Fireworks

I cannot think of fireworks without remembering long afternoons with family waiting for the fireworks at Long's Park. Going to the fireworks is always a family affair. When we go it looks like we're packing for a week. We pack a cooler or two full of drinks, and dips, and cheese spread and chicken kabobs, bags of chips and crackers, stacks of blankets, dice games, trains, and perhaps a board game, always a deck of cards and of course books. We bring a huge canopy and stake out our claim on the hill with a tarp and blankets, but the best thing is the twenty foot bamboo pole. Every year we strap a bamboo pole to the roof of our car and then carry it into the park to mark our spot with a kite or a flag or a windsock. Then we chuckle to ourselves as we hear people saying on their cell phones "yeah, I'm by the big pole, where are you?" Course then there was the year we sat beside the sofa....

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Write about fireworks.

God of the Rainbow

How can I write about God in a single color?

God is the deep murky blue green

of the Chesapeake Bay.

The refreshing wholeness

of living, dirty, fish and algae filled water.

The movement of different pieces of life crossing.

The clear breath

of wind across your skin

and the crystal clear water

where the zebra muscles live.

God is the red brown and gray pebbles

under twenty feet of clear water.

God is the dancing red spark

of a campfire.

I imagine God laughs

at being described

as hot like a spark.

God is the orange glow

of the setting sun.

The pale white shimmer

of the full moon.

God's smile is a rainbow

arching gracefully across the sky.

God lives in the pinks and purples and yellows

of flowers and butterflies on a summer day.

God is the lush green

of soft grass in the spring time

and the dry brown

of dust under foot.

Prompt: Pick a color in nature and write a psalm about God in nature.

Close Your Eyes

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Close your eyes. Write about what you see.

It's hard to write with your eyes closed.

When I close my eyes I see faces. I see my kids begging me to play, and the little girl I held in Africa. I see friends, I see the guy I like, and I see the person I pretend to be, when nobody is looking.

When I close my eyes I see some place warm and comforting. I see the comforting pale brown of warm milky tea. I see the bustle of busy people, oblivious to me, moving about their day. I see a market place, with people working, the smell of exotic foods and familiar comforts, at lunch hour.

I see a confusing crowd with everybody knowing where their they're going, except for me. I see business and colors. I see red. I see energy. I see noisy.

I hear a million voices at once. I'm torn in a billion directions, and find myself grasping desperately for a single idea to chase down or simply a moment of peace. I see nothing in particular and every thing at once, and find myself wanting the blissful peace of nothing on my mind.

It's like at night when I try to sleep but my mind won't let me. As soon as I close my eyes my mind is racing, showing off its speed, dancing from thought to thought as if I could forget how quick it is, as if I really want to race the million threads of color darting through my head.

A prayer for the wilderness

My god lives in the wilderness.

I meet God under the stars,

sitting by a campfire,

or rocking on a boat

with the rythmic clanking of a line

bumped against the mast,

by the breath of God.

To me the wilderness

is not devoid of God

but intimately tied to God.

It's where God hugs me in the arms

of damp woodsy air

and takes my breath away

with red and purple painted sky.

It's where the still and quiet

meets my busy mind

and calls me to slow down.

It's where no matter how big my worries are

they shrink against the back drop

of trees and sky and clouds and stars,

The God of the wilderness comforts me

when the walls of a church feel claustrophobic.

The piece of God in the trees

and the rocks

and the moonlight

invite me to be

who I am

when no one else

has the patients to wait

for the real me

to come out

of hiding.

Ladybug

Forgotten signs,

of past lives,

scratched into walls,

and swept into corners,

reminder these walls,

hold unknown stories,

someone who played,

with a spotted red bug,

in the ladybug house,

before it was mine.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: You're moving into a new house; write about the people or person who lived there before you.

Sepia

A black and white photo,

shades of sepia, really,

capturing memories,

of nervous giggles,

childishly sophisticated,

declaring myself grown-up,

sharing intimate giggles,

loosened up by drinks,

blurred shades creating,

false closeness among strangers,

and yet it feels just right.