Waiting Room

I wanted to write like Annie Dillard
away
alone
aware–
not here
in the middle of this 
city/suburbs life.
Leave the concrete and
multiplying cars
with their inhuman noises,
seek a vista, a vale
of color and light,
to inspire and bring forth
words like a flowing brook
across quiet pebbles.
But I’m here in the hum,
surprised to be A Writer
in spite of my days of
down-to-earth distractions.

Every time I want to run away
to Another Perfect Place
the words follow me
like a homing pigeon
dropping his message 
like crumbs at my feet
where my life has
been all along.
~~~~~~~

“He who wants to save his life will lose it, but he who loses his life….will find it.”  
Jesus in Matthew, Mark and Luke

Similar Posts

  • Atticus to Zeppelin

    Classroom photo, mine. 2012 “Recess teacher!!” That would be me and anyone else over 3 feet tall who has a whistle. “Hey guys, just so you know, my name’s Mrs. Collins”, flashing my cartoon-y fish logo with my fancy-ish name. “What’re your names?” “I’m Atticus, this is Zeppelin.” “Well, those are some pretty big names,” I…

  • Kaleidoscope {a #poem}

    Across the dining room chairs over the lamp and past the plants through the window, I spy silhouettes that awaken and dance like the pebbled stones in a child’s kaleidoscope, shape-shifting black against the not quite white night sky. Here the leaves move, there they bend and turn branches like sky-borne seaweed in an ocean…

  • Feasting

    Bread and fish made the shopping list– easily secured at the corner grocery store, exchanged for coins in my pocketbook. But what of the bread and fish the Saviour has~~ a small amount, yet multiplied miracles at his hand, sending the food away to the multitudes? No coins exchanged, no energy consumed in the getting,…

  • Pressed into Joy

    Golden oil in  a bottle liquid light refracting sun in shimmers a mirrored shape  reflects on the surface and I wonder at the drop, drop, drops of light as they drip, drip, drip down. All this tasting joyfulness because something was crushed and pressed, leaving light.

  • Up {a #Poem}

    “In the beginning” begs the existence of a dot, the endpoint of a line referencing time and movement, like an ant on the Golden Gate Bridge. If there is time (now) and movement (how?) why do we shun this guess the size of a galaxy, turn from the possibility of a God placing us just…

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *