Tomorrow….

Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird –
That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,

It asked a crumb  – of me.

– Emily Dickinson

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Tomorrow begins National Poetry Month and NaPoWriMo!

Come back each day to see my poem a day!

If you are in the Continental U.S. there will be three opportunities for you to win a free copy of my book of poetry, Filters, here, on my FaceBook page or if you sign-up for my weekly meditation, JOURNEY/lex.

And you can download a free copy of an e-book published by Tweetspeak Poetry!

Let the poetry begin!

It’s Almost Here….Yay!

One more day until NaPoWriMo and National Poetry Month!!!!!!!
Lots of fun things coming your way.

How about a drawing for free copies of my book of poetry, Filters? Yay!

How about a free download of an e-book? I have two poems inside! How about a prompt and a poem a day?

Want to join me?

You can just read and share, you don’t have to write, but you are always welcome to write, always.

It almost here!!

Until then, sharing one of my favorite poems. Sadly, The Poetry Foundation has pulled the charming video of this poem. This makes me sad. Luckily, I was able to purchase it on a DVD a few years ago. So, here is a photo that I found from the video, one of Langston Hughes, and you’ll just have to read the poem out loud yourself. That’s okay, too!

April Rain Song

Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.

–Langston Hughes

Rio

Every so often our writing group gathers. We eat and laugh, cry and share our lives that were once more closely connected but now seem to only pass occasionally. We need to gather more often.

Today at Sandy’s house she supplied the prompt. We read an old poem – The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes. It brought some of us back to our childhood poetry classes where we didn’t understand what was happening. But I remember the girls loved the love story and the boys, well, there is a robber and muskets. What more can I say?

This day, after we finished a shared reading of the poem, we looked and one another and wondered how this was going to help us write. Then we each took a page, closed our eyes and pointed to a word. We came up with eight, and our prompt was born.

We had four entirely different stories flavored by the poem. One story happened on a ghostly walk to church on the night of the Easter Vigil. Another was a rhymed poem about a carousel gone terribly wrong. The next was a heart-touching story from one of our members who was recently widowed. And mine is below.

The words we were to use in our story:
breast      attention     musket     listened     jeweled     trigger     riding     ghostly

Rio

The jeweled box sat on the ledge of the bedroom window. It drew the attention of the moon. As she smiled down on the delicate vessel, the box proved itself to be a treasure of hues. Each jewel’s essence threw itself against the wall like raindrops kissing a pond. Colors radiated from each pinpoint melding into the next.

Rio waited for the full moon riding across the sky. She knew exactly when it would find her windowsill triggering a light show. Tonight was no different. She sat on the small padded stool covered in baroque tapestry of purples and gold. There were tassels on each corner. The short and spiraled legs made of alder wood curled into lion claws. It was her grandmother’s.

Rio’s grandmother was a gypsy and the stool accompanied her across the land as she traveled. When Rio’s grandmother didn’t come back from her last adventure, a large box of her belongings were left on the steps of her parents’ house. The stool was discarded immediately. A “flea trap” her mother called it. But Rio knew better.

In the middle of the ghostly night with fog hanging low and before the trash pickup in the morning Rio took a large plastic bag bulging with old clothes and items that no longer served purpose for her to the curb in front of her house. Carefully and as quietly as she could, Rio replaced one bag for the other and like a flea, flitted back up the stairs to her room to retrieve her treasure from the black sack.

Rio stilled herself to hear the rhythm of her parents snoring. She knew, after years of listening, when their deepest sleep arrived, when no noise would trigger their attention. She was in luck. Their breathing siphoned in and out between their clenched teeth.

Rio pulled the stool from the bag.

Something slipped out of the bag and crashed to the floor.

It was small but the noise startled Rio. In the quiet between the inhales and exhales down the hall, the sound went riding through Rio’s room and out the bedroom door like a locomotive. She reached down and snatched up the object that fell from the bag, an item she didn’t know existed. She held it tightly next to her breast as if that would erase the crash. With her stilled breath and eyes trained down the hall to her parent’s room, she counted slowly as she released her breath until her mind could hear the rhythmic snores once more. By the time all her lungs were emptied, all was well.

