Writer's Treehouse

Soul Spelunking

These two poems were inspired by watching to young adults take on their lives after a terrible bout with drug abuse...They graduated from drug court, a wonderful step program that provides kids with a framework of success and taking on their lives.  I witnessed them get to know themselves.  Just so you understand the switch in the poem...they showed us a "before" picture and an "after" picture...eyes are the window to the soul.  (please forgive the asterisks...I'm having trouble with spacing right now.)

For Josh

Pock marks

Scratches

Pockets for eyes

      *

Shaved head

Skinned head

Jerk head

      *

Self destruction

Self disgust

Self loathing

      *

It’s time.

      *

The cavernous journey has begun.

Rummage around those bottomless, murky places

Look, over there!

      *

Go ahead

      *

Touch it…

No, grab it…

No, rip it & chuck it!

      *

Look! There’s more!

Over there…

And there…

      *

Go deeper

This cave is filled

with oozing muck.

      *

You’re lucky..

Most people never come here

They won’t examine the evil

And eats them from the inside out

      *

Leaving just a sheath

   *

Now, my friend…

Look to your right

See that glow?

   *

Follow it.

      *

As you do

the light will glow brighter

And more purposeful

      *

Go ahead..touch it,

Embrace it…

Drink it…

      *

This is what your soul tastes like.

Sweet isn’t it?

Not the bitter cup you’ve been drinking

   *

Now, nurture it

Love it

Embrace it

   *

Bring this light with you everywhere you go

For you will find more darkness

Later in your journey

      *

it’s never completely gone..

But, my friend, this journey is different

You will always have your light.

      *

And if it begins to fade

You know it’s Source

Go there and replenish your supply.

      *

      *

For Caris  (his support system)

They never noticed you.

       You were there…a few steps back.

As a matter of fact,

Without you

The journey would not have been made.

The cave would not have been explored.

      *

You held the map.

You held the compass.

You held the bottle of courage to sip from.

      *

And when the time came…

You allowed the spelunker his cave

While you ventured into your own deep darkness

      *

You found your own treasure

And you let its radiance glow

and shine in your face..

      *

When complete,

Only one got credit for the journey.

You deserved it

      *

But you didn’t need it

For you were there.

You were the witness.

      *

And THEY thought

The treasure was the prize

The real prize was the journey

      *

For now you both know

   The Source.

Tiggerish Summer

Ahh...it is Thursday, and I am delighted to share this with you...it's still roughly sketched, but it holds my heart dear...Summer.  When my children were young, they drank rain and they put on their swimsuits and just played in it. These pictures always reminded me of Langston Hughes poem, "April Rain Song." 

I look at these and I see they capture their joy for this event, and Irelate it to my own enjoyment of sunshine.  With this in mind, I wrote about my dear friend, Summer.  This is my attempt at capturing the essence of it and the energy I feel.  Sometimes I have so much energy, my husband thinks I'm Tigger...so here's my word for Fiction Friday combined in a poem for Poetry Thursday.

*

                                                  Tiggerish Summer

Summer vibrates its rhythms to my heart

The buzzes of its alarm

quakes me awake

             *

I drink a cup of its lovely radiance

And feel its electric flow from head to toe

I am Tiggerish for the day.

             *

I will run and not be weary.

I will sing and not be whining

For I am ALIVE!

             *

It is impossible to hold me down

For I know tomorrow promises me

Another cup

            *

Soon, my friend, I will miss you.

Comin' Home - What is Precious?

If I were living a different life, I'd be another Charles Kuralt, going around America collecting stories of people.  I love learning about their lives and human nature, how they deal with adversity and how they learn to be content with so little.  This past week I was able to watch a video about some women of Gee's Bend, Alabama. What I loved about watching these women was the strong bonds that they built as women through quilting.  Quilting was how they got through hardtimes, just as art or writing gets some of you through the rough patches.  But it was MORE than this, quilting was a way of life for them, their way of connecting with each other, singing their praises to their God and making sense of their lives. They didn't waste anything!  Every scrap of cloth from old clothes, flour sacks or just laying around was used.  Sometimes they had to wait to fill it in until there was cloth available. 

  I wish you could see the whole video because it makes more sense; you see more of the deeper connection they have with each other and their quilts.  You just get a few links to clips for you to see (remember youtube doesn't work well on my blog.)

interviews of the quilters:  here and here.

singing quilts:  here.

