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Poetry

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We are spring's daughters

You are now three and my struggle is rushing , remembering to hold on to your tiny words,

pulsing between my daydreams of pressing thoughts

and the image of your silly faces

in the rearview mirror.  You make me laugh,

sing along sweetly to the radio, tell me a story

about how Winnie the Pooh dies and then goes to jail.

I am supposed to drive, steer, pay attention to the road

stay between the yellow lines,

and make enough money to fill this damn tank--

not to mention all those dishes in the sink at home.

I try to fit it all into this drive to school, so afraid to lose or fail,

and when we arrive, when you flit from the car

and float, fairy-like, to the curb

you are not looking forward,

only into this moment, the blossomed petals on the concrete.

Your eyes sparkle up towards mine and quick as a wink you

wave your hand into the pile of  ivory petals, fling them into the air

so they drift in the breeze and swirl back to the ground.

My heart rips open like a seed

who knows spring is here, right now,

and we are her daughters.

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A little love goes a long way. . .

Just thought I would share that one of my poems was published in an awesome anthology from Kelly Diels of the Cleavage blog, one of my faves. You can download the absolutely FREE e-book here.

Also, I was completely jumping up and down when I saw that my poem was FIRST!  Not that it means anything, of course, but I am still giddy.

YAY!

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What I Learned So Far

What I Learned So Far (by Mary Oliver) Meditation is old and honorable, so why should I not sit, every morning of my life, on the hillside, looking into the shining world? Because, properly attended to, delight, as well as havoc, is suggestion. Can one be passionate about the just, the ideal, the sublime, and the holy, and yet commit to no labor in its cause? I don’t think so.

All summations have a beginning, all effect has a story, all kindness begins with the sown seed. Thought buds toward radiance. The gospel of light is the crossroads of— indolence, or action.

Be ignited, or be gone.

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Lead with your Heart

 

Lead with your heart, you said and I took it literally like a manual like the good girl that I am.

I plunged forth against the warnings my heart like the red nose of Rudolph, shining bright into the darkest winds.

How they chapped and whipped the exposed skin, blued and grayed the young pink flesh. See how the world has worn her to a stub, the scar-bright flesh of her glaring in the moonlight?

As I fly, harnessed to this gift-laden sleigh with only the promise of your love-- the dutiful call to serve you-- pressing me on against all odds, against all better judgement this love doesn't exist this gift doesn't exist it is too perfect, too ugly too real, only ours to believe in.

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My Father's Voice

My Father's Voice

Written for my father while he was in a coma, not knowing if he might speak again.

We sang together in church this year, your baritone voice like a clear wind behind me as we faced the tiny congregation.

I fumbled over words, forgot that I was singing too for even then after all those years your voice was a surprise, a mystery, a guilty pleasure we don't allow. It is our secret how we love to hear each other sing.

My new mother's heart ached just then, in the middle of the hymn, for all the times we did not sing when we could've belted, dammit.

Now you sit accidentally confined across the great oceans. I wonder if you hear your own voice singing as I do? Do you sit surprised at the mystery, ache for the taste of it on your tongue?

Daddy, I like to think you hear God singing this morning, a mother's song to cradle you. And somewhere in the distant choir beyond that gracious sound you pick out my voice, as you always said you could, and then you start humming.

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