Tag: poetry

Posted on

July Open Write Day 1 of 3 with Jennifer Jowett

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

Posted on

Dad and Wendell Berry

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.

Posted on

We Weren’t Orchid Guys

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

Posted on

12 Bucks for a Cottonmouth

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)

Posted on

Life Lessons: Waiting for the Rapture

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

Posted on

Felix Stories: Peace that Passes All Understanding

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

Posted on

July Gift Basket for the Bad Ass Book Club

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:

Posted on

So Many Variables

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.

Posted on

Waiting for the Next Thing to Happen Etheree

This month, I’m sharing some of Dad’s final conversations with us in the last days of his life. In this one, he urges us to live to the fullest and to make every minute count as he did a lot of hospital waiting. I chose the etheree form for this poem, created with his exact words, since the etheree form (ten lines with each numbered line having that many syllables in it) visually shows the diminishing time and creates the sense of urgency to live.

You Can’t Kick The Can Down the Road

isn’t this what we’re all doing, really?

waiting for the next thing to happen?

it’s not day by day, but hourly

we must use our time wisely

all we’ve got is today

every minute counts

life is today

whatever

is, just

is