Credit: motivationalreads.com
Can I have a word?
What word is it?
You have my word.
She has a way with words.
Words can be weapons.
He went back on his word.
A picture says a thousand words.
A play on words
The spoken word.
Don’t twist my words!
Words cannot describe it.
There are no words left to say.
The last word.
Word.
There’s no word for it.
Day 7 by the skin of my teeth….
Credit: www.wallallies.com
My oldest asked me to write an Easter story just as the April poetry challenge got underway. I reminded him that I did write one two years ago (Traditional Non-Traditions , a worthy read for background). I guess he wanted a fresh take on a not-so-old tale. But in keeping with the spirit of this month, I am also inserting a poem:
Before I go, can we see one more show?
Before I leave, can you tell me you still believe?
Before I’m gone, can we see another dawn?
Before I go, can we find another road to hoe?
Before I leave, can we find more mountains to achieve?
Before I’m gone, will you let me ramble on?
I guess our Easter story is a kind of resurrection. It seems so long ago that our family life fell apart. For a while there, it seemed the three of us were torn asunder. Separated from each other and even our own selves. Perseverance, determination, along with letting go and the gift of time (which does heal) gave birth to a new incarnation. A strong trio-thick as thieves- settled in and grew up together. We spent time in the wilderness, pondered our fate and learned who our true friends were. Our new life enriched us, and like all good things, allowed for more treasure and more joy.
And now we are all ready for a newer, fresher start. When spring is done and summer has just begun, we’ll go on to new lives, knowing full well that yes indeed we have risen!
Red Hill Summit: Lake Winnipesaukee in the distance
Morning broke with sunrise Alleluias at The Rock
Acoustic accompaniments to the voices of
altos, sopranos and those out of tune
Weary pilgrims shivering in the cold Easter dawn
Reflecting and reciting in the woods’ spring hush
Midday brings a bolder journey still
The steep brilliant hike up a slush covered hill
Mother and sons make the 2000 foot ascent
Breathing deep
Each step more steep
The oldest using his powerful speed
The feast at the summit consumed in near silence
The youngest reminding us as we view the tranquil vastness
of why we do this:
We can’t let life pass us
The gang of three leave this sacred place
Hearts full, feet moving at a dancer’s graceful pace
Day 5. A little late after a great day with my sons.
Summit of Mt. Willard: Crawford Notch
The backpack sits on my shoulders and hips
A welcome relief
A warm hug from an old friend
I smile
A new climb commenced
Early April-a snow packed path
Standing in contrast to the hoar frost
of October’s last pass
The rise is not steep
Yet our hearts burst with exertion
Our skin glistens
Our hams beg us to listen
222 steps to the summit
Spike rimmed boots keep us from slipping
The view is grand and glorious
We bask in Mother Sun’s heat
Day 4. My fiance’ and I spent Good Friday hiking. A wonderful start to the spring season!
Credit: lily-lou.deviantart.com
She felt the heat of his hand like a burn on her back from lying too long in the sun
Her wound would not find relief with the cool salve of aloe
It oozed with blood and the discomforting sensation of an itch she could not scratch
Every movement gave way to an involuntary gasp
The pain a reminder of his secret rage
This was his first but would it be his last?
Silence turned to fear
Fear to silence
A tenuous tango
A wayward waltz
Awkward dance partners
Stepping on each others’ toes
Day 3. For those past and present who’ve experienced the physical and emotional pain of abuse.
Credit: www.pinterest.com
Arriving for a Tuesday titillation
Shedding layers
Seeking sanctuary from mundane machinations
Standing bare
Longing for dark spaces and places
Lusting heat
Breathing in whispers and sighs
Touching skin
Exploring midriffs and thighs
Rising sensation
Tasting the sweet ruby fruit
Devouring delight
Giving sheer pleasure with each spicy release
Wanting nothing
Needing only pure physical touch
Dreaming spirits
Departing deftly with dawn’s early call
Day 2 of NaPoWriMO. This is written as 2 poems combined as 1 with the odd lines being the first and the even being the second. A purely accidental play on words and a lyrical metaphor for the poem’s theme!
