Patchwork Prose and Verse
In Dad’s final days, we gathered audio clips to preserve his stories, prayers, and words of wisdom. In today’s clip, he shares about one of his favorite topics – The Springs of Elim – and how they worked in his own life.
fresh Springs of Elim
waters of restoration
reviving the soul
Today for the second day of the July Open Write, Jennifer Jowett of Michigan and Deborah Wiles of Georgia are our hosts. They inspire us to write I Once Knew poems, using a process they describe at this link. Hop over and read some of the poems that will be eclectic and unexpected. This is one such random poem process that is, what I believe, makes poetry shine and sparkle.
To Be Continued
I once knew Miss Sue
who taught me
how to swim in
her backyard pool
now filled in
with earth and flowers
I once stayed at
The Blue Swallow Motel
with the Swiss dot bedspread
and Moon Pies on the pillows
and t-shirts advertising
refrigerated air conditioning
as I drove Route 66
I swam in the Illinois
cornfield sunset
I swooned over the
coconut cream pie
at the Midpoint Cafe
in Adrian, Texas
I sweltered in the
Palo Duro Canyon
Texas heat
where even the road runners
know to sit in the shade
of the picnic tables
I sweethearted a
photo finish kiss
with my husband at
Cadillac Ranch
I swapped my beaded
quartz bracelet for one
made of turquoise and
mother of pearl
in Albuquerque
at the store with
the red war paint door
because it reminded me of
my mother
I swore to return to
finish the route
to be continued…..
Today’s host for the first day of the July Open Write at http://www.ethicalela.com is Jennifer Jowett of Michigan. You can read her full prompt here, inspiring writers to compose a poem of Memory Threads – – a way to breathe in healing through fabric of story and connection.
This month, I’ve been capturing Dad’s final words and stories in audio clips and poems as he inched closer and closer to Heaven, one foot in this world and one in the next. It’s as if Jennifer’s prompt was written just for me. That’s the thing about poetry ~ it meets you exactly where you are and invites you into the vast realm of each moment, scattering the light and blanketing the dark and swimming fully immersed in the shadows. For me, there is no greater healing than what is found in prayer and verse. I’m convinced it’s why the Bible itself – the Holy Scripture – is written in verse. Because it casts light on all truth and heals souls right where they are, and it invites personal response.
I hope you will visit the link above today and read some of the poems and, perhaps, write your own. Even if you don’t share it with anyone, my wish for you is the peace of writing and the healing of expression. Forget perfection. Forget whether it’s good or not, whether it’s right or wrong. There are no rules.
Just dive in.
Still Life with Dying Father
my brother and I
sat by our father
in his final hours
each labored breath
casting ethereal ripples
on the gossamer veil
hanging sheer and thin
between man and Maker
each weakening whisper
each story
each prayer
each memory
becoming weightless
dancing gracefully
toward the shimmering glow
I don’t have an audio clip for today, but one of the stories I like best that Dad told was about his days in Port Royal, Kentucky when he was the pastor of Port Royal Baptist Church. We moved there a few weeks after I was born in Waycross, Georgia so that Dad could attend Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, and we lived in the tiny pastorium right next door to the church, where in the wintertime the icicles hanging from the roof were as tall as a full-grown adult.
I have some vivid memories from about the time I was 3 or 4 and distinctly remember the floor plan of the house. I remember a Sunday School class at the top of the stairs in the church, and it had a pegboard outside the door where I’d hang my tiny pocketbook. It snowed practically to the roof, and we only had a wood burning stove for heat in those days. I would love to go back to visit sometime.
Dad kept urging me to take a road trip with him to see Wendell Berry – THE Wendell Berry – and I never could seem to take the time off from work to go. I regret that now. Dad shared the stories of the simplicity of the life there in Port Royal where Berry lives and writes.
I like to think that somewhere along the way as an infant or toddler, I breathed a little of Wendell Berry’s poetic breath – that maybe somewhere along the way, I picked up a poetic skin cell somewhere and it multiplied straight to my heart and nurtured my lifelong love of poetry. Just one tiny cell could have done a thing like that, in my mind – inspired a love of words that remains with me today.
Oh, how I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall as these two shared in the joy of conversation and their love of writing and life. One thing is for sure: I will pick up the Port William series of books that Dad had always urged me to read, where the place was as strong a character as the eclectic people. The inspiration for the town was, of course, Port Royal. And somewhere in that series, maybe there is a little tiny glimpse of someone I might recognize.
In Dad’s final days, he reminded us to keep on growing.
Room Service
birds
have to eat
their body weight
each day
but plants
have to have
room service
The words of a dying man are treasures.
