Song

I am stuff’d with the stuff that is coarse and stuff’d with the stuff that is fine 

and I’m looking for you ahead of me, searching for bootprints in the grass–

you will wait for me, paternal and maternal and full of hope
that generations will not return void the legacy you bequeathed.

 

I lift my eyes to the brightening dawn and pull my soul awake
meet the warmth of day and walk into the open green.

 

I take hold of who I am–a woman of many nations,the smallest the same and the largest the same.

 

I am new every morning
and never change a thing.

 

I sing myself to the world and the world listens.
I am full of innocence and grace and find beauty in the slow moving snail
that makes its way across my step.
He journeys alone and free.

 

I sound the bell and wait for the echo to return.
My freedom is in the air, the wind, the song
that finds its way back to me,
as I follow you.

 

Footnote:
Leaves of Grass (Walt Whitman)
16

I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,
Regardless of others, ever regardful of others,
Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,
Stuff’d with the stuff that is coarse and stuff’d with the stuff that is fine
#SingPoWriMo2015Day07 #SingPoWriMoDay07#Prompt1: Woo your favourite poet with a poem.

Caught in the Late Evening Light

Caught in the late evening light that fell like a blanket

onto the gray stained  floor,

an ordinary man sat down

in an ordinary place,

and he had no intention of taking the stairs down

where the light was too short to spread.

“My feet will be cold down there” he thought.

“I prefer the sun” El Sol. Luz Suave.

 
So this ordinary man sat down.

And eventually, he decided to lie down,

stare at the ceiling, and watch the evening light change,

watch the white wall turn soft shades of persimmon

and papaya. “I’ll grab this light,” he said,

“and remember this moment”

when all the forces of time and place

came together and offered him a little bit of sunshine.
 

‪#‎SingPoWriMo2015Day02‬ | ‪#‎SingPoWriMoDay02‬

singpowrimo image

Today or Fifty Years From Now

Today or Fifty Years From Now

In Louisiana, no matter what the year,

the Cajuns dance on the graves

and the swamp comes alive.

A dance they feel in their bones

’cause the rise and squeeze of the accordion

sends a shot of love through their limbs

and they just can’t help but dance.

There is no queue, no line, but a snaking flood

of sometimes shallow water  that carries the song and dance

and lifts it up, so high the fireflies and mosquitos stop–

arrested by the undying sound

of life-giving music.

 
 
SingPoWriMo: A Facebook Group

CHALLENGE: I will write 1 poem a day from 1 apr 2015 to 30 apr 2015.

INSTRUCTIONS:
– post a poem every day. you can follow the lovely prompts provided daily by mods, or you can just write whatever.

We Use Wipes

We Use Wipes

The Busy Moms

 

We use wipes. We

Break Fights. We

 

Kill bugs. We

Give hugs. We

 

Read book. We

Always cook. We

 

Watch toons. We

Nap soon.

 

 

In the style and form of

We Real Cool

Gwendolyn Brooks, 19172000
                   THE POOL PLAYERS. 
                   SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.



We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

Difference Maker

 “It’s time to live as though we believe we have something to offer. It’s time to release our authentic selves into the world.”

Emily Freeman

I’m midway through reading Emily Freeman’s book  A Million Little Ways: Uncover the Art You Were Made to Live, and I’m going to do something a bit unprofessional. I’m going to recommend it even though I haven’t finished reading it. Gasp! Truth be told, I actually recommended it after I read the 1st chapter, but this time, I’m going public. It’s that good (so far). So…buy this book and read at least the first four chapters. 😉

As the title suggests, Freeman delves into how we can uncover the dreaming artist that God created us to be. How  we can dust off and display our true design. There are many quote-worthy passages, but here is one that most recently stuck out to me.

Freeman discusses her youthful success in writing  and touches on something I think is relevant to many of today’s wandering artists. She writes:

“After receiving such encouraging feedback from eighth grade all the way into college on my writing, I did the most natural thing a young writer would do.

I chose to major in piano. But since I didn’t love piano enough to get better, I did the next natural thing a young writer would do. I dropped my piano major and began to study sign language interpreting. Naturally.

Actually, it makes more sense than you think.

The natural thing to do when hints of your own design scare you is to run. Can you remember when you first ran away from this kind of desire, the kind carrying hints of your design?

This is what we do when we have forgotten who we are. We are desperately afraid of both our capacity for destruction as well as for beauty. We are terrified of our sin-burden as well as our image-bearing identity. We are suspicious of desire and don’t trust our own ability to sort out first and second things.”

book cover
from: Freeman, Emily P. Million Little Ways: Uncover the Art You Were Made to Live.
So let’s go on this adventure and discover the art we were made to live. Let’s surrender to His design.

 

God of mercy sweet love of mine

I have surrendered to Your design

(Jenny’s blog has moved to wHereLifeIsReal)

 

“Multiplied”

Your love is like radiant diamonds
Bursting inside us we cannot contain
Your love will surely come find us
Like blazing wild fires singing Your name

 

God of mercy sweet love of mine
I have surrendered to Your design
May this offering stretch across the skies
And these Halleluiahs be multiplied

 

Your love is like radiant diamonds
Bursting inside us we cannot contain
Your love will surely come find us
Like blazing wild fires singing Your name

 

God of mercy sweet love of mine

I have surrendered to Your design
May this offering stretch across the skies
And these Halleluiahs be multiplied

songs by Need to Breathe
Emily Freeman blogs here.

Bayonet

Death has innocent cries,
newborn sounds, feeble attempts
at first communication.

You can hear a voice dropping,
distance told by sound.
The ever growing gap–diminuendo.

Do you think they knew the sensation of falling?

Startled shoulders widening,
hands outstretched, backs arched in anticipation.
Head limp, necks not knowing how to hold things together.

Once in a museum I saw
a pile of children’s shoes.
At least five feet high–

it was just one pile.
I’m sure there were others in other museums.

Newborn cries can fill a hospital’s atrium,
swell in that empty place and
break through any sunlight that provides
witness to atrocity.