Welcome friends! Where has your soul summoned you?
I’d love to know what’s on your heart and let’s put
that goodness out to the universe!
This collaboration will be open until next Friday. Leave
me a comment, and I will add it to the poem. You get your very
own color!
If you want to just the anaphora for a separate entry, you can just link it back to this blog. I’m excited to hear your beautiful words!
Enjoy! Marie
A most lovely poet at Forgotten Meadows has started a collaborative poem trend, two of my favorite things, poetry and collaboration! So, in honor of her, and to see what juicy words come, here is my starting phrase: “My Soul is Summoned…”
Isn’t it a curious phrase? What is your soul summoned to do?
It will be open until next Friday, the 27th, and I will make sure your contribution is posted in the order it comes. I look forward to seeing your “magic.” And hearing what you are summoned to do.
Happy poeting…(yes, poetry is an action!)
My Soul is Summoned
My soul is summoned,
on barren lands,
in the middle of nowhere,
alone, it stands,
free.
My Soul Summons me to Peaceful surrounds, to Light without sounds, to Love
without Boundaries.
My soul is summoned to answer calls
Reverberating through subtle halls
Where mankind has dwelt for far too long
Deciding what is right and wrong.
Step outside, there is no quiz
Eternity just simply is.
My soul is summoned on wings to fly
High above an earthly sky
To take flight to a new world
A place with love, peace and flags unfurled
What will be there when you arrive?
Not for you to know, only to thrive.
Trust yourself and be off to explore
It is for you to love and nothing more.
My soul summon me through fire rise
cast ash greyed mystery disguised
walk no need to hide the eyes
what calls to see but cross the water
these pawmarks, mine,
and most of all, for this to know
that I am she, am this, forever soul
CONTRIBUTORS: Me, Forgotten Meadows, Booknvolume, Rob McShane, Phoenix Tears Healed
My week has been blessed with family and friends. Right now I am getting to spend time with my dear Kelci in Seattle to do the Rock and Roll. I used to run a lot more, and I loved the freeing feeling running gave to me. And when I finished, especially a half marathon, I was on a runner’s high remembering how it felt to overcome pain and steep hills and sometimes short of breath. I would push through and come out victorious! One day I got lost in the rain on a run because course had gotten washed away and I had lost the pack. My form was gone, and I had trashed my knees. Needless to say, I had caused some great damage and can’t run like I used to. However, the reminiscing makes me thankful for ever getting a chance to feel the sweetness and the freedom of the run.
But what I am most grateful for today is the opportunity to be out with my sweet Kelci and enjoying the day of walking and talking and hearing bands and seeing my cousins and friends be in their glorious moments and I will relish it and hold it in all its glory. Tomorrow is the big day, and I’m looking forward to it.
And besides, it’s FANTASTIC FRIDAY!!!!
Frog #1 – looked like a handsome prince. But no, total frog…hopped in more than one garden and sat on more than one lily pad.
Frog #2 – nope, not really a frog, more like a toad actually, warts and all…and they’re the kind of warts that keep on giving. Also hopped on more than one lily pad…forgot he was watching them little tadpoles.
Frog #3 – like a frog in boiling water, hoppin’ mad ALL THE TIME!
Frog #4 – Now we’re moving a little closer to a prince, saw a beautiful Frogilina in me…caught me flies, bought me a nice lily or 2 for my pad…but it was time for him to find a new pond and have his own little tadpoles.
Frog #5 – shiny green, a happy little ribbitt, made sweet music along with the crickets and the little tadpoles…liked MY pond, caught me flies…made the pond we had a better place…nope, not really a frog…totally a prince…and when the moon hit just right…ahhhh.
Now the tadpoles are grown, a glowing slimy green themselves and happily hopping in their own pond. Though our pond is a little quieter, it is still a sublime place to be.
Miles of smiles in this one…to you Joey, my love.
What qualifies a person to write another man’s story? For a life is not a life unless it is fully experienced and lived, and the writer can hardly capture the essence, let alone tell a full story.But the one who has done the living is a tired soul and his hands are feeble and in pain, and his heart has been in pieces and it’s difficult for him to sort out. And so it is that the writer must be the one to document whatever he/she can. For once a life goes, so do their libraries of stories.Two years ago, I felt the calling to get to know my dad when I walked in a Hallmark store and found a book called, “My Father’s Legacy.” In the book are “get to know you questions” about family history, not just dates, but celebrations and dreams and memories. There were so many questions I didn’t know the answer to for my family, even basic questions of family tree information. You see, I have always wanted to get to know dad, but his life and his feelings have always been vaulted with at least a hundred locks and a secret code. As I examined the book, I realized there was so much more I didn’t know, and the questions seemed simple enough. So I thought to myself, “Let’s give this a try.”I introduced the book to my dad and told him I’d like to document family history and some traditions for posterity. “Hey Dad, maybe I could ask you some questions?” Dad said, “I think that’d be all right.” When I would visit, I would ask a few questions and then I’d randomly call him and ask him some more. However, if the question became too personal, dad would quickly close up and withdraw and suddenly had to go “feed the critters” or eat, even if he just called me!The next step on our journey, my dad then began to accept that if the question was in the book, then it was legal, and I could ask it. It would make me giggle because he would look in the book to check if the question really was there. What this phase allowed me to do was gain his trust. He would feed me tidbits to see what I would do with the information. Because my intentions were honorable and how I handled his information was honorable, he began to trust me. From there, we could go a little deeper. There were times I would call, and he’d have to get through the roughness of his day, (Alzheimer’s has people living in fear and worry), and then I would get tidbits of information. Other days after finishing his stories he was just done and hung up. It was disappointing, but I knew it was part of the journey. Through patience and diligence and ears bleeding getting through the toughness of dealing with someone who is closed and stubborn and sadly going through mind games of his own, we began to forge a new relationship. He began