Lean Into The pained words Uttered by men, Repeated to the God who already knows: I believe in one God … I Confess my faults; Have mercy, please, According to all Your promises — “Lean into the pained words uttered by men”
Share an emotion of yours in a “Dectina Refrain” poem.
Ten lines;
Syllabic: 1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10;
The tenth line is comprised of the first four lines all together, as one stand alone line in quotation marks. (apparently the quotation marks are optional.)
This wasn’t a requirement — but mine is an acrostic as well.
This whole “share an emotion” business is for the birds in my life right now.
I told my counselor that this week. Not a fan of emotions. At all. Not even a little. Please make them go away.
But I’ve been trying to pray again. Trying is the operative word here.
This is why liturgy is so important. When words fail, we still have words — old words that have been spoken for centuries.
Man, it has been a week. I’ve had a cold (not COVID) and, for whatever reason, struggled to write much.
Kudos to those of you who crank out quality posts every single day, sometimes multiple in one day. I spew forth something occasionally, nonsense most of the time, but this week the well has been fairly dry.
Honestly, I had no idea. When have I ever felt infinite? Pretty much never.
I tried writing something about swimming, because there’s something about stretching out in the water, and reaching towards the far wall that’s very Zen, but not infinite. That poem went into the trash.
On one of the days when I was home sick, I decided to tackle some of the sorting that needs to happen in this house. I live in my parents’ house, the house I grew up in, and it is chock FULL of stuff.
I found the remnants of my mother’s wedding dress. She had given it to me so the lace could be used for my wedding dress. For whatever reason, those remnants were saved. In a box. Under a bed.
The remaining lace was quite yellowed. The heavy satin that the lace had been layered over was spotted and almost brown.
“I should throw this away,” I said out loud. I resolved to do just that.
But I couldn’t.
Kudos to those of you who can or could.
It’s just beyond me.
I closed the box.
But I went back to it multiple times, wrestling internally with what should be done.
That’s when I decided that I would ask one of my sons to help me bury it. Somehow, allowing that satin and lace to become one with the earth again seemed fitting for my mother’s dress.
She always loved a garden.
Finite? Infinite? I’m not sure.
But I did crank out a poem if you care to read it at the bottom.
My mother on her wedding day
Me on mine — Dad, me, Mom
My mother gave her wedding dress To me so I Could use the lace for my gown. I frown, I sigh
As I find the remains of that Dress so many Years later. A wreck of a thing – Fitting, any
Joy I might have had now replaced With a heartache. The box holds scraps of what once was – I pause – head-shake —
What do I do? “Throw it away,” Says one voice in My mind. “It’s just garbage now.” Somehow the bin
Is not the proper place for it. It is a wreck – Like my life – but I simply will Not kill that speck
Of what – Love? Hope? Truth? Connection? It is a dress! Nothing more and yet so much more – But for my yes
My own promise — oh, how I grieve! I will bury The scraps. My heart is still not free To be merry
I’m a little teapot in the air As you might guess I’m exceedingly rare How it is I do this I can’t share I’m just a teapot in the air
I’m a special teapot You’ll agree There’s magic all around us for those who can see Maybe you can fly too! Count to three — Click your heels and follow me
~~~~~~ OR ~~~~~~
I’m a little teapot Watch me fly I hover, I pour, then zoom on by Signal that you need me and I’ll try To zip on over and resupply
~~~~~~ OR ~~~~~~
I’m a special teapot Yes, it’s true Here, let me show you what I can do I can pour hot tea all over you Be nice to me or get your due
~~~~~~ OR ~~~~~~
Maybe it’s a secret teapots keep More than holding water and letting tea steep Oh, the things that happen while you sleep! Or do you think a broom just sweep-sweep-sweeps
The poem is made up of quatrains with an aabb rhyme scheme. Syllable count 3-7-7-1. Lines one and two rhyme on a two-syllable word; lines three and four rhyme on a monosyllabic word.
Why do you unsettle me? Why can’t I look into your eyes, your face, without feeling pain? Is it the burden on your shoulders? Is it that I will never fathom your life, so different from mine?
This is in response to Sadje’s What Do You See? prompt — the photograph above.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 