Home-A Poem in Three Parts

Beginning

Years and miles evaporate

like the morning’s ocean fog where

the strong, bright gleam of

friendship holds true.

Holds true like trees that have

weathered decades of sun as we

weathered our own wearying

waves of life, lapping at the edge

of our friendship, threatening

to erode the years of tears

and laughter, the breaking

in between.

In between we hold on, reach

out past the yesterdays touching this

day as we raise high our glasses,

crystal etching the air, the sound

like a chime announcing

we are still here.

Middle

I threw myself at roaring rolls

of foam and froth, abandoned

my limbs skyward as I jumped

the tops of broken, bowing

breakers, exploded in laughter,

surprised after all these years that

I still know how to dive when needed,

that my body remembers the bounce

and bob of moving water and most

of all, recalls the healing taste of salt,

the wondrous sky-blaze balm

that is the sun.

End

The melodious midnight insistence

of cricket backdrops my sleep.

I drift into memories of summer

nights when this accompaniment

was the only sound, a lullaby

for my youthful self; I rest

with a song.

-c. Jody Lee Collins 2017

 ~~~~~

I recently returned from a 5 day visit to Southern California, the land where I grew up. I spent my days and evenings with family and friends, enjoying the rich, singular experience of a place that is buried deep in my bones. My mind was flooded with memories when I came home and, as usual, poured out into words. (‘Beginning’ first appeared on this blog in September, 2016).

 

 

To the Tune of ‘Lilies’, a Poem

There is a song in petals,

the rainsound of notes on thirsty

earth feeding spring’s new flowers.

There is a melody in the making

of a garden where silent, shriveled

seeds wait to burst, pushing

through wet soil with their magic

strength inside.

There is a harmony in the golden

leafwhisper and silent shout

of green dusting the tips of

dogwood and rose, tulip, lilac, moss.

The symphony grows as God

bouquets the Earth with color

and we hear that far off tune,

the resounding music that calls

us beyond this heaven to our home.

~*~*~*

I was reading Psalm 45 this morning; the Scripture that God spoke to me years ago when I began writing, “my tongue is the pen of a ready writer.” I noticed the text said it was written to the “tune of ‘Lilies'”, perhaps a song…and I wondered, what do lilies sound like? 

Writer’s Break

I’ve been awash in words

of late, missing out on the

wind waving through steel

branches, blue and white

sky. Eyes too crowded to

take note of the weather

which goes on without me,

whether I watch it or not.

A glance through the dining

room glass speaks loudly

in all caps.

I am listening.

“There is no earth-changing

work worth writing that

can compare to the lines written

in the night sky on an early

March evening.”

Memory safely deposited for

another day, I bank on the Holy

Spirit’s call to tug at my downward

eyes next time I am consumed

with my own importance.

I will myself to remember–look up.

~:~:~:~:~

I’ve been soaking myself in poet/writer/editor John D. Blase’s poems in “The Jubilee”, a collection recently released for his 50th ‘jubilee’ birthday. Each piece packs a wallop in the words; if you enjoy poetry, may I suggest you run, click or drive to get yourself a copy? 

When Your Workout Includes Wait Training

I want to fly these dumbbells

up, down, up, down

quick! The momentum of each

lift rising at my side pushing past

perhaps what’s safe or wise

in the name of what? Speed

or yes, the checklist-exercise-

done! When I slow instead,

face the window and raise

these weighted arms slow,

slow, slow-up; slow, slow, slow-

down-the strain increases but the

work muscle-wise is longer lasting.

I feel the wait and wonder if speed

is highly overrated. Aware of the

answer, I rest into the process

lifting again, lowering at my leisure.

Repeat.Relax.Rest.Return.

And find a lesson in these weights,

an exercise written over taut skin,

reaching to my soul.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I’m heading to the Cascade Mountains of Washington for a weeklong writing project (first draft of my little book!). I covet your prayers for this process–I’d like to speed it up, but God keeps reminding me He’s with me while I wait on Him for the words.

What Really Matters {it’s not the envelope}

The snow comes, unexpected like

grace after a fall (yours, mine,

ours) a quiet wool covering missteps,

mistakes, messes.

This white-soft gift leaves an expanse

of peace, pulling my eyes away from the

ground, these humble, human feet,

to the misty, gray horizon.

Heart now centered, sheltered, still

while Creation whispers my thanks.

****

I don’t know about you, but this Monday morning leaves me feeling a little undone. Did you watch the Oscars? Did you see the mess-up at the end, the snafu that has never happened before with the envelope announcing Best Picture being the wrong one? How would you like to be the person that did that? 

I’ve other things on my mind–a convalescing husband who’s post-surgery demands are taxing my self-centered flesh, a messy kitchen, incomplete projects, inside & out.

I’m in the middle of living through being disoriented. The root of the word ‘orient’ is from the Latin-‘oriens’, meaning rising sun. Well, of course. When I turn my heart and mind and self towards the East, towards the rising sun–Jesus–I can see things in the right perspective. I feel oriented again.

I don’t like to live with being disoriented, but that’s where I am right now. I’m grateful for God’s word and presence that keeps me looking up in the right direction, shining light on what really matters.

Where are you today? Feeling oriented, disoriented or are you in the middle of reorienting?

Leave your thoughts in the Comments.

When Poems Beget Poetry

“The day is done and all the fields lie fallow,

One thing is needful, one voice calls your name.”

From the Sonnet “Pilgrimage” for Kate Gross, by Malcolm Guite

Selection from “Parable and Paradox”

Sometimes a poem rises up and words pour out after reading another writers’ work. Here’s what I was inspired to pen after reading the above lines in Malcolm Guite’s sonnet.

#1

What if, plowing, the farmer

should find finished

the fields, sheaves all in

and bewildered, be turned

towards home to hear,

“no more, no more?” Sowing

done, Earth’s floor is

Heaven’s now, seeds have

sprouted, bloomed, grown.

Every soul planted in

Heaven’s soil is gathered in.

Home.

~~~~~~~

“Pray that we learn the lost arts of our past/The arts of letting go and sowing seeds,

That secrets of the lowly and the least/Might save us from the dreadful things that last.”

“In Praise of Decay”, ibid.

#2

Let things die.

Their death is fertile soil

for what will be birthed behind.

Why do we cling so strongly, hang

on to life, fearful of sure death?

Perhaps it is our own transitory nature…

we have eternity knit in our hearts–

we will live forever–just not here.

~~~~~~~

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For Friends Too Many to Name

Years and miles evaporate

like the season’s new-birthed fog,

leaving the strong, bright gleam of

friendship lighthouse true.

Holding true like the trees weathered

through decades of sun as we

weathered our own wearying

waves of life, lapping at the edge

of our friendship, threatening

to erode the years of tears

and laughter, the space and distance

breakers in between.

In between we hold on, reach

out past the yesterdays touching this

day as we raise high our glasses

crystal etching the air, the glittering sound

noting the miracle we are still here.

(you can read more of my poetry Here on my poetry blog.)

~~~~~~~~

Culling through several decades of cards and letters has put me in a pensive-yet-thankful mood; thankful for lifelong friends from the beginning of time. This poem is for all of them; they know who they are.