to look forward to my calls and sometimes called me. The darkness was revealed less and less and the pep in his spirit was back.This week I got to visit him in Texas. I came prepared with a list of questions in various areas, because I never know what he will be open to answer. Needless to say, I didn’t get a lot of the prepared questions answered, but fortunate for me, I was open to the experience and whatever he had to offer me. Because of this, I was pleasantly surprised more than once.We went on an adventure to visit his hometown of Georgewest. He got lost, and I didn’t catch it because I had my head down taking notes…But the best part? GETTING LOST WAS A BEAUTIFUL THING. Because we were in the car seven lovely hours without phones or computers or people clamoring for his attention, we just got to laugh and be ourselves. Sometimes we didn’t talk at all. And we can’t forget the Dairy Queen! We both enjoyed our most favorite treat, icecream just like little kids!Daddy woke up the next day ready to take on the world. He even talked about feeling inspired to write. He said he had a dream that I didn’t just “come to Texas,” that I was “sent to Texas” to inspire him. I got a brilliant idea to create a feast for Father’s day. I used a sheet as a table cloth, because daddy didn’t one, and I picked flowers from his garden and put them in his favorite mason jars. It takes very little. And twenty minutes before people came over, daddy gave me the most real, the most honest that I have ever seen him. He was unafraid, and gave me the advice of a lifetime in regards to alcoholism…but I will save that for another time because it’s a most wonderful story all by itself.The trip wasn’t all peaches and roses, but it was time I treasured and got to know my daddy better. The focus was on being present and noticing. I will never know how much longer I have with him, so I embrace what I have. Smile your silly smile dad and enjoy.
LOVE you!!!
I have the privilege to write my dad’s story. For most of my life, he has been vaulted, and is still very guarded and sometimes avoids questions on the phone. But this week,I get to visit him in person, and will be able to be face to face to ask him questions.
If I only get to ask about five to maybe ten questions, what would be that burning question you would want to know about his life?
He may our may not answer, but sometimes when his curiosity is peaked, he will dig deeper, or mull it over a few days.
Keep in mind he has Alzheimer’s and lucid days come less and less. It may be that I just get to keep him company, but it doesn’t hurt to try.
One of my friends asked this question:
“When you are face to face with Jesus, what will you tell him is your most proud moment?”
I know you have the best questions so shoot!
I used to think I was a writer. I told myself I was because I wrote lots of journals when I was younger and tons of essays for college, threw down an occasional poem, wrote some cards and letters…but that was a lie.
BUT, you’re not a writer until you are engulfed in a world you can’t possibly have until you think eat and breathe writing…when you ache to get the beasts out of you…until you wrangle with demons and journey and blockades you know nothing about and you begin to conquer them. that is when you begin to be a writer.
A writer is a witness to life and beauty and heartache and a gamut of emotions.
A writer is tortured with a myriad of emotions that HAVE to get out.
A writer experiences the desert…a time when the life of words does not exist and the land all around is barren.
I imagine that even now going through what I have this past year with my writing , one might still say I am not a writer…but I am beginning to understand the world of writing. I am ready to be a witness to testify to the beauty and lessons learned…and to experience the greatest heartache when the words don’t come…to know that even one word has healed.
TELL ME: What have you witnessed? What are YOU writing? I’d love to know your adventures.
Maya Angelou didn’t know this then, but she probably knows it now, that her influence spread far and wide, by simply speaking her words aloud and lying them down on the path for others to pick up and use….sometimes wave like flags of freedom.
Maya (I feel close enough to her energy to call her by her first name) was first introduced to me in my early twenties through a book I had purchased at a garage sale, “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.” I was so intrigued by the title, but I was more intrigued by her transformational story of turning a tragedy into triumph. From there ever after, my ears perked up each time I heard her name or heard a quote. I collected her quotes on calendars and notebooks and other wonderful items. I devoured her words like substance to nourish and encourage my soul.
In 2007, I wrote a poem to her. I had told my daughters of her triumphs and used her example of courage and overcoming to assist them through some difficult times. You can read that poem Ode to Maya here. What’s interesting to me, is that the week before she died, I felt compelled to post it on her web-site without knowing she was suffering physically. My heart must have known.
Fast forward to my 50th birthday party. There once was a time I thought I would dread this day, but my friend Barb had a most amazing day, and she and my husband convinced me it was a right of passage that I should celebrate to the max! As a matter of fact, Joe, my husband, reminded me that some of the women who changed the world did their best work after 50.
Here’s how I celebrated:
For my childhood years, we had Big Red soda, sidewalk chalk, bubbles and board games.
For my teenage years, we danced and ate fast fun food. Though some of the music didn’t exist from my teen years, it was fun to dance and do
For my womanhood, I read a two poems from Maya, Phenomenal Woman, which encourages a woman to truly be herself, and Still I Rise which encourages women to rise from their deepest darkest depths and walk boldly.
For motherhood, moms told their favorite mom stories.
And lastly, my husband crowned me and I went through an archway representing all the lovely women who had gone before me whom had changed the world. Joe made a powerpoint of these women, including Oprah Winfrey and Maya Angelou and other amazing women all over the world. He believed, like I believe, that we all have the power to move and change the world. Maya was there at my party. Her spirit permeated the cards I was given and the books and the quotes I received, for my friends all knew how much she moved me and called me to action.
What this amazing woman proved to me was that one woman, one man, CAN make a difference. We do it every day by owning who we truly are and BEING who we truly are meant to be. ~Nemaste my friends and love to you dearest Maya and family.
Writing Wings For You 