angels every one ~

03 Sunday Nov 2013

Posted by tornadoday in a time for telling, Poetry, Storytelling

Tags

angels unaware, barbed wire, becoming, connection, faith, family, fearless, forgiveness, grace, knowledge, life, living, love, old maps, postmark, prison, reason, relationship, spirit, stories, strength, the forgotten, trust, truth, understanding, value, wisdom

the best of me
comes late some days
apples
berries
blackbirds
the night hangs wet
against my windowpane

leaves are falling
hear their sighs
of spring
denying winter
would come –
and yet he does
to love again

judge me well
though who can tell
what secrets
I’ve been keeping
some would swear
to stories
never heard

but keeping here
far more than lines
more than
winds to weary
names and faces
graces
undeserved

save the light
still the might
of those who have no
sorrow
those who know
of every trust
by name

somewhere now
a gale of birds
wings beyond
the keeping –
angels every one
where I remain

. . .

new and improved ~

01 Friday Nov 2013

Posted by tornadoday in a time for telling, Storytelling

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

becoming, blessing, bliss, daddy, dreams, faith, family, father, fearless, forgiveness, grace, gravel roads, home, inheritance, life, love, memory, parkinsons, passion, reason, relationship, soul, spirit, spirituality, story, strength, understanding

Now and then, I am reminded that the words ‘new’ and ‘improved’ are not always the same.

My father has Parkinson’s. It’s been almost twelve years now, though sometimes I forget (as does he). This year has been hard on him. I think he spent too much time in the garden without water in the Spring, and the effects are wearing. He’s lost weight since March and the jeans I got him last Christmas are falling off.

I’m not the only one to notice. At a doctor’s appointment this past week, he was given three suggestions to make his life better. One was the possibility of getting a hospital bed. He asked if I thought it would help him, and I told him I felt that any benefit would be negated by not sleeping next to my mother. He chuckled in such a way that I knew the same thought had occurred to him.

The second suggestion was that he go to physical therapy. I told him that would be good and reminded him that an old friend of mine who used to go our church worked there. He had forgotten and I am sure he’ll follow-through.

She also recommended he gain some weight. Earlier in the Spring, I suggested he drink Boost (or some version to help with his intake of proteins, etc). He eats good; but as a rule, it’s not foods that will put weight on. I had also read something about how athletes eat peanut butter to help them gain weight (a heaping tablespoon three or four times a day).

‘I like peanut butter. I loved it when I was a kid, but we didn’t have it much. It was too expensive.’ (my tears)

‘I like it too.’

‘My mama would make biscuits and peanut butter for me to take for lunch. It was about a half mile walk. They never made it to lunch. Most times, they never made it to the school. (little boy laugh) I grew up in another time.’

‘A good time, daddy.’

I’ve never had biscuits with peanut butter, but last night, I made a pan of biscuits. This morning, I had one for breakfast (with peanut butter). It was good. But then again, I couldn’t help but imagine how good it tasted to a little boy with dirty hands and eyes the same as mine.

within these times
of letting go –
love is settled softly
with stories
of before
where I
a dream

. . .

big enough ~

31 Thursday Oct 2013

Posted by tornadoday in a time for telling, Poetry, Storytelling

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

becoming, connection, destiny, dreams, faith, family, grace, gravel roads, home, knowledge, life, love, love the only truth, memory, old maps, passion, reason, relationship, southern, spirit, spirituality, stories, strength, understanding, value, wonder

stories now
my daddy tells
of times before the better
took us by surprise
and shut our soul
of red clay paths
and old tin lines –
mary heaven
showed us
the ways to home
was not so far
to go

no ringing
of the latest news
no clamor to achieve
candles burned
beside
the feather bed
children wrapped
in babies
held as one to one
blessings come
– wherever
prayers were said

no looking back
or leaving long
another chance –
for nothing
would shake our faith
or move the least
to fall
dirty hands
so tender –
eyes caressed the light
dreams just big
enough –
to hold us all

. . .

loosened by the grey ~

29 Tuesday Oct 2013

Posted by tornadoday in a time for telling, Poetry, Storytelling

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Tags

becoming, bliss, breath, connection, death, destiny, dreams, faith, fearless, forgiveness, grace, knowledge, life, love, old maps, passion, peace, poetry, reason, resurrection, sacred intimacy, shared remembrance, spirit, truth, understanding, wandering

for every life
another spent
– lessons
feathered soft
ancient buttons
loosened by the grey

to where
the just beginning
goes –
to start
without a name
from destinies –
a better plan
is made

for where
somewhere
we’ll find again
the window
through the wood
a lantern
glowing golden
welcome home

mysteries we squandered
by the journey
take us back –
a lifetime more
than e’er I’d pass
alone

ribbons lost
their way into
the oldest sycamore
– longing held
with seasons more
to write

of burdens left
upon the lawn
where’er the dream is gone
– dew is falling
shadows
on the night

. . .

the only me I know ~

27 Sunday Oct 2013

Posted by tornadoday in a time for telling, folklore, Poetry, Rambling, Storytelling

≈ 17 Comments

Tags

becoming, conscious consciousness, faith, fearless, forgiveness, grace, gravel roads, knowledge, life, love, memory, old maps, passion, reason, spirit, travel, understanding, wisdom

there was a place
we were going
never knew from where
we came
our dreams were old
but dying meant
we’d never leave again –
we could take of these
and leave the rest behind

there was a spot
along the highway –
we stopped just yesterday
and counted miles
stones and stars –
the distance to today
never stayed for long
the holding on
was more than we
could take

was a breath before I caught it
pushed away

there were words
denied of meaning
thought denied a place –
wings the width of shoulders
held together
strings of grace

there were maps
to match –
and ways to clear
cedars filled with swallows
and blue –
the deepest blue
beyond the trees

never looked the same
when looking back
recalled another morning
when cotton floated
low above the fields

it seems that way
the way it was –
and I with love to squander
could have sworn I held your hand
and closed my eyes

eternity
was always more
than I could dare imagine –
when a moment stretched
to take of time –
the only me
I know

. . .

last on my pillow ~

27 Sunday Oct 2013

Posted by tornadoday in a time for telling, Poetry, Storytelling

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

becoming, death, faith, grace, gravel roads, intimacy, knowledge, life, love, memory, passion, reason, seasons, self, sense, spirit, spirituality, truth, understanding

settle me in
as seasons digress
and leaves
burn their way
into snow
reminded of iris
– the color of wings
and a time
passed before
I could know

what was truth
to rekindle
a flame nearly gone –
a song
almost faded
from word
skins are worn easy
as twilight to press
life into passing
unheard

trace
comprehension
of places between
the last on my pillow
– a time
disappeared
starlight is writ
to the back of my hand –
counting my way
back to here

. . .

missed me ~

07 Monday Oct 2013

Posted by tornadoday in a time for telling, folklore, Poetry

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

bliss, connection, fearless, grace, gravel roads, knowledge, life, living, love, memory, nature, passion, reason, restless, self, spirit, strength, truth, understanding, wonder

wonder
steals my breath away
waiting for the sun
was sure to come
– tho still I held
the night

closer than
a midnight prayer
urging me to go
out beyond
the meadow –
into flight

thought
you might have
missed me
when the oldest star
came round –
a warmth of something
feels the same
as love

twilight sweeps
across the lawn
where earlier
the dawn
slept beneath the trees
and dreamed
of us

. . .

lines already made ~

28 Saturday Sep 2013

Posted by tornadoday in a time for telling, Poetry, Storytelling

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

connection, death, destiny, faith, fearless, forgiveness, grace, gravel roads, home, knowledge, life, love, memory, old maps, postmark, reason, spirit, truth, understanding, unremembering, value, wandering

mindful I
of places
you’ve remembered me
before
and times you can’t recall
you knew my face
within the crowd
beneath the lights
floating in the dark
– another love
with lifetimes
to retrace

the truth
from lines
already made
into your weathered brow
crissed and crossed
a map
along your hand
pardon my intrusion
into futures unforseen
– destines beyond
the one you planned

stars have watched
a many year
in want for just one kiss
dreaming spent
for reasons still unknown
eternities are painted
to places
you can’t see –
and here I am
reminding you of home

. . .

storyteller ~

25 Wednesday Sep 2013

Posted by tornadoday in a time for telling, Storytelling, verse

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

cherokee, Clarissa Pinkola Estes, connection, death, dreams, family, grace, gravel roads, knowledge, life, love, memory, old maps, poetry, reason, resurrection, spirit, spirituality, story, truth, understanding, writing

TO THE DESCENDANTS
OF THE GREAT EUROPEAN TRIBES
by Clarissa Pinkola Estes
(with permission)

If you would look into the last room
of the starry night,
there are powers there with names:
Tannenbow, Valdar, Yaga, and others.
They are your ancestors,
they sneeze with all the waiting for you.

They want to give you sword-making,
show you hidden ore amongst earth’s gasses.
They, like you, are a dust of glitter and light.
The names, the names. . .
call them by name,
for they have gone shadowy
from lack of your remembering,
from lack of your love.

Your Deep Earth Drum still lives,
though more more faint now.
Down there they have a theater waiting,
one that is lit by storms;
it takes only a name to start it.

Some firesides, the good princes show up;
the blind one who steals earrings
during the night shows up;
the wise one who sings souls into Nod;
the long-chin who concocts sweets,
and herbs for healing,
who lays huts of boughs for grieving,
and extracts her cost.

The one who bleeds gold,
breathes there.
The one who releases the bright,
burning fire arrow, lives there.
They are all there.
Your ancestors live!

Quick! the names,
the names. . .
call them by name. . .
before they lose all water
and die.

~*~

The charge of the storyteller is more than one of weaving,
reciting, entertaining. It is a remembering of the start and a perception
of no ending. It is the past brought forward into the now,
where it is made sense by those who have waited to be a part.

There is truth deeper than your bones, where the story
lives. There, the proof of other dreams is feeding your own.

~*~