Posts Tagged ‘We Write Poems’

Behold... my mother's father and my grandpa sand

Behold… my mother’s father and my grandpa sand

Dearest Grandfather,

I’ve been asked to compose a “list poem” enumerating some of my reasons for writing. Like an old clock set to the wrong time, my moment to ask this of you, dear grandfather, has long since passed… You were pilgrim here from Norway, learned the language enough to write your epic poem titled ‘Adam’ and made such accomplished use of your new language that you wrote with feeling, grace and beauty in lines such as…

Beautiful is the isle, when in morning hours
The night’s misty veil flees before the sun.
The stream gives forth merry sounds and
The birch grove whispers of wondrous adventure.

Asking of you what I’m about to set forth would be pure pleasure to know… As your grandaughter and a small child, you seemed formidable and rather stern to me. I do remember the tender moment when you gave comfort to a raging toothache that had me engulfed in pain. You came and sat by my bedside and offered solace with a tender hand and words of comfort. It was, perhaps, the most defining memory and moment that we shared together and I hold it dear.

I wonder if some of my affinity for writing has its’ origin in yours. I do wonder…

  

Because writing for me:

  

Facilitates the sound of my own thinking.

Challenges me beyond those pink post-it-notes.

Holds the promise of ‘sweet nothings’ like the secrets in an unopened love letter.

Surpasses the moon as a consolation prize for life’s shortcomings.

Soothes and lulls like the lyrics of a strangely addictive song.

Weeps of new promises to come like the last leaf on the willow tree.

Provides contentment like my cat lying in the sunlight.

Matches the allure and pleasure of getting caught in the rain.

Chronicles niggling memories and stories… for those who follow.

Releases guilt from the taste of a lie.

Gives meaning and expression to my purse filled with brown autumn leaves.

Pulls those fingers out of my pocket.

Yearns for more like the last line in a great book.

Sometimes demands, sometimes allows that I color outside the lines.

Prowls through sunflower moments that blossom into hours of wondering where the time has gone.

Surprises when it gives life to that dead rose in my vase.

Writing is my angel sitting on the log of driftwood where I often end up contemplating and composing with my notebook and an old chewed up pen.

~ julie © october 2012

rose border

Grandpa Sand is now great-grandfather to Amy.. not quite a year old. Treasured picture as he passed away shortly before Amy's sister was born.

1972
Grandpa Sand is now great-grandfather to Amy.. not quite a year old. Very treasured picture, as he passed away just before Amy’s sister, Allison, was born in ’74

I’ve known for years how really treasured this picture is. While the only image of my grandfather and my first born child…. that alone makes it special…. But, if you pay close attention to Amy’s demeanor on her great-grandfather’s lap, you’ll notice that she is smiling, happy, accepting and totally relaxed with someone she just met. I adore her loving gesture as she reached out and touched the lapel of his jacket.
 
Back to reality and just home from the beach and my favorite log upon which to sit … with this result in response to our weekly prompt at We Write Poems:

I Write (because)…

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“What day is it?”
“Why it’s today, of course” squeaked Piglet.
“My favorite day,” said Pooh.

  

My Favorite Day

  

Determined not to be shadowed by the past
nor overwhelmed by thoughts of the future,
I set off to be a child
who knows only the present moment.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear?

Shy wildflowers fetched by moonbeams.
Swings and slides hatched by the willows.
Sidewalks skittered with honey.
Suzie Qs danced as if seen by no one… and
Silly old bears just doing nothing.

Should you happen to be sixteen and listening,
Know this above all else…
believe in the wonderment of life
embrace the quiet moments, look around in awareness,
for in this forest you shall be happy.

~ julie © september 2012

  
  
  
I’ve just spent the past few days in the magic kingdom of California with my son and his beautiful family who re-located there when a job change too good to be denied was offered and so he didn’t… deny it that is!

I just happened to be across the room from John and Micah when this beautiful moment occurred and I was fortunate enough to capture it. No need to guess that it was a Winnie the Pooh story they were sharing… the wheels started to turn in response to this week’s prompt on We Write Poems: Words of Wisdom

In poem form, answer the following question…If you could go back in time and impart a bit of wisdom to your sixteen year old self, what would it be?

Albeit a rather trite cliché I know, but the old saying that “this too shall pass” came to mind. Usually given as comfort to help us through trying times, it occurred to me that we take so for granted the wondrous moments and they too pass all too quickly. Cliché or not, if you pay close heed, the wisdom in those words abound. Can’t be said often enough to live in the moment and pay attention.

D.H. Lawrence “got it” when he wrote “I got the blues thinking of the future so I got off and made some marmalade. It’s amazing how it cheers one up to shred oranges and scrub the floor.”

So, whether it’s honey or marmalade, just go make some!!

  

Are you listening, son?

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re-assuring,comforting, soft-spoken and kind…

My dear uncle john and aunt harriet

My dear uncle john and aunt harriet

 

Dear Uncle John

 

From his leather chair,
with a soft whisper of ‘hush,’
one tear swept away.
Comfort falls from bended knee,
‘your papa will be here soon.’

~ julie © july 2012

 
 
 
 

‘Is he not the most handsome of men?’

One of my mother’s four brothers and my most favored uncle of all the troops… dear uncle John how I loved and adored you with all the adoration and love that the tender heart of a seven year old girl could muster up. Gone so young from all our lives…. but, to this very day of my life I remember that one moment in time when you rescued me from the deep despair of homesickness with your gentle touch… the kindness in your voice and the re-assurance of the words you spoke to me.

Seeing the youthful anguish in my demeanor, as I curled up on your sofa, you came from across the room and on bended knee, so as to cradle my face in your huge hand, let me know that all was well with my world and I would soon be home safe and sound. Little did you know that much more was going on inside my homesick self…. I was letting myself down and so disappointed that I hadn’t been able to last what was supposed to be a week long visit with my most favorite aunt and uncle. I’d thought myself so grown up and was so excited to come home with you and Aunt Harriet and all my cousins after the family picnic at my house..

Alas! What’s a little girl to do when she “caves” into missing her family? Why call home, of course, and plead to be rescued.

 

Tanka poem written here today by Julie in response to this week’s prompt on the We Write Poems website: Tanka You.

Thank you Hannah for our prompt this week. Perhaps my contribution is not quite within the boundaries of a pure Tanka but as coincidence would have it, I was sifting through mother’s pictures and this one landed within my vision and brought up swift memory and emotion. So be the end result.

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The Kiss of His Memory

  

It was the time for sitting on porches
beside the road.
The people all saw her come because
it was sundown.
It was the time to hear things and talk.
      Of course he wasn’t dead.
The sun was gone but he had left
his footprints in the sky.
 
So, the beginning of this was a woman.
And she had come back from burying
the dead.
She stood there until something fell off
the shelf inside her.
      He could never be dead until she herself
      had finished feeling and thinking.

Here was Peace.
 
 
cento poem assembled by Julie

Written here today in response to this week’s prompt on the We Write Poems website: Finding Pearls.

My newest Cento poem is from the novel Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston.

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