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
In Dad’s final days, he shared stories that my brother and I listened to and recorded as he told them. Here is one about how fast he was in his younger days:
He Wore His Fast Shoes
his mama told him
to go get a loaf of bread
his cousin Porky
said Felix flew out
the door and was back before
the door even closed
In Dad’s final days, he shared stories with us. I recorded them, and my brother and I are celebrating these memories and stories throughout the month of July. In today’s audio clip, Dad shares an acrostic he has written in the middle of the night using an acrostic from the Bible verse Matthew 5:16, “Let your light so shine before men……” using the word SHINE. Here is Dad’s middle-of-the-night acrostic poem:
Dad’s SHINE Acrostic
Set goals
Hang tough
Invest wisely (it’s not money….it’s time)
Nurture others
Empathize
He says the Jim Valvano speech is the best ever, and that we should all listen to it, so I’m linking it here: https://youtu.be/HuoVM9nm42E. Today, in memory of Felix Haynes and Jimmy Valvano, let’s all go out and laugh and think….and cry.
Our host today at http://www.ethicalela.com for the third day of the July Open Write is Jennifer Jowett, with guest Ann E. Burg. They invite us to write poems about moments in nature. You can read the full prompt here and check out the poems throughout the day.
Bat Crap Crazy
it’s okay ~
go ahead, think it ~
we all know
the better title
for this poem
and how that expression
originated out of bats
in the belfry and rabies
from the droppings and I
still Googled to see if
anything had changed but
it’s all still the same
kind of crazy it always was
where here on the
Johnson Funny Farm at
33°8’42″N / 84°25’33″W
in Williamson, Georgia
at 6:10 a.m. with clear
skies at 77° with the
moon cradling its
own light and winking at
Venus to its 5:00 position
due East of my front door
I stand on the
porch listening to the calls
of the Eastern Wood Pewees
from all the dead trees
that used to be their homes
now lying like corpses across
the acres and see our
one single solitary bat that
flies in endless circles
overhead
as it always does
from dusk to dawn
and I’m not sure
which of us
is the
bat shit crazier
…..oops
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 told us all the stories of his life – – so many stories! He and his friends weren’t orchid guys – – they were white sport coat with pink carnation guys.
Money mattered, and they didn’t have much.
He and his cousin Porky sold crawfish – and a few snakes – to support their love life. back in the days when corsages cost $2.50 to $2.95. That’s what swamp folks did, and Dad grew up in Waycross, Georgia – home of the Okefenokee Swamp.
Back in the Day on Creswell Street in Waycross
we weren’t orchid guys
I wore a white sport coat with
a pink carnation
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)
Common Threads 