The Moon's Smile

Look,
it's the moon,
like the shadow of,
a Cheshire Cat,
she comes to watch,
on perfect days,
a warm day in winter,
or cool summer day,
with clear blue sky,
and soft sun shine,
she comes and smiles,
she's happy to see us,
happy to be,
part of a beautiful day,
and I wonder,
why she hides,
when the day could use a smile.


Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Write about a day moon.


P.S. I didn't miss yesterday's prompt; I just haven't decided whether I'm posting any of it. The prompt was: "A year after your death,..." (after Czeslaw Milosz)

Wonderful Weekend Craziness

This weekend was fabulous. I spent the whole weekend at a Leadership Now Justice Summit and reunion with some of my favorite people. It was awesome - great conversations, great workshops, great people, and just the right mix of meaningful and funny moments. It kept me busy and gave me a lot to think about, but I'm happy to say I some how managed to keep up with my writing in between everything else.

I won't subject anybody to my in-cohesive rambling in response to Friday's prompt (Write about Sunday afternoon). I've also decided my writing from Saturday (Write about a time someone said no) is too personal to share. Today's writing is also really random, rambling and in-cohesive, but I'm going to share it anyway since it's vaguely related to this weekend..


Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: You're standing in a doorway.

I'm standing in the doorway. Waiting for something. A push to move forward. An invitation in. it's like I'm on the edge of living. Not confident enough to step into the room, but wanting to enjoy the party. Like there's an invisible wall, a bubble keeping me out. I can look through the doorway, but I don't know how to step through, or maybe I'm not sure which way I'm goin, which side of the door I want to be on, I could step to one side or the other, but I don't know which to go to, or maybe I'm at the end of the hall where I'm surround by doors and I don't know which to take. I could stand up boldly for justice and sacrifice everything, if I could be brave enough. Or I could wonder along on the edge of things, subtlely hinting I believe there could be better for the world but never loud enough or brave enough to scream it from the roof tops. I could say the world is more important than me, or I could put myself, my education, my learning first for now, and hope someday I can pay it forward and more. I could step through the door and declare my faith, announce what I believe and try to impact the world, but maybe I like it in the hall, listening in to six conversations, pulling what I need from each. Maybe my place is in the hall, reaching a hand into each room, connecting people who would never step out of their four sided box rooms. Maybe if I stand in the hall and talk to the children as they're funneled towards their parents closed off rooms they'll see what I see from the hall and maybe some day the walls will fall. Maybe the doorway is the place to be.

Melancholy New Year

I want this night to be special,
to anticipate the night,
to eagerly await,
the ringing in,
of a brand new year,
and yet,
it doesn't feel right,
with melancholy shadows,
I wait,
for nothing,
what's a new year,
but another day,
another excuse,
to “celebrate,”
when I'm not in the mood,
to throw parties,
when I'd rather just chill,
and chat with some friends.


Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: In anticipation of the night.

A Random Light

My writing for yesterday's prompt came late and is too personal to share, but for any one interested the prompt was: These are the delicacies of a ruined evening.

Today's prompt from A Writer's Book of Days is: A random light.

And that brings you a poem. I don't know what it means. It just kind of fell out of my head, so here you go:

A random light,
a star in the night,
a drop of sun,
upon a stone,
that hidden bit,
of light inside,
the special glow,
of newborn smile.

Smudges

If I tell you the truth...
Will you believe me?
Will you understand?
Or will I have to hide?
Will it be ok,
this part of me is me?
Will you see the need,
or write me off,
say it's wrong,
disallow this part of me?
Will you still respect me?
Will you still believe in me?
Will you still love me,
if you know,
I'm not all white and pure,
there's smudges on my innocent act,
and I kinda,
like them there?


Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: If I tell you the truth...

Day 3

After a long day I finally wrote. I can't share what I wrote, but I'll tell you the prompt for today was "Write about a time someone told you a secret."

"A Writer's Book" Day Two

The prompt:
Write about something sacred.

The random rambling:
The earth is sacred, the ground we walk the stars above, the pen in my hand, writing itself. Life is sacred. I could write about anything and it would be sacred, but what does sacred mean. To me it means valued, loved by God, necessary for wholeness. Anything life giving is sacred, but so are the things that take life, because without those things we couldn't see the value of the things that give life. Love is sacred. Loving is living in the sacred way of God. The sacred is both invincible and as fragile as a glass ornament. The stuff of life is sacred. Life is sacred. Books and words and feelings. Relationships. Touching the soul of another. Perhaps that touching is the most sacred of all things. When you touch somebody so deeply their very soul moves inside them. Connections are sacred. We live in a web, tied to the earth and the sky, each other, all creatures and all creation by invisible threads, and everyone of those threads is sacred. Ubuntu.


The poetry:
Sacred Threads

I
am
not
alone.

I'm tied to you,
to creation,
to the earth,
to the sky.

Connected,
bound up,
by God's love,
the sacred threads.

The ties of love,
the give and take,
the push and pull,
the stuff of life,
that makes us whole.

The sacred is knowing,
I am because you are.
Ubuntu.