Our poem (a friend and I co-wrote it), is in honor of these women and to all us with brokeness in our lives that we mend through whatever means is available to us, art, writing, drinking coffee...

                                                               

                                                                Comin’ Home

What is home?  What is precious?

    What is truly rich?  What is community?

Community

Faith, family ties and spirituality.

Bonds of tradition and necessity,

safety.

Rich

Creative spark from necessity,

radiant colors of possibility.

Soulful pulse and rhythm tell the story

of human experience.

Precious

The gift of love, beauty from scraps.

Relationships are the necessity

and life itself.

Home may be a broken down shell,

but not a broken down spirit.

Marie Wallace

Wayne Ross

Wicked Stepmother

This poem started as a poem to my stepmother, but as I related it to my own experience of step parenting, it became a tool for me to heal my own pain.  Though there are many, many years my step mom didn't act as a mom because she was often dysfunctional and had her addictions.  I can't pretend to know what she went through, and I'm sure she was often misunderstood...and I'm positive she never was appreciated for many of the things she did.  This job of step mothering is highly volatile, but it has many rewards...and the strength it takes to bear it can only be given by God and sheer determination.  I faced it without drugs or drinking...it's like having a baby with no anesthesia, but the pain goes on for a lifetime.  I want to honor us both in this poem.  And I dedicate it to all the step moms out there who ever took this job on, whether you felt success or not, you deserve to be appreciated even if only by a stranger. XOXOXO  Thank you mom...for coming back and for a better relationship this year.  I'm sorry it took so long for us to heal.

Wicked Stepmother

I know that a mom’s job is hard,

And that a step mother’s job is even harder

That when you wear that badge,

You wear it PROUDLY

            But that the badge tears deeply into your flesh.

          *

I know that you feel underappreciated

But more so,

Undervalued,

And sometimes…not even human

          *

I know that the job is hard

Because the badge doesn’t

give you any authority

Over ANYTHING.

          *

It’s more like a label

with a lot of names

attached to it

Mostly…WICKED.

          *

I grew up wanting to be a mom

I didn’t grow up wanting to be a step mom.

          *

But I took on the job

And…it almost killed me

I was in the line of fire daily

with no hazard pay.

          *

Sometimes hazards weren’t even marked.

A situation that seemed normal

Would blow like a road side bomb

Unsuspecting

          *

With a lot of damage.

And when the reports

of the carnage and casualties are read

No one would believe it.

          *

I know that when that stepchild grows up

No matter how well she does as an adult

I will get no credit for the good,

And ALL the credit for the bad

          *

My stepmother badge will never

Be a good thing

Except to me.

And when I die…

          *

My dear God,

I hope you will know

That I gave Motherhood

All my best.

That when you gave me the

Title of MOTHER

There was no side “step.”

And I am proud of the work I’ve done.

Ode to My Beloved

Poetry Thursday - Since Sunday is my anniversary to the most wonderful man in the world...it doesn't sound poetic, but it is true!  He is my rock; he is my hero; he is my best friend.  I look forward to many more years with him.

My LAF

I gazed in adoration at the

Unexpected gift before me –

A bouquet of three –

a daisy, a carnation, and a rose…

An odd assortment to some,

But the intentions were true and thoughtful

For they are three of my favorites.

*

As I admired their loveliness,

I contemplated the qualities of each

which draws my appreciation,

And I was reminded of my true love

One I hold dear and precious.

*

The rose speaks of my Lover’s velveteen kisses

Which linger on my lips for hours

And of his goodness and honesty

Which have allowed our love to open

And blossom to the greatest beauty known.

*

The carnation’s white feathery edges

Are likened to my Angel’s wings

Which have taken me

On an astral flight to peace and freedom

Of being who I am.

*

The daisy is like my Friend,

Centered and most colorful in the middle,

With his outermost edges pointing to

many adventurous places

To catch the best of the sun’s rays!

*

The greenery of the ensemble is

A memento of his spring

Which has showed me life

And brought my heart

Out of a cold, dark winter.

*

The water represents the spiritual life

Given to all for growth.

*

The vase’s beauty is likened to

His graceful, gorgeous body

Which contains all these wonderful things.

*

And lastly, the elegant ribbon

Which ties this passionate package together

Is his terrific mind

which explores, reflects and reveals

his love of life.

*

Oh my love, wherever you are,

thanks for the best gift

Which reminds me of the wonder of you,

For you are my sunshine, my smile,

My L A F….

*

I love you angel!

Sisterhood Through Words

I haven't written a poem in awhile, but this one was inspired by the beautiful women in the blog world who support and lift each other everyday...it's not meant to leave men out...it's to celebrate that when one of us fall (a single woman in this case), there is someone to catch you, even if only through words.

Sisterhood Through Words

Armed with inspired courage

the woman embarked on her journey

anywhere away from these erroneous zones

for she had children who depended

on her for strength and wisdom

her thread of truth engrained

her heart  pulsed the exemplary path to her feet.

Dear women,

Know that your daily work

Not only propelled her

It sustained her very breath.

Your words

Your encouragement

Your belief

Are her power

And life force.

The BBW - Double Agent

In honor of Poetry Thursday, we were to write something humorous...It's modeled kind of like the True story of the Three Little Pigs...but I've expanded on it, by making him a double agent. Remember it's in it's rough stages. Feel free to ask questions for clarification.

The BBW (The Big Bad Wolf)

Oh wolfie, Oh wolfie,

You’re wonderful stuff.

I know why you’re tricky.

I know why you’re tough.

They say you are evil,

A slick guy who lurks.

It’s common to say

All wolves are jerks.

Are you really that villainous

Or is it a bad wrap?

Don’t they know you

Caution us of traps?

Aren’t you the one in the know

Who tipped off Little Red not to go?

For the woods, they are dark, dreary and a fright

And they entice little girls to enter the night.

Aren’t you also the one and the same

Who taught little pigs

to up their game?

The stories go on with countless shame

Don’t they know

You’re not really to blame?

A BBW? No you’re not!

But a secret double agent

a signaler

of plots.

An alarm to say

Danger, Beware!

A counsel for you

to focus there.

For it was in the wolf story

of where evil is sold

that people started to listen

to what they were told.

To hold our loved ones

treasured and dear

and build our foundations

for wear and tear.

The wolf system was devised to beckon

to call,

to put on your armor,

and be cautious of all.

And as you were beaten

cursed and blamed

You knew why it was

the wolf had been named.

You shirked as if afraid

and bowed yourself out

You smiled your sleek… sly… grin,

for you had not been found out.

***

***

Mission accomplished.***

(This tape will now destruct in 30 seconds.)

Poetry from a 5 year old

I thought I’d share some poetry from a 5 year old point of view.  This is not only to lighten things

up, but for you to see how pure a child is and how close he is to honest, real thoughts.  Now remember, these guys couldn't even write a word at the beginning of the year, and now they are creating poetry!

               *

First metaphor lesson:

               *    

     Snakes taste like noodles

     And they smell like breath.

              *   

     A rainbow is like markers dancing across the sky.

              *

A collective poem where there were multiple contributors. We were practicing on the sound of “u” and wanted an easy way to remember the sound, so we came up with this rhythm and rhyme:

             *

U-u-Underwear

Put them on, take them off.

U-u-Underwear

Wishy washy.

U-u-underwear

Hello Kitty, polka dots

U-u-underwear

Sponge Bob, camo spots

U-u-underwear

Colorful or plain,

U-u-underwear

In the snow or in the rain.

You see, we talk about a lot of things in kindergarten.  They would make you laugh!

Plucked from Childhood

Poem for Poetry Thursday for NaPo using "plucked."

Plucked from her childhood

Instant mother of 5

Bleeding profusely from her soul

Love bandages too short in supply

Pulse f a d i n g . . .

Misplaced Misplace

For NaPO the daily prompt is "misplaced."  It's an appropriate one for me because I battle with this word often...my wonderful husband loves me how I am.

I’m good at misplacing things

Keys, purse, books

My husband thinks it’s cute

And that everyday could be

Christmas for me

I find it highly annoying.

His philosophy is that

An artist/writer,

Or at least this artist/writer,

Has her mind on so many things

that it’s easy to misplace

things that are seemingly unimportant

He thinks it’s cute.

I find it highly annoying.

How could it be

That both worlds

Can’t co-exist in my mind?

What happens when I lose my muses?

Then, would I always know

Where my keys are?

He thinks it’s cute.

I find it highly annoying.