Dad shared stories in his final days – time he spent with Henry Aaron, his father’s time with Shoeless Joe Jackson and the baseballs we must keep….our weird family, and what to do with the Roseville china, sponsoring love life through crawfish, and selling Cottonmouths for twelve bucks…….all these things that express the flavor and quirkiness of our family. I’m glad we captured these stories on audio so that we can revisit them as we go through the process of grieving our loss of Dad. These moments of the most random conversations filled with memories are priceless to me, no matter how scattered they may seem to others. I’ve used the chain Haiku form here in the poem I’m sharing today, using Dad’s exact words in these lines.
Twelve Bucks for a Cottonmouth
my brother is a
freebie baby, a clearance
kid of great value
our weird family
snake blood in our DNA
swamp genes in our veins
serendipitous
steering currents bring surprise
unexpected guests
prayer conversations
important time together
letting kids climb trees
these things that happen
hodgepodge of mismatchery
eclectic, unique
Okefenokee
twelve bucks for a cottonmouth
Wings Service Station
I sponsored my love
life selling crawfish, Dad said
(priceless audio)
In Dad’s final days of life, he shares some life lessons that we all must anticipate. Some we need to rethink. Dad’s bottom line: we are not going to get out of this world alive. I’m glad my brother and I were able to spend those days by Dad’s bedside engaging in conversations with him as the final curtain closed on his life this side of Heaven. We took away some stark realities and a few laughs each day, and we preserved them so that we can relive them long into the future ~ especially as we go through the process of grieving this immense loss. I share Dad’s simple thought for today in a haiku.
We’re Not Getting Out Alive
we’re not going to
get out of this world alive
not any of us
Dad shares words of wisdom in his final days of life, and my brother and I captured many of his stories by audio recording so that we could return to the nuggets of wisdom again and again as we work through the grief process. Today’s poem is an acrostic, where each beginning letter of each line spells the word PEACE vertically – – the pursuit of peace is where he was in these final days, and he shares more about this in today’s clip, which you can hear below:
PEACE
Peace that passes all understanding
Ever Dad’s pursuit in his final days
All in all, I am totally fine
Carefully sorting the complete picture….
Eventually, he explains, you must release it
This month, I’m sharing some of Dad’s conversations in his final days, and in one of them that you can hear at the bottom of this post, he revealed a surprising thought about how we feel about folks from time to time. His revelation reminded me of a poem that I wrote recently for a small group of women in one of my writing circles.
My Stafford Challenge group meets the first Monday of each month by Zoom to chat and write together, and we’re a group of women who enjoy reading as much as writing. I’ve been writing a form each month called Gift Basket writing, where I choose three things I’d give a person in a gift basket for that month. This one is dedicated especially to my Stafford Writing Group sisters – Barb Edler of Iowa, Glenda Funk of Idaho, and Denise Krebs of California. At the time I wrote this, I’d recently stumbled across a book club I’d love to join, even for the name alone, and there is actually a summer camp in Maine for its readers – this is a real thing. My dream summer is going to this book club’s summer camp, and I’ve added it to the bucket list.
Bad Bitch Book Club
if I were giving you
a gift basket
I’d make it a
Bad Bitch gift basket
to welcome the storms
of the world~
you’d receive
a t-shirt that says
BAD BITCH BOOK CLUB
complete with
a membership to
the Bad Bitch Book Club
(yes ~ it’s a real thing
with its own dot com)
and a mirror
so you’ll always
see the
baddest of the kick-ass bad
right in the palm of your hand~
knowing your Bad Bitch sisters
have your back!
It’s okay to have a BB attitude sometimes……even my preacher Dad in his final days confessed that there are times we are all a little bit badass. You can listen here:
This month, I’m sharing conversations that my brother and I had with our father in his final days of life on this side of Heaven. In this conversation, he was yearning to go back home – a place where he never, unfortunately, was able to return. My brother and I spent long weeks at his bedside, and each day we had conversations and learned of things he needed us to do before his time came. We were blessed to be able to help him accomplish some of those things. Like yesterday, I chose a diminishing form and used Dad’s exact words for today’s poem. This is a nonet form, and it creates the sense of urgency to live a day at a time…..and there are only so many.
Never Enough Time Nonet
there are so many variables
in this thing… who knows?….you just have
to go with the flow, one day
at a time ~ that’s the way
you have to live your
life, Dad urges
(we agree ~
to a
point)*
*My brother and I loved our father, but one frustration we shared was that despite our foresight we’d shared on getting some affairs (and his house and collections of books and other things) in order, he waited until the last minute, leaving many tasks undone and relying on us to do things for him in those final days. While I do believe in going with the flow and allowing the good Lord to open doors, I’m not an exclusive member of the serendipitous steering currents of the spirit club – words he used often. I’ve also learned that he who dies with the most toys does not win. I believe in planning ahead. Despite all that we wish he had done differently, we are still learning from our dad – most of it is what to do, yet much is what not to do.
Common Threads 