Pure Poetry

I’m a little mouse
hoarding words
in notebooks
scribbled on little pieces of paper
calligraphied onto the wall of my home
etched into stones scattered around
laser printed and decoupaged
on magnets, purses and wooden boxes.
They are everywhere. Words Etched

They are letters
gathered together
in form and function
to give tangibility to ideas
vision to the future
and remembrance to the past.

I have two current literary heroes.

One is Ann
at A Holy Experience
She is the wife of a Canadian farmer
homeschooling her children
photographing her life
and writing stanza after stanza
of the beautiful music she hears.

Shadows of Ann

I point you to her
because she points me to Him.

Here are a few words from this past  October and November:

I leave my message after the tone on some machine, digital bits of sound, and rest the receiver in its cradle. (11/5/08)

… the washing machine sirens its last spin and I’m stringing up a pinned necklace of wet towels … (11/4/08)

What I witnessed brushed me, dyed me, soaked into the fabric of me. (10/21/08)

Relationship is not just the priority. It’s all there is. (10/ 1/08)

Children had tucked in close and I had opened Child’s History of the World and somewhere in a paragraph about Helles becoming one of the most influential country in the world, I brimmed and spilled.

Oldest left his science to see what I found so moving about that rocky outcrop jutting into the Mediterranean, and knitting girl paused her needles to ask why all this sadness, and the two younger boys said little but stilled from their sliding on and off the couch, and I just nodded reassuringly and kept reading though letters swam.

Because, really, how do you tell a circle of children gathered that you’re just too deeply broken to be fixed?

That you know in the marrow of your bones that if you were more tender, more joy-filled, more organized, more gracious, more endearing, more persuasive, more something ( yes, Christ-like), that we wouldn’t scrape up against each other so painfully, bruise each other so darkly. That if I led better, they’d follow better.

But I’m utterly impotent.

So tears silently fall and I muster a smile anyways (because yes, the children need that), stroke concerned cheeks, and nod, and we bravely read on. (Sept 30)

Her writing stirs my soul.
pure poetry.

Who does God use to stir your soul, weaving words to create vivid images in your head?


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