yes, I really had on red, white, and black plaid pants.

Four Corners

Driving 1200
miles and rising
4800 feet from the
sweltering flatland swamps
of Sportsman’s Paradise to the
crisp and cool Four Corners Monument.
Me, in red and white and black plaid pants, nine –
or ten, hair cut like a boy’s, spread eagle
across Utah, New Mexico, Arizona
and Colorado – amazed at the
thought of being in so
many places
at once.

CONTINUE READING...

Regrets - If I Had Been Eve

Mmm...Yesterday's prompt from PA was to:

"...write a poem of regret. Get creative with this one, but there should be some form of regret either expressed or hinted at (even if ever so slightly). You do NOT have to use the word "regret" in the poem, though it's fine if you do."

Yikes. Regret. At 40, it seems that I'm beginning to think about some of that more and more. I actually wrote what I suppose you could call a 'prose poem' a year ago titled "Regrets":

Regrets

How do you staunch the flow of regret in your life - those things you wish you wouldn’t have done…or would have done…or said…or didn’t say? Do you press down hard, hoping it will clot before there is a bloody mess? Or do you take more drastic measures – tie a tourniquet around the offending memory and twist it tightly, painfully, until the opened vein is clamped off, but a piece of you is left numb and useless? Or maybe you follow old folk medicine and use cobwebs to stop the bleeding - usually there are plenty of those hanging about in the corners of our minds? No – I say let it flow, hot and sticky, down your body, seeping into your heart, until you can really see the sorrow of it all; let it settle, pool...thicken. Then open your hands and lift them up, still damp with your sadness, to the Great Physician, the Remover of all regrets, and watch as He washes you clean.

But - I guess the idea of the challenge is to do something original. So...as I am continuing (almost finished) with this book I'm reading on Sin/sin, the idea of regretting my Sinfulness/sinfulness came to mind....and this is what came out:

If I Had Been Eve

If I had been Eve,
I like to think things
would have turned
out quite differently.

But – let’s be honest –
it’s very doubtful.

I would have grabbed that apple -
peeled it, sliced it, and diced it.

I would have eaten
it whole, gobbled it
down and sucked
that core dry.

I would have spit the
seeds on the ground
and watered
and nurtured
and cared
for those little
saplings until I had a
whole forest from
which to choose.

I would have made
apple juice,
apple sauce,
apple butter,
apple pie,
apple strudel,
apple dumplings,
apple pudding,
apple bread
and apple cake.

Then I would have put my
whole creative culinary
display on a sparkling silver
platter and offered it right
up to dear ol’ Adam, making
sure he emptied his plate
and licked his fork clean.

If I had been Eve,
I imagine…
things would
be quite worse.
:o)

CONTINUE READING...

Conjure

Yesterday's prompt from Poetic Asides was:

"...write a work-related poem. Work doesn't have to be the main feature of the poem, but I want you to "work" it in somehow."

I thought about my old jobs and remembered one I had while first married. I worked for a prosperous realtor in our town writing ads for her house listings. I never actually saw the houses themselves, but she would give me snapshots to write from. Ah - my first (and only) writing job! :0)


Conjure

Maybe three, or maybe four,
lifetimes ago I had this job -
sitting in a dusty back room
of a sprawling old house
converted into offices. It
squatted under archaic
live oaks decorated with
Spanish moss like tinsel
on Christmas trees. A window
unit, my humming knight in
shining armor, fought the
flame-breathing summer heat
for me. And most days the
dragon lay slain. Looking at
photographs of houses, I
would conjure them up with
words, invoking their presence
magically onto paper: remodeled,
revamped, redone, redecorated,
repainted, reduced. Re-everything.
And all for sale. Square footage,
half baths, patios and attic fans –
Nooks, decks, and hardwood
floors – Spacious, homey, cozy
and, of course, fantastic –
Three short lines of newsprint
to describe where people had,
were, or would
live and die.
We were
renting.

CONTINUE READING...

To Haiku Or Not To Haiku...

Yesterday's prompt from Poetic Asides was to write a haiku poem. I've tried these before...and, well, I don't think I really get it. But here's two that I came up with while driving into work in the dark this morning.


New Day

Sunrise in the East,
Driving West into darkness,
New day chasing me.


Beauty

Moon in the darkness,
Shining star hanging near-by,
Beauties in the sky.

CONTINUE READING...

Thy Kingdom Come

Yesterday’s prompt from Poetic Asides was to:

“…write a poem of rebirth. There are many different types of rebirth available, including the changing of the seasons, the beginning of the day, religious or spiritual rebirth, a reconfirmation of good in people, re-learning how to love, etc.”

Rebirth…renewal…hmmm…This idea brought me to a great book I’m reading on Sin (and sin) and a quote I came across from Irenaeus, an early church father (c. 202AD.) Irenaues attributes the quote below to the Apostle John as he was telling of Christ’s teachings on the coming of the Kingdom and the renewal of Creation. It's long, but go ahead, it's worth it!

“The predicted blessing, therefore, belongs unquestionably to the times of the kingdom, when the righteous shall bear rule upon their rising from the dead; when also the creation, having been renovated and set free, shall fructify with an abundance of all kinds of food, from the dew of heaven, and from the fertility of the earth: as the elders who saw John, the disciple of the Lord, related that they had heard from him how the Lord used to teach in regard to these times, and say: The days will come, in which vines shall grow, each having ten thousand branches, and in each branch ten thousand twigs, and in each true twig ten thousand shoots, and in each one of the shoots ten thousand clusters, and on every one of the clusters ten thousand grapes, and every grape when pressed will give five and twenty metretes of wine. And when any one of the saints shall lay hold of a cluster, another shall cry out, I am a better cluster, take me; bless the Lord through me. In like manner [the Lord declared] that a grain of wheat would produce ten thousand ears, and that every ear should have ten thousand grains, and every grain would yield ten pounds of clear, pure, fine flour; and that all other fruit-bearing trees, and seeds and grass, would produce in similar proportions; and that all animals feeding [only] on the productions of the earth, should [in those days] become peaceful and harmonious among each other, and be in perfect subjection to man.” - Irenaeus, Against Heresies, Book V, Chapter 33

What a lovely picture of the redemption of Creation. So, of course, this is my inspiration for a “renewal” poem this morning.


