Tag Archives: poetry

a sweet discovery

For a while now, I have been rethinking this blogging thing. I still blog somewhat privately. There, I rant and wrangle. There, I work out ideas not ready for prime time and those who don’t well speak my lingo or ably fill in the words that I sometimes fail to speak as I discourse.

But, tonight, I saw that my friend, Kim, has finally conceded to some public display of her writing skills and that makes me so very happy. She is a fabulous writer…she who owes us all a book or two. Maybe such is finally beginning its journey out of the ground. I hope so.

So, in honor of her fabulous and soon to be famous words, I wish to repost something she conceded to write when I begged a while back. I called our exercise slam poetry, it’s just emotive poetry. I have been asked by another friend to help her 5th graders navigate the genre, so I’ve been reminiscing about our little foray into such last year. I cajoled some excellent examples from my literary gang; Kim’s was my favorite.

Here it is:

The only one I could be more excited about introducing than one of my young guns, is my first best friend, Kim. I know a few things in this life. One of them is that Kim loves me. Consider her introduction a Christmas gift from me.

Kim Perry December 11 at 11:42am

I decided to take your “grown folks challenge”

On Embracing

I love her face

Weathered, creased,

Soft with age.

Ninety four!

Still a powerhouse

Moving too quickly to hug most days

Queen of two castles, north and south

Still on her own

Angel of mercy

The designated driver for

Friends whose children

Have taken away their license

To drive

Big white Florida cars.

She is still so “young”

Confused and frustrated

By the mirror’s reflection

“That is not who I am”

But there is no denying

The great grandchildren

And so,

She lies awake at night

With three generations

After her to worry for

Blessing.

Curse?

I wonder about me

Will I thrive at her age?

Will I embrace or disparage

(Or even worse

Be ungrateful for)

The years on my face?

Can I cheat

The menopausal destiny

Of sleeplessness?

(I so enjoy a peaceful sleep)

Can I escape

The tendency

(Nature? Nurture?)

Of my family’s women

To worry

About the generations?

Hear me now.

I vow

to limit Mirror time.

Just a glance

to check for spinach and boogers

(lest I offend)

Yet I will peer deeply into

the eyes and souls of

Younger people

To find myself and

To influence

Their impact

on the generations

I rest in and claim

The Peace of God

I will pray for my kids

(and theirs and theirs)

I will leave the worrying

to another

On sleepless nights

I will create

So that I will have more

In the morning

Than coffee and yawns

(Though, I do love coffee)

12/11/10

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guest post – Karley Chamblee – slam poetry x

My Karley is one of my very favorite students and EDGE kids! That means that she is double wonderful. And, Karley is one of my son’s dear friends as well. She helps me keep him straight and on time to class and supplied with paper and pencils and the homework assignment. Karley writes with me sometimes…Next semester, she and I will be together for my Reflections class everyday. That makes my heart glad and it takes a little pressure off, her being in there will be a daily help to me as well. Trento gets his un-togetherness from his absent-minded professor Mama. Without further ado….

Consistency

You feel the need to run away whenever He comes near.
As if your life has been simply overcome by fear.
Fear of the future, what your life holds in store,
it seems you’re not quite willing to open up the door.
All the turbulent trials and burdens you have had to endure,
Has misled you distort life as a disease with no cure.
Why do bad things happen to the good ones in life?
Questions like that can be as piercing as a knife.
They sink into your soul, and lead you to doubt,
the idea that God is a scam; you need to bail out.
Nothing has been consistent, or so you have thought it,
but maybe there is…you just have not sought it.
All of these doubts have merely blurred your vision,
Of a relentless God who longs for a collision.
A collision with your soul, to tell you He’s always there,
that He loves you with this love, with which none can compare.
The first step in believing this is developing trust
And realizing these things do happen; we have to adjust.
Life can change drastically, even for the worse,
but we must trust that God can put it in reverse.
Never give up on Him, even when you feel you should,
because sometimes we all get God so misunderstood.
He is the Rock on which we stand,
His love is not like the house that is made out of sand.
You may be scared because of what you have gone through,
But if you take that chance with God, your trust in Him will only accrue.
Just keep in mind that trials will always make you stronger,
but realize…that you must be patient longer.
And when you finally grasp that He is constant, that He remains the same,
You will give your burdens to Him, and forever praise His name.