Rough edges of spring barely beginning
sightings of old brown ground . .
long lamenting winter’s discontent
April: the fool’s own jester
Perhaps we deceive ourselves
into thinking winter will begin to disappear
leaving no traces of its existence
We fear this season will be fleeting
Barely appearing
A verdant apparition
A lush hallucination
A grassy delusion
We await the unfolding
Credit: time.com
“I’m so angry about this snow,” griped my friend J, as we watched yet another round of white precipitation whirling around outside. We were having a luscious lunch at Maggie’s Farm and the spring afternoon was anything but. We are beyond tired of dealing with our record-breaking snow fall this year. Never mind the cold.
Up here, we pride ourselves on being tough and up to the task of winter’s woes. But when the guy who plows your driveway says he is sick of it, you know the limits of collective tenacity have been reached. In fact, I have been claiming that this season has literally shut down my ability to write a single blog post. I haven’t even had the wherewithal to read the ones I follow!
The season was one of havoc and hazards. Ice dams that caused thousands of dollars worth of damage to friend’s ceilings, tires blown out by potholes, falling ice that collapsed a colleagues’ deck and ruptured a gas line just minutes after she had been out there with her dogs, cars totaled from numerous accidents caused by slippery roads…
When the weather rules your life every day, it’s hard to get out of your own way mentally. Each night I went to bed with the worry about the growing icicles along my roof line and the several feet of snow piling up on the garage and front porch roofs. Each morning was greeted with what became a rite of layered preparation before heading out the door. I would wear the same four sets of clothing for weeks (with washing in between, of course!) because it was essential for getting where I needed to go (if I could get there). I spent a few weeks taking an alternate route to work because the driving conditions on my normal route were too hazardous. Once, on the alternate route, someone painted “UNCLE” in blue on the snow bank at the end of their street! Often, we would call one another from outside the house for a push up the driveway (not everyone has four-wheel drive). It takes three strong people to accomplish the task. Running and writing were pushed aside-two important things that help to define me. We longed for our normal rituals and routines-the predictable rhythm of daily life that grounds us.
Still, we remain hopeful for the sweet smell of spring. The sounds of melting snow and chirping birds. The glimpse of color on the trees. I miss the wildlife. The ducks on the pond (too frozen for them-many have been rescued this season, very unusual), the deer at the far end of the yard, even the wild turkeys who have been known to block my running path in the morning!
April is around the bend. I dream of spring hikes, short sleeves and sauntering soliliquys.
Morning sounds nonexistent
The world neatly colored in colorlessness
Banks of white hip deep
We dig out meters and walkways
Icicles hang from the eaves
Thick spears dangerously hovering overhead
Doormats saturated
Skin cracked
Dull
Dry
Nearly swollen in its thirst
Work slowed
Can we get out today?
Our feet live in slippers or boots
Our hands in gloves or mitts
Our hair suffers from hat head
while the men grow their faces to insulate
them from the cold
Fleece is our fashion
The season seems endless
Not fleeting nor fleeing anytime soon
(They say it’s the third storm is as many weeks though it feels like more. First the storm, then the days of cleaning up. One runs into the other making the season a long and slow moving freight train.)
The moon was lightly veiled in a frosty mist, hanging low in the western sky. I turn right on the road that serves as a low ridge for a sunrise view. The day was just barely breathing, trying to add its muted glow to this dead zero day. I am encased in Gortex, winter proofed and multilayered. Surprisingly mobile and agile despite being sealed and wrapped from head to toe. It takes mere minutes for my eyelashes and bangs to create miniscule icicles, the results of my warm breath meeting the crackling cold air. I’m reminded that my nostrils have hair, as they,too, stiffen in the chill.
Getting out the door for a walk or run in this long winter requires a different kind of dedication. Smart preparation the night before, added time in the morning to layer up and a sheer determination to just do it. Forget physical ability. If your head’s not in it, go back to bed!
I would like to think that my obsession with fresh air and morning movement helps me be less fearful, allows me to grow an extra skin layer of grit and toughness, maybe even a kind of boldness, a clarity for the day ahead.
I am immersing myself in this season mostly because I know it really is my last in this climate. I’d still be out there anyway but I feel more purposeful now. Time is roaring past me; the days seem to spin into one another. They fold and unfold in ways that put me in the dual role of observer of and participant in each moment.
Would I have this same outlook if I were not departing? I cannot answer that question fully. Would you dear readers feel the same?
Maybe we all need to be right in the midst of the microseconds of our life. Maybe we need to embrace the Grace, the Holiness and the Wholeness, the Light and the Dark, the Here and the Now.
There is no path to happiness, happiness is the path
~ Buddha
Building A Life Of Hope 