Little Things

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Day Seven

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Little things

A stuffed grey elephant
small enough to hold in one
hand, tucked inside the
bottom drawer in the kitchen.

Everyday it’s something new, a little
thing misplaced, abandoned.
I wonder if I choose
or just forget. I worry
about that.

Little things

Tiny seas shells. You wonder
why I pick something so
small, insignificant.
Alone, they are little pieces.
In unison, a creation,
a mandala of memories spiraling
into eternity.

 

 

Author’s Note:

Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo:

“Finally, our prompt for the day (optional as always) comes to us from Elizabeth Boquet of Oaks to Acorns. In keeping with the fact that it’s the seventh day of NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo, Elizabeth and I challenge you to write a poem about luck and fortuitousness. For inspiration, take a look at Charles Simic’s “The Betrothal” and Stephen Dunn’s “The Arm”. Need something more? Perhaps these instructions from Elizabeth will get you going!

Create the following lists:
1. List 1 – 3 random objects. (Smaller tends to be better.
2. List 1 – 3 random but specific locations. (Think in the cookie jar, or under my seat…)
3. List 1 – 2 objects you’ve lost and a few notes on their back-story.
4. List 1- 2 objects you’ve found and few notes on their back-story.

My choices:

  1. List 1 – 3 random objects. (Smaller tends to be better.)
    Stuffed elephant            broken tree branch            dad’s wedding ring

2. List 1 – 3 random but specific locations. (Think in the cookie jar, or under my seat…)
fireplace mantle            seashore            kitchen drawer

  1. List 1 – 2 objects you’ve lost and a few notes on their back-story.
    everyday it’s something new – I worry about my memory, little things    I don’t remember until I need it
  1. List 1- 2 objects you’ve found and few notes on their back-story.
    Mom’s rhinestone pin – lent to friends, seldom worn by my mom as I grew up, mental illness            Seashells = making a mandala

Bowl of Sand

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In quiet of morning pause,
growling its mission,
the recycling truck moves
steadily toward our house.
Benny snoozes secure
somehow knowing
there is no worry.

I went one day to the edge
of big water flowing in from
the sea, like sky turned
upside down, I couldn’t
tell if I stood on land
or in clouds.

It is all perspective,
a matter of turning in
to realize the angel-winged shell
or five-ordinaled star,
the bubbly huntsman
or petite pebble configure
myself into the Mystery.

Upside down or inside out,
not growling nor in slumber, 

at edge of ocean
I am hushed 
as tides
brush my feet,

a gentle nudge to affirm
my Heartbeat sanctuary.

.
.
.
Author’s Note:

I have a bowl of sand from my recent trip to the Seattle area. In it I keep the shell of the lightest purple. And a stone of black spiraled with white. I don’t know how it was formed, but am in awe of its simple beauty.

Puget Sound. I call it “big water.” It’s technically not the ocean, but it is. Just like I am not technically Spirit, yet I am. The Mystery.

e.e. cummings was one of my favorite poets when I was young, mostly because he went against convention. I guess I’ve always been a quiet, stubborn rebel. And he used whimsy. Most of which I really didn’t understand when I was young, but laughed anyway. I love to laugh.

That’s my delight in poetry by ghosts of the past. It takes time to mature and understand them. However, they are always there waiting for me to realize that whether I stand on ground or in clouds, they are there for me to see more deeply the more hush I allow.

Just like Spirit.

Aho,

Lexanne

 “Ghosts, right, have nothing to say to us,
Obsolete. Gone. Not so.”
– Natalie Merchant, Leave Your Sleep

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach(to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and        

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea

                     – E. E. Cummings, 1894 – 1962