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guest post – liz hall – slam poetry ix

This is one of Sara B.’s good friends…I love how she is just jumping in with us. I don’t know about you, but I am having fun! Thanks, Liz.
Who am I?
I am me.
A person I can’t even read.
Darkness falls.
It blinds me so.
I can’t hear.
The silence screams.
I feel- empty.
No ones home.
Change has come.
It’s been here.
I’ve formed-
Into someone renewed.
I lost my way.
He led me down.
Down a path- just to drown.
A cloud of smoke.
A cough, a choke.
That’s all it took- for I was hooked.
On His love.
I fell into it.
A deadly trap.
Self discovery.
And I can see
That all I am-
Is all me.
I’ve made mistakes-
This is true.
But I will never be you.
That’s fine with me
Cause now I see
Without you I’m only me.
The best person I can be.
Now I’m here-
Here today.
A different girl than I was those days.
The wind hits my face-
I smile to myself.
Cause He helped me preservere.
He made everything clear.
I am who I am.
And the past is gone.
The present is here.
A future always near.
Laugh lines forming on my face
Cause I realize I know my place.
Who could think they know me so?
For only we truly know our soul.

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guest post – margaret pickett ( my mentor) – slam poetry viii

I’ve been waiting on this. There is no way I would close out this poetry festival without Margaret, no way.
You know that push and pull that we artists secretly beg for? How we hope someone will have the guts and attention span to make us do – what it is we are to do in this life?  How we long for someone to come and discount all our excuses to nothing, for someone to come our way who will just plain believe for us, until we can?  That’s who Margaret was and is in my life.
I don’t have any idea where I would be had she not taken a chance, believed, dared me to believe as well.
But, it wouldn’t be this graced place that I find myself.
Margaret is the best teacher and teacher of teachers I have ever come near. There aren’t many people anything like her out there. Her teachers yearn to be like her and her students dare give her only their best. And long, long after they leave the circuit of her classes, they love her.
Margaret: Love and miss you and all the KCS kids!

Getting and grabbing

Paying and charging

Rushing and neglecting

The real joys of life

Texting and tweeting

Wifi-ing and surfing

Living in the virtual

Leaving out the real

Preening and feigning

Artificial importance

Faking and taking

For granted what we have

Living in the moment

Never looking up to see

The hand of Him who gave us

The ability to choose

So we choose as if we answer

Only to our own desires

Forgetting the Image

We were created to reflect

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an example to us all. really, really good poetry.

Micha Boyett Horhorst wrote this poem. I read her blog (Mama Monk) faithfully. It is a huge blessing to my  growing contemplative life. When I grow up, I want to write like Micha.

Please click over and check it out. And why you are there, go ahead and bookmark or add her to your blogroll. You won’t find much better reading out there.

Kim

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guest post – Katie Hardeman- slam poetry vii

Katie is an adorable, hilarious, blogland teacher friend. She is one of those folks who make school fun for students. Katie is an excellent writer, but in a human sort of way. You laugh and cry, often simultaneously, when you read Katie’s tales.
I read lots of good writing everyday, great ideas and insights. It makes me more as a writer. But, Katie’s blog makes me more as a person. I don’t know the authors of most of the blogs that I read. But, I sense in some ways at least, that I do know Katie. She gives her readers that gift.
Katie told me that this is the first poem that she has written since 4th grade. I don’t know if I buy that…neither will you when you read what’s below. I really don’t have words sufficient…except, “Thank you, Katie.”
Grey

No one told me there’d be so many shades of grey.

Charcoals and silvers, ash greys and taupes,

So much unsaid and hinging on hopes.

False hopes.

Fading desires.

Uncertainty, confusion, waiting for mires

to end.

To be lifted out of the sticky, wet pit of grey.

Society only painted with blacks and whites

and occasional reds.

So why am I stuck spinning in this world of dizzy grey?

Why am I stuck searching and seeking,

silently reeking of the stench of dirty grey?

He was a friend but maybe more.

So I shared my heart over and over and over

for ten years.

