Friday, January 30, 2015
Walking in the Greenbelt
Mom, me, Becca, and Charlie, journeyed for picnics each summer day,
in our little red wagon, carting our blanket and picnic basket,
with its red and white checkered lining, broken handle, and missing flap,
that should have closed over half the basket,
instead food would overflow.
We laid out the blanket, eat our sandwiches and chips,
skipping stones under the three big trees,
sharing their shade with the path that led to the fallen tree ---
where all the teenagers etched their initials in a heart with someone else's ---
Mom placed us on the red chipped railing used for tying up horses
so we could pretend to be cowboy and girls.
The red wagon dropped us off at the bridge
where we would tromp across, like in Three Billy Goats Gruff,
and the troll growled at us underneath.
After the bridge we rode up to the walk of the little stone house,
a family built long ago when it must have been the middle of nowhere,
carrying an old loaf of bread to feed the ducks of the neighboring pond.
Up the steep hill, the red wagon would climb,
taking us back home for our afternoon nap.
Mom and I still go to the bridge
tromping across it, like in Three Billy Goats Gruff,
and the troll still growls at us underneath.
It's just something we play at.
~Written by me, Annette, in the Spring of 2003.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
If I made something with my hands
I am afraid a sloppy carpenter I would make
trying to hammer hay into gold
only pounding away to mulch,
digging out the foundations
when I can not afford the concrete.
So I will stare at the prayer nailed to the door,
missing its hinges,
Because One Man wanted so much to have you,
I know that we can all want you.
~ Written by me, Annette, in the Spring of 2003
We Have Been Called
We have been called
as if it were
a dirty word
We have been called
as though with shame
our cheeks should burn
We visited with
the careful idols
to learn to sneer
and pant and walk
so as not to feel the scales
of judgment rub wrongly
But we say
some things must
some things must remain
lest we all forget
the legacy which begot us
the health of our origins
the poetry of our fundamental selves
it is to
the longing hearts we sing
Let no hand
nor ill will
~Published by Jewel, "a night without armor" in 1998
Sunday, January 18, 2015
Shabby stings, of blonde hair,
ends colored as if dipped in honey,
down the grape blouse,
sleeves pulled over to hide half of her hands,
Hands rocking back and forth,
left fingernails torn between the teeth,
the right, cradling,
outside the mouth for its turn.
Those melancholy sage eyes
nestled in mottled skin
the glassy figure in reflection.
Written in the Spring of 2003.
Thursday, January 8, 2015
Listen. It's the word that is centering me these days. An intention, a resolution of sorts. To pause, to listen inward. I have ambitions great and small for this new year, 2015. Some will be met and achieved, others will fall away unrealized. But that's okay. The most important thing for me this year is to listen. Let's see what happens.
Do you hear it?
I can feel it.
I expect a miracle is coming.
It has set loose this restlessness
inside of me.
Dream about it.
Give birth to it in your being.
Know! Something good
is coming down the line.
Finding its way to you
like all things find their way
to God's children.
- "Miracle" by Jewel Kilcher