Thy Kingdom Come

Can you imagine?
When your eyes will really see,
When your ears will clearly hear,
When your tongue will truly taste?

Now it’s through a glass darkly -
Seeing glimmers of potential,
Hearing whispers of rejoicing,
Taking sips of redemption.

Can you imagine?
What wonders to behold,
What praises to be sung,
What joys to be tasted?

See the lion with the lamb?
Hear the people praising?
Eat the wedding feast -
Imagine!

CONTINUE READING...

Anger

Ack! My head is aching - looong meeting today at work...hurry, hurry, hurry to buy Mary a costume for her play this weekend...then off to pick up E to get her DL. (More on that later!) Poor Matt! I only vaguely remember gulping down lunch with him at my desk. (Sorry!)

Yesterday's prompt from Poetic Asides was:

"...write an angry poem. That is, a poem about someone or something that gets angry."

Ah - anger. A toughie. My take was on how so many of us (often women) shut down in the face of anger...How paralyzed we can feel when some one's anger is pointed at us and fired. Why are we like that? And why do some people seem like they could care less?

Anger

In the face of Anger
she shuts down,
whirling silently
closed like a camera’s
aperture, successfully
shuttered against the
rage, but barricaded too
from the Light of Life –
wilting and dying. In an
instant gravity lets loose
and she floats away.
Cupped hands to mouth,
I shout her name –
but she is gone, escaping,
building a world better
fit for the blind and the
lost. But I see a small slip
of courage showing, the
teensiest crack opening.
She is beginning to fill
her ballast tanks,
beginning to find her
way home, testing the
waters to see if the
Anger has gone.

CONTINUE READING...

Connected

Boy! Am I ever late - but a good Sabbath day! I slept in because we were out later than usual last night, visiting with some friends and listening to music at the Jefferson, so no writing this morning. Then off to church followed by a picnic with our small group at Aberdeen's Lake Park. And...of course...the requisite nap. (That's in the Bible somewhere isn't it? Thou shalt take a nap on the Sabbath.) Then we had dinner on the porch - red beans and rice. Yum. (I used the ham bone from last Sunday's Easter dinner instead of sausage.) I love this time of year when our back porch becomes another room in the house. And...best of all...Ellie came home from her trip to Texas! She was gone over a week and we were all really glad to see her safely back in North Carolina. She goes to get her driver's license tomorrow. Gulp! Can you believe?

So - yesterday's prompt from Poetic Asides was:

"...write a poem with an interaction of some sort. The interaction does NOT have to be between people, though it can."

Here's mine...an "interaction" I had with Sean about twenty years ago. We love this story!

Connected

He was three – sturdy, blond, blue
eyes – a beautiful, beautiful boy. It
was Saturday and raining. His Dad was
at work and I had left him in the living
room playing so I could change the
sheets on our bed. It was our first
house – not ours really – just a rental,
but a real house with a real backyard,
fenced, and safe. Two bedrooms, a
sunny kitchen with white tile counters,
and hardwood floors. I had just tossed
a freshly washed sheet up in the air so
it would fall open on the bed when I
heard him cry.

I was like that sheet then for just a
moment: snapped taught, opened up,
hanging in time. “They’re naked
together! Mommy! They’re naked
together!”

Oh, no - I had left the television on.

The snippets from the news about the
war were giving him bad dreams – full
blown sweaty, cry-out-loud, panicky
nightmares. I had promised to be more
careful. I would, I vowed, be a better
mother. Now what had he seen? What
piece of innocence had been stolen from
him? I ran around the corner to find him
staring up at me in wonder – eyes wide,
mouth curved in a sweet smile. Big Bird
was talking to Cookie Monster in the
background, feathers and fur completely -
and thankfully - intact.

“See, Mommy? They’re naked together.”
He held up a tower of red, blue and
yellow Legos. Connected together.
Ah.

I sighed, and my heart, like the sheet,
floated silently - softly - back in place.

CONTINUE READING...

All I Want

The prompt from yesterday at Poetic Asides was:

"...write a poem with the following title: "All I want is (blank)," where you fill in the blank with a word or phrase of your choosing."

Psalm 84 came to me this morning. It's one of my favorites.

All I Want

All I want is just one day
in Your courts,

a place near Your alter
in which to shelter my
children,

a pool to wash my soul
as I walk through the
Valley of Weeping,

that I may rise up from
my sadness renewed
and refreshed, a pilgrim
ready to travel again.

All I want is for You
to hear me.

Lord, be my Sun -
yet be my Shield.

CONTINUE READING...

Blue

A little late today....busy, busy! The prompt for yesterday with Poetic Asides was:

"...pick a color, make that the title of your poem, and write a poem that is inspired by that color."

Red is my favorite color, but "blue" is what came out! Here's my go:

Blue

The slightest hint in
a slivered piece
of summer
moon

Soft and milky in
a blinkless
newborn
stare

Washed out in
a favorite
pair of
jeans

Shimmering in
the ocean’s
rolling
waves

Painted solid in
a pillowed
Carolina
sky

Navy, denim, steel,
slate, aqua, teal -
comfort
colors.

CONTINUE READING...