Reconnect


Saturday morning and listening to Sarah McLachlan. Downloaded music from Amazon this morning and just listening to Surfacing is bringing me back to myself. Funny how we lose ourselves for weeks or months at a time and then hearing certain music can stop the autopilot madness. "There's no one left to finger, there's no one left to blame..." Kids are with their father obviously or I wouldn't be able to write or listen to anything vaguely mom-like in peace. My life is beginning to seem too small and circumscribed lately. Safe has lost its appeal and I'm tired of the couch and the t.v. and even my job which is no longer so absorbing. The soul will out eventually I guess. God grant me the courage and strength to move on to the next chapter.

Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks

I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years. . . .

I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . .

When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me. . . .

I am food on the prisoner's plate. . . .

I am water rushing to the wellhead,
filling the pitcher until it spills. . . .

I am the patient gardener
of the dry and weedy garden. . . .

I am the stone step,
the latch, and the working hinge. . . .

I am the heart contracted by joy. . .
the longest hair, white
before the rest. . . .

I am there in the basket of fruit
presented to the widow. . . .

I am the musk rose opening
unattended, the fern on the boggy summit. . . .

I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you
when you think to call my name. . . .

Jane Kenyon

Stage Mama



Had thoughts of abandoning this blog as I am busy, and, unfortunately, now addicted to Facebook. For now, I will continue weekly additions as this blog keeps me connected to poetry and keeps me writing.

The boy is writing an EXCELLENT story, it's weird and surreal and funny. For all his protesting he will never be a writer like his poverty stricken mother, he IS a writer. He has been going to an open mic for teens on Saturday nights and will be reading his story there next week. I'm not allowed to attend of course, but perhaps I will lurk in the back where he can't see me. I am so proud of both my kids...Kate recently kicked butt playing a racist, southern old man defendent in a school trial based on the book Shiloh. Her teacher says she is a joy to teach! Thank you God for giving them each something of their own to be passionate about.

The Dog of Art

That dog with daisies for eyes
who flashes forth
flame of his very self at every bark
is the Dog of Art.
Worked in wool, his blind eyes
look inward to caverns and jewels
which they see perfectly,
and his voice
measures forth the treasure
in music sharp and loud,
sharp and bright,
bright flaming barks,
and growling smoky soft, the Dog
of Art turns to the world
the quietness of his eyes.

Denise Levertov