Gave him glimpses into my soul

for ten years.

And he peeked.

You peeked at my soul, now you’re turning your back.

Tell me, please tell me, just what did I lack?

You’re leaving me trapped in grey.

Suffocating grey, stifling grey,

never-ceasing, always creasing, soul-rifling grey.

I don’t like all the twisting, all the tearing,

all the squeezing, all the bearing of my fragile heart,

now speckled with shards of glass.

Pieces silently scattered.

Memories tossed and tattered.

Years haphazardly discarded.

And I’m surrounded by grey.

Swimming in grey.

Drowning in grey.

Vexed and perplexed and frowning but hey,

sometimes I catch glimpses of pastels.

Glimpses of periwinkle,

of fuscia,

of jade.

I catch glimpses of hope.

Streaks of hope.

Flashes of hope.

Beautiful, subtle, soft splashes of hope.

Hope dancing in the greys.

Dancing and swirling, majestically twirling in the midst of a sea of confusion unwhirling.

She dances and sings.

Oh the sweet color she brings.

She whispers in the grey silences.

She paints with soft yellows.

Violets and blues;

some swirls of candy pinks; a few dashes of orange.

She’s been painting all along.

In the midst of the canvas speckled with greys,

in the midst of the questions and nebulous haze,

in the midst of the turmoil, the churning, unlearning,

in the midst of the deafening silence returning

she paints.

Some days I don’t see her caressing colors.

Some days I choose not to.

But when I do, oh when I do,

oh in those sweet, tender pauses,

I know what the cause is.

I know, yes I know that someone else peeked.

Peeked at my soul and yet left me whole.

Peeked deep within but left me in tact,

Did not reject,

Did NOT turn His back.

He studied, examined and cherished each crack.

Each flaw,

each imperfection,

saw each rejection.

Improved my reflection

by letting me peek at Him.

He delicately held my soul in the palm of His hands,

His giant, cracked hands.

Treasured it.  Nestled it,

Saw doubt and wrestled it

until it surrendered.

Creation gripped by Creator once again.

He won’t leave me lost in the grey,

floundering in the grey.

He paints with vivid colors.

With magentas and teals and exploding oranges.

Cascades of color ripple from His robe.

He won’t let me wallow in the grey.

He won’t let me sink.

Emmanuel.

God with us.

Sure uses lots of pink.

In sunsets and sunrises.

He’s full of pink surprises,

of color and of hope.

He instructs me to lift my head from the sticky blankets,

From those heavy, thick blankets of grey I once thought I’d never untangle.

Never unmangle.

Never throw off.

Wild, passionate, untamed shades of red.

Daring, surprising, unnamed colors instead

of all the grey.

After lifting my head and emerging,

after witnessing bright color surging,

I see, yes I see, the power of purging

all the grey.

Hope waits for me.

Hope beckons me.

Hope freed me and I reckon she

will never leave this grateful soul.

This soul once lost in a world of grey,

now singing and leaping,

rejoicing and keeping

her eye on the artist with the paintbrush.

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guest post – Molly Dodd – slam poetry vi

I bet you didn’t know I had so many writer friends. Well, I do. They keep me sane and inspired. I met Molly in blogland about the time I started writing there. Molly is super smart. She reads philosophy like I read cereal boxes. And, Molly is an Orthodox Christian. I have learned so many wonderful things from her and her experience in that particular flavor of faith. But, you know what I like best about Molly… her tender heart and sense of wonder and glory. Molly gets glory. And, I get to bring you a little Molly. Yeah! Click over check out her expositions on some “deep thoughts” as well.

www.mollydodd.wordpress.com

Negative space around that palo verde is gracefully serene

Someone should paint the shapes it makes
Someone should paint the light
Falling golden on our schoolyard eucalyptus
Should draw the spiky sunburns of this agave
Should sketch pigeons distributed unevenly on lightposts
Triangular toward a vanishing point
Should draw the lines of a ruffled shoe

But art is supposed to be fun
Supposed to be about expressing myself
So junk!

Can you express more than yourself only?
Yourself looking at the Eucalyptus, Palo Verde, Agave?
Looking at the light posts, shoe, pigeons?
Express what you see when you see these things?

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