Six by Twelve

Who am I? What words say the most about me?

Faith for without it each day would be a walk of darkness.

Grace that which we get, and must give, freely. As it was given.

Offbalanceweirdgeekystrangefunrulebreakingsinginglaughingsoftietoughie – it is one word if you don’t have spaces!

Seriously though, passionate, could be one. In love. In life. In all all. Live at the edge of your veins.*

Without those things I wouldn’t have the means or desire to be as thankful as I am.

For understanding deeply that the most important things in life are, indeed, not things at all.

They are son and husband. Loved. Beloved. Cherished. Treasured. Laughed with. Prayed over.

So thankful for the ups, downs, insides and outsides that make up this crazy mi vida locaLife.

As my husband so eloquently prays, “Thank you, Lord, for the blessings in our lives.

For the things that make us better people, and for the things that pass us by.”

Amen.

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Surely you joust!

joust

Jesters dance, and joke before kings.

Their wisdom hidden in song escapes

the wrath of a leader deaf to truth.

`

Smiths sweat over forges, metal glowing.

Their muscles tense over tools of death

made to save them all and yet not so.

`

Maids wrapped and veiled wander.

Eyes flashing promise, or hope to

those whom they can catch looking.

`

Falconers send their hunters to the sky.

Screaming they soar, and return to

hood and ties – slaves who could be free.

`

Knights wait for their turn in the lists.

Horses pace, eyeing the tilts and

pennants flash brightly, armor gleams.

`

Blunted tips on lances signal this is not war.

Death is not the goal here, dismounting

your opponent is the not-so-secret wish.

`

Music rises and laughter rings loud.

The Medieval Festival makes me long

for a past far distant and darkly present.

`

All things Medieval over at dVerse…grab your sword, shine the armor and find a horse!  Check out the links and leave love, poets live on it! 

Blurred Hindsight

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When you get to this place you’ll know.

The lie of 20/20 hindsight vision.

Looking back the lines are blurred.

I can see you there, what is the year?

Such a fine balancing needed.

You can’t change the past if you

want to be who you have become.

And what a woman you are!

Those wounds they healed.

The scars started to ache less.

The joy lines never got deeper.

But your eyes sparkle so bright.

Looking out the window at the now,

I wish you could see how the wait.

THE WAIT you hated so is over.

You learned to serve in love.

Stayed true to the little gardens

you grew in the small places.

Those seeds now wildly bloom

here. There. EVERYWHERE!

You never knew. Had no clue.

That those things you seeded

along the path, they didn’t die.

They grew. Out of stone. In the sun.

From the dryness they found life.

Drove their roots down deep

past the dry season and found

an endless well of faith, filled.

EVERY time you wanted to quit.

You didn’t. Could have. But no.

Stubborn you, kept going,

If you could only see it now.

Even blurred looking back.

The amazing wild path

you trod. You sowed.

Hindsight may be blurred

and less than perfectly

20/20 is a lie, but the heart

it knows the truth. Wildflowers

bloom where it is wild, weeds

are only labeled by mis-location.

A letter from the future would be grand, giving me some encouragement during the times when the path seems harder, more barren than I’d like. Faith keeps me going forward when I can only see one step at a time, and I firmly believe that changing the past would change me, perhaps enough that I couldn’t be the person I am today. And today I love who I am. I am blessed beyond measure with my husband and my son, our family and friends. I wouldn’t change a thing that happened because it all made me who I am today. HOWEVER! I wouldn’t get in line for a repeat for some things either…ha ha

Check out the other great poets who are sharing at dVerse!

Where in the world

Riding the high foothills, cattle beside my horse.

Mountains rising high in a western sky.

Walking on red Maritime sands.

Lobster rolls at the Market.

Listening to Cree voices.

Dancing to country

music all night.

Visiting the

places my

ancestors came

here from. And places

I dream of seeing one day.

But most of all, the place in the

world I most want to be, day or night

is with those I love most. Those to whom

my heart belongs, as well as my smiles and tears.

Those who hold my tight when my faith wavers and

I falter in the road to the place God is preparing for us.

Where I want to be, most in the world, is right here.

In the right now. With them. Laughing. Crying.

Arguing and making up. Working. Playing.

Lego and lightning storms. Horses and

cows, tractors and trucks. Silly games

of tickle and Piggies. Making it up

as we go. The world shrinks and

I don’t mind when it only fits

just us three at a time. It is

okay for it to be our size.

The bigness comes and

out we go into the

noise and crowd.

But home. Home

is where we are.

And that is

Where I

Most

Long

To

Be.

 

Abhra has us thinking about where in the world we’d like to be. And there are many physical places I would love to visit again, and places in time I’d love to experience. But if I had to pack it up and go alone, I’d just as soon stay. With my beloved husband and sweet son. Together, wherever that is, is where I most want to be.   Join the other poets who probably took you on a more literal journey by clicking here: dVerse Poets 

h(is)tory

Pirates to farmers, rebels and half breeds (or fractionals).

The wild. The crazy. The brave. The stupid. The lazy.

Shipbuilders and ranchers. Farmers and cowboys.

Huguenots and other refugees from ‘the man’ .

Names changed to hide faith, to change it

from being ‘foreign’ to more ‘English’.

Some stories kept, and held large.

Others more legend, myth. Whispers and old photos.

 

Ancestry.com is a waste of time when your name started here.

When no one kept records of babies born in farm houses.

When mama’s birthed and worked the same day.

Men kept their faith secret. Their color a red/black lie.

Family photos tucked away, hiding secrets or telling tales?

Circus family or royalty – does it matter? Aren’t they the same?

 

Rum runner, pirate. Shipbuilder. Hero of a ship wreck.

Mongol raider DNA mixing in hidden Jewish blood.

A Russian and a Ukrainian – don’t mix them up!

Irish and Scots. A drop of dreaded English. Creole.

Cree. Kootenay. German. Maybe? French. Ugh.

 

Our history is what we survived to get here. And our story.

He asks – wide eyed to know – are our ancestors cool?

Were they brave? Crazy? Wild? Were they ‘steady’ and true?

Big faith, or small? Did they love their children like you love me?

We tell stories of elders and Residential schools.

We learn words. We share a pride in that big bad blend

that makes us unique. Our history has parts

unwritten and long forgotten.

 

And yet in some place our DNA remembers,

it holds those things sacred that were remembered

down past blood and bone. Into the spirit, the soul –

we remember in a glance a storm across the steppes.

Or a frozen winter tree snapping.

The howl of rage against the storm and rocks, a quiet prayer.

 

In faith we carry part of them forward.

Those brave souls who ‘kept on keeping on’

across ocean, mountain, prairie and steppe.

Through war, hatred, and all the beautiful

and ugly of humankind.

Hands that felt rough equine manes in Asia, Europe and North America.

Feet that felt sand and beaches, rocks and salty wave on many shores.

Hearts that beat, bled and died in every land they chose to love.

A heavenly reunion awaits when we get to hear their tales first hand.

Of ships lost, crops grown, horses rode and loves held deep.

Of faith. Of being faithful. Faith-filled too.

Heroes of the ordinary kind.

Those who said they wouldn’t live to kneel to the ground,

but would die standing. The kind who shook their fist at stormy

skies and naysayers equally. And turned to walk away.

To somewhere new. Somewhere brave.

So many left it all behind and chose to go.

Few treasures or heirlooms. Mostly stories.

Faded dreams and vivid passion. Flaring across time.

I see their faces, faded in photos old, and wonder

about them in color. Alive. Living. Vibrant.

Colorizing our black and white history.

We imagine them from the future,

and wonder if they thought of us?

 

History is often kept by those who feel the bearers of it have value to the future. So many of my ancestors came here and had their names changed to remove the connection to homeland or religion.  So many have no listing on Ancestry or any other site. Family histories are hard to piece together, and yet sometimes we find a treasure. An old stitchery lesson, a diary or a photo ‘no one talks about’ and we see glimpses of an epic worthy history.  Come over to dVerse and see how others are poetically tackling their own history!

Seeds, weeds and geraniums

I

Belly to the soil, fingers in the trough.

Depth and rates to check. Seeds in soil.

Each row rises, orderly and only the

weeds run wild. Taunting. Surviving.

 

II

No weeds dare grow in her gardens.

Fierce with knife, spoon and spade.

Grandma grew flowers, vegs and fruit.

Weeds were banished from her order.

 

III

She hated to see them die in fall.

The geraniums in her random pots.

So in they came, Scraggly. Stinky.

Living in a year round summer.

 

IV

“Can’t you just….?’ they asked knowing.

Knowing the blank would be always that.

“Just be tame?” or “Just be unlike me?”

I’m sure I’ll always be a weed there,

tossing out the order of someone’s

beloved garden. A dandelion blooming

through cement cracks, a sunflower

in the highway median. Something not

quite right, not really belonging there

and yet thriving where you said I would

die…or where you wanted me to not be.

`

V

Seeding requires faith. You gotta let em grow.

No diggin’ them up to see ‘wassup’ when in

the soil they are restin’ dark and moist.

 

Seeding requires patience. You gotta let them go.

No foolin’ with them once they start to come up

trusting their roots and their leaves to reach.

 

Seeding has one hand in the soil and one eye

on the sky…prayers of hope rise up and

tears sometimes wash the dirt back down.

 

But when they rise up, tall and reaching

for the sun’s light to follow, then we see

what the hard work of faith can show!

 

I am hosting Poetics tonight for dVerse and I’m feeling in the mood for some short stuff…enjoy the other poetry, and plant those words and poems people!

 

Learning how to check the seeds close up!

Learning how to check the seeds close up!

Seeding Poetry

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It’s a Bourgot, well whaddya know?

9000 acres yet to go…seeding whoa!

Got half done and the rain came down.

 

Standing in the sun’s half light.

Supper at dusk, seeding half the night.

Driving through the dust, it’s gotta go!

 

Night shift is when the wrecks come.

They sure ain’t a lot of fun, son.

It’s a Bourgot, well whaddya know?

 

Doing some slant poetry for Meeting At The Bar.  Because I missed Poetics, “It’s Quoteable” with Mary I have submitted a late one below.

 

This is one of my husband’s favorite farming songs, by a Canadian band:

 

Thank you Lord, for the blessings in our lives.

For those things which You bless us richly.

That we do not deserve, nor are worthy of.

 

Thank you Lord, for the blessings in our lives.

Those things which make us stronger, better.

That which gives us character and scars too.

 

Thank you Lord, for the blessings in our lives.

Those things which we worry about, and pass us by.

Those things which never pass, and leave us in peace.

 

Thank you Lord, for the life and the way of life.

The land, the animals and our family together.

Those things which witness to Your greatness.

 

This is part of our family, poeticized and lengthened. Enjoy!

 

And my quote, from that song,

Thank you lord for the sun
For giving life to the seeds I sow
It’s the only life I know
Thanks again for the rain
For giving hope to the work I do



Call her Willow

I

If I was to be a tree,

What tree would I be?

So many to find. To see.

 

A stately pine.

Would be so fine.

Green all the time.

….

what I really want to say is…

If a tree is what I had to be.

Then a willow would be me.

….

II

Willow, spirit tree. Woman tree.

Bitter bark that eases pain.

Silvery leaves a dancing shade.

She bends in strong winds.

Breaking only builds her up.

Roots reaching to water.

Holding on to life held dear.

Each fallen branch grows tall.

Willow family a rainbow!

Red, scrub, silver and more.

Willow shades and shelters.

Willow dances in a storm.

Growing in drought and flood.

She keeps rooted deep. Steady.

If I am not a willow then maybe

may faith can be like a willow.

Strong and flexible. Healing.

Able to grow in adversity.

Sheltering. Strongly caring.

Rest here. I’ll shade you.

Cover you. Feed you.

Shining a shimmery bright

a faith light maybe to see?

No city on a hill, but in a

forest of darkness some light.

Reflecting Light. Reaching

deep roots down to Holy

Water and drinking deep.

Staying strong. Resting.

Bending and in the places

where breaks come being

stronger there. Stronger.

Faith like a willow!

 

Abhra has us considering not just the noble tree but actually poetically seeing ourselves as trees.  I have no trees out my window today at work but I know they are there. And I love them all!  Come by dVerse and share your thoughts, poetry and love with those other poets who are so bravely and wonderfully sharing their words with us!

no animals

So you have a life with no animals?

How quiet that must be.

And hair free. You say “care free!”

 

My life is full of animals big and small!

It can be as noisy as can be.

Hairy, scary, and wild to see.

 

Wild critters, most tame and some not sure.

Each gives more than it takes.

Freely loving, forgiving, and loyal.

 

For every mess I clean up, there is love

Freely given, every time, and grace.

They are fools, they are wise.

 

I bust them sleeping on my pillows

Or leaving a mess on the floor.

When I’m ready to lose it, they come.

 

Tails wagging, small bodies purring

I can breathe because they love.

Unconditionally, no strings.

 

Horse kisses from soft muzzles – sweet!

Cow kisses from long rough tongues – uh.

Dog and cat push and nuzzle.

 

Wild birds come to visit. Soaring, Singing.

Deer sleeping on the lawn. Trusting.

Coyotes sing a choral mashup!

 

Some days I imagine a life with no animals.

And the silence, the clean seems to appeal.

I am brought back!  I know animals!

 

I know their ways. I know and love  them.

All God’s creatures, great and small.

We are one too – so we all belong.

 

Sneaking cookies or sleeping on pillows.

Counter surfing and leaving deposits 

Hair, mud, blood, spit and shit.

 

Holding them as they enter the world.

Loving them as they sadly leave.

Knowing them through it all.

Know animals? Oh yes I do.

No animals? Not a chance.

 

The talented Marina is tending bar for us at dVerse and we are talking about animals. I just moved across the prairies with two cats and two dogs, put the cows and horses with trusted friends and let an elder dog stay with a dear friend.  This is the first year I won’t see my cows calve, or have that first spring ride on my horse. But I know we’ll see them again, and that God has a plan. Even in the middle of a wildly crazy mess, there is a plan.  

MicroMacro World

20140312_131318

Her body tense, tail twitches softly.
Eyes focus. Not one blink.
Bird watching from
this side of the
window is
for the
birds.
#Micropoetry

20140312_131335

 

Little cat, what do you see?
Birds you don’t catch?
They don’t tempt you
but they do intrigue.
Birdwatcher more than
huntress. Little Po.

I am hosting at dVerse, and for the past two days we have been playing with macro photography, and with micropoetry. I had a hard time choosing from my photos and finding inspiration. Then Po decided to sit next to my computer and bird watch. The light was perfect and she was so still. So here you have a macro of our cat, Po, and micro about her.  

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