Rio reached to the windowsill and placed the small box on the ledge. Then she turned her attention back to the stool. It needed some cleaning, but not too much. She remembered her grandmother telling her that dirt and grim held stories to be remembered, things to be learned. There were stories within this stool to be discovered.

A flash of light caught her eye as if it was shot out of a musket. The clouds covering the moon parted just enough and stood as still as Rio’s breath had been held just moments earlier. The moon’s brilliant array filtered through the window, gypsy ribbons catching hold of the jewels covering the tiny treasure.

Rio could hardly take her eyes off what seemed like a movie. She sat down gingerly onto the stool to watch. Her seat fit perfectly into the pillowed top. Her legs bent and crossed naturally at the ankles with her knees pointing to the floor. It was as if someone had measured the stool and her for a perfect fit.

Soon Rio was bathed in a cascade of hues, colors swirling all around her. She spun around on the stool to see the reach of the jeweled light. That’s when she noticed the dancing colors on her wall. As she watched, the colors moved and jiggled. After a few minutes they stopped and came together to form words.

As quickly as Rio rose to grab her journal and a pen, the clouds closed back over the moon and the words made of color and light fell into a puddle on the rug and faded away.

I am so blessed to be part of these women’s lives. We must get together more often.

Lexanne

 

Water and Seeds

Water and Seeds
An Easter Blessing

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Deep within
I enter my garden,
winter passed,
snow melt prepares
for new life.

Barefoot I linger,
loam filters through
my fingers,
heady rich earth
to be seeded.

That which sprouted,
flowered, faded and
browned, now feeds
ground to offer new life.

I am grateful for
all that came forth
to bear my soul,
weed as well as
blossom.

My winter job to
winnow the finished,
resolved.

I hold seeds of reverence
for our Holy One.

I hold seeds of gratitude
for our Gift.

I hold seeds of joy
that I am beloved.

I hold seeds unknown
that will surprise.

I hold seeds of heirloom knowledge
to remember what once nourished.

And I hold seeds of all,
each a universe that
we may grow as One.

I inearth with all seeds
this day of beginnings.

I sing and dance with them
my delight and joy.

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Author’s Note:

Easter. Spring Equinox. Full Moon.

Our Holy One gifts us many paths to transformation.

Some of us have walked this Holy Week to Easter Sunday in the shoes of those who watched and were unable to stop the horrors. We can only feel the despair and pain through our eyes of experience. We wonder what can we do? How can we transform the world into a place where compassion and acceptance and love prevail? But we know the answer, the root command – love one another. It is the way to resurrecting that which has been lost or forgotten.

Some of us have watched the Moon. Light that is full, then fades. And cycles once more as it did for the ancients and now does for us, and will do for those who come after us.

Some of us welcomed a new year of growth as snow buried us deep into itself making us wonder how life can survive. Even still, we understand the need for the water it will become. And we also know that deep within where our loving God resides, we will thrive because we are beloved and abundance is always present.

All of us walk the path of resurrection, from seed to bloom to something dying in us or away from us, only to be given another chance. The Holy Wheel never ceases turning, will never abandon us.

We will plant again, hopefully transformed by what has passed. We will grow to endless possibilities of being Love and Life and Laughter.

Enjoy. Easter day is ours to revel in and to share. It is our transformation to celebrate.

Happy Easter. Joyous Spring. Stand in the glory of the Moon that lights our darkness. We are blessed.

Amen. Amen. Amen.
Lexanne

Click to join my weekly meditation: JOURNEY/lex

Passion

See full reflection at JOURNEY/lex.

 

 

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Only an occasional passing car to bring me down,
back to here,
I fall into breathing rhythm of Bremen’s half-sleep,
comforted in his watch,
heartbeat to heartbeat sync, we are One.

I memorize the patterned beat of rolling tires
clipping cracks and asphalt riffs from frozen melts
outside my bedroom window.

This is real ground under my feet.

In my undoing I learned to reassemble,
notice small syncopated taps, life entering
with each pant.

Transformation does not make itself
on sidewalks under full sun. It is not
gleaming glitter sprinkled to make show.

I align myself in formation not with rigid
anatomy, but with fine variation.

An almost perfect petal, virginal white,
but for fragmented hue brushed
by an all-knowing hand, grace tenders awry.
He came not in perfection, but like me.

Sacrifice does not mean to suffer, but
to make sacred.

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Author’s Note:

This is the first Lent in a very long while where I have not participated in traditional Christian ritual. I stepped away for a bit, not from Christ, but from form.

I realized that this is what Lent is all about. In the past, I couldn’t reach him, feel him, be me with him. I busied myself doing what I thought were the prayers and the actions that would show me the way. I never succeeded. I felt guilty. I wasn’t perfect in my form.

I rest in a different space now.

Transformation comes in small taps, bits and pieces, until I recognize it. Then it all comes tumbling down, only to reveal the Real.

We are all community. I find my Oneness in Jesus, but also see more. He expected that from us, hoped for this, I truly believe. He enfolded all to him reminding us that we have always been worthy – human, beast, plant, earth, water, air – all beloved.

When I falter thinking there is only one way, I remember that he came as I am, in our multifaceted, brilliantly brutal human way. There is no other way, but Oneness between all.

Shatter the form and let your soul rise. Allow those tiny taps to break you open to become One. Remember the root command – love one another.

 

More at JOURNEY/lex.

 

Archeology

 

Join me at JOURNEY/lex, a weekly pondering of poetry, mystics, and the world.

 

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1.

It is a madness where I dwell
deep within myself,
a place where some say
heresy resides.

It is the archeology of me
wherein the Echo of the
Universe dances.

2.

I do not turn You aside
or hinder as Creation yawns
a grand breath each dawn,
unfurls into every corner.

I come to You an empty vessel,
a mosaic of broken pieces
composed from night’s release.

Your golden hue haloes
a new beginning.

I am yours in this every day
spring, your beloved,
as You are mine.

 

You can read more at JOURNEY/lex.

NaPoWriMo, Yay!

I adore spring.Small-Blue-RGB-National-Poetry-Month-Logo

The birds are waking me once again in the early morning. We can open our windows to fresh air. There are thunderstorms and rain to soothe my soul and water Earth.

And soon-to-be-here April ushers in two ways of celebrating this all of this wonder –
National Poetry Month and NaPoWriMo
(National Poetry Writing Month).napofeature3

National Poetry Month is a time I celebrate poetry in many ways, but one of my favorite is with my first graders. We listen to poets, hip hop, the classics, and watch poems that have been
made into videos. They are intrigued enough to write their own
poems and start down the road of the bard.

One of my greatest inspirations, not only this month but all
year long, is Tweetspeak Poetry. I receive an Every Day Poem
in my inbox each morning. Check them out. They also have a
myriad of ways to inspire and share word. They even have poems
to color. And maybe even a free e-book of poetry? Take a look,
especially at their Top 10Sites To Follow For National Poetry Month
to further entice you into poetry.tweetspeakpoetry.com_

 

And….Yay!!!!!! NaPoWriMo!!!!

This is the month long challenge of writing a poem every day. For each day of April, the fine folks at NaPoWriMo list a prompt and a poet. You take it from there. Join me?

I will post my poems each day – a brave thing to do, maybe silly and foolish – but it is a wonderful way to release and quiet that inner editor.

AND, I hope to partake in the  Big Poetry Giveaway 2016. Check back April 1st for more information on how you can win a free copy of my book of poetry, Filters, and one from one of my favorite poets!

In the meantime, sharpen your pencils, dust off that keyboard, get some really yummy snacks and some coffee, lots of coffee. (Oh, I know many of you are tea totes, but that’s okay. You can play, too.)

Let’s get ready to rumble!!!!! And tumble. Maybe even bumble and mumble a bit.