moan

the wind is moaning through the crack in the window
the wind wants to push in
it sounds mad.
i'm 2 days away from being half way there.
I wake up in the morning now,
anticipating the battle i'll have with my tongue.
that ornery little bugger pretends like
it has everything to do with my wellbeing.
God gave us a tongue to taste and to give thanks
but mine wants more always wants more.
it's wearing me out
all this discipline.
I paint.
my paint brush is like my tongue.
i'm trying to keep it in the lines.
i'm trying to make it do things I tell it to do.
but it wants to go somewhere else.
never satisfied. always comparing.
i'd rather be painting this, it says.
I wish I could paint that it says.
sometimes I just have to walk away.
I just want to be myself.
and i'm tired of the world telling me I need to be afraid.
afraid to eat
afraid to paint
afraid of muslims
afraid of guns
afraid of religion
afraid of homosexuals
afraid of republicans
afraid of taxes
afraid of each other
the wind moans with me.
it sounds mad,
but actually
it's just the world turning really fast.

s p r i n g

12:34am

in the pasture behind our house

in the bright light of a full pink moon

coyote sits and barks with authority

barks like a dog with a bass note

coming from his belly

climbing to a soprano note

as it reaches for the stars

and then

as in an aria

the voice in chilling refrain

hits the high notes of a

trilling ululation

like worship in the night

like mourning for the life it's taken

like joy for the grass and dew

like breathing ancient rhythms

like a moment standing still

the cool spring evening air

sweetens the night theater as i fall

fast

asleep

intermission

if we have the privilege of seeing

life as a play

in a grand theater of the universes;

if we see God as the producer

and we surrender to Him as the director,

the script will be carried out with a purpose and forethought,

with beautiful nuance and character,

ever orchestrated and choreographed,

with all things connecting and moving

as dancing to one beautiful refrain.

His love.


then,

even in death,

our intermission,

we hold our breath,

waiting for the last and final act

with a climax of glory

that will never again see

the curtain fall.

a n t i c i p a t e

lightbulbs
chicken
potatoes
eggs
tomato juice
blueberry juice
yogurt
pistachios
bagels
the boys are  coming
i'm a little nervous
i'm boring
will there be enough food
i've aged a lot in 2 years
joe is so happy
beer

 m o r n i n g  s t a r


i toss and turn from a fitful sleep
and snores coming from the other side of the bed

i lay thinking of dreams and sleep and things i need to do
and haven't done.

things i've said and didn't say and things i should've said
and things i regret i said.
and did.

regret is what causes gnashing of teeth.
anxiety and sorrow and guilt all rolled into one,

whether it be eating a sweet that will make your tummy ache
or something worse like-
an attitude that makes your heart bitter
or worse;
your pathetic apathy that comes into full view in the night, 
like marley's ghost.

i was going to pray today.
i was going to study today.
i was going to call today.
i was going to stop that today.

the anguish, like a laurel wreath, surrounds my mind
my chest, my hands and feet,
tightening with the ever present grip of the days' deceiving pride.

i attempt in this dark smothering solitude,
     between the sounds of the old refrigerator humming
     and the human steamship next to me,
                              
to repent.

a song comes into my mind over and over and over again. . .
is it jumping jack flash?!

i can't take it anymore!
i groan and throw back the covers of safety and warmth
that tangle me,
and i look out into the cold. black. sky.

and  there  you  are.

in all your innocence and purity,
shining with hope
and mercy for
a brand new day-

and another try.

passage

youth's precocious spontaneity

rushes with fearless joy into

adult severity.

rivalries become serious

speculations produce suspicion

skeptical of sincerity

trudging into middleage desperation

facing weariness of effort

 until at last

 we give up to age.

 and there in lies 

 rest

 hope

 humor

 and a quiet grace

 waiting with open arms to comfort the young.

twitch

soft velour couch faces north

direct view of  the

screen door, porch, petunias,

tomato plant, fence, field

forest, mountain, sky

there's a numbness in my jaw

and my pants are too tight.

my shoes are half on as if i'm going to

go

morning chill is still clinging to my arms

while the sun pours golden through the coleus on the sill.

little rainbows dance on the floor

to a scented breeze

moves the prism in the window.

what is that smell?

grass and roses, flox and marigolds

lavender and beebalm

mingling with the chattering of sparrows.

love is a high. love is a blanket.

love is a knife. love is death.

love is light. love is long dark nights

waiting waiting waiting.

what cannot be shaken?

who's who?

i saw a vulture in the field today.
he walked with a limp.
i could hear him thinking
'i'm a loner and i get all this bovine afterbirth for myself'

my friend came over today.
her sister took all her mother's antiques
and kept them for herself.
her sister must walk with a limp.

the Mercy Seat

i real-ized something this morning!

when i pray, i say 'Lord, your will be done" but
without knowing it, i'm trying to come up with an answer for the person i'm praying for.

unintentionally, i try to assess their situation and when i can't come up with an answer,
i 'give it to the Lord.'

meanwhile, back at the ranch,
i'm still judging who i'm praying for!

i am nOt coming in all humility.

i look at their sins and see what they should and shouldn't
be doing
or saying
or how they are living.

i'm not laying my life down.

now, i don't verbalize all of this while i pray.
i've not even been conscious of it,
until this morning.

the Lord lives in me.
He dwells on the mercy seat of my heart.
but do i acknowledge Him there?

 i seem to be able to stay outside the Holy of Holies,
avoiding the fear and trembling and humility,
by leaning on my own understanding and experience.

i grieve, i cry, i beg for mercy for those i love,
but am i dying for them?

'no greater gift , than that we lay our life down for a friend'

can i get myself out of the way long enough to truly
bring them to the feet of Christ in all humility?

can i,
will i ,
do i ,
say "Lord, but for your grace O God, go i ?"

the truth is,
i am nO better off than aNyone.
the LORD is my righteousness,
but how easily i  fall into my own
web of pride and self righteousness and self-deception.

please,
forgive me.

            james 2:13 ~ Mercy Triumphs  Over Judgement !

happy birthday cindy belle

colorful orbs dance along the ceiling

above streams of salty crepe.

wraps and greetings a-glitter

confettii

crystal pond of fruity sweetness

icy fish and flowers swim

cups and chairs and dolls with lacy

undergarments

shiny shoes, curled hair

coloring books and crayons

blowing bubbles and

paper tubes that go

weeeeeeeeee

soft white cake

buttery pink frosting

tiny flame tipped candles

ribbons of smoke disappearing like

the years

my favorite pet

i was raised and lived

in the midwest

as a child

the nights were hot and sticky

my little sisters and i

stayed out late

past the mosquitos

when the cool came into

the backyard

and the lightning bugs would lift

from their underground dens

magically throbbing

yellow glows of love

all through the night air.

with a peanut butter jar we'd run

and jump and catch them

in our pudgy bare feet

we pulled fragrant grass with our little fists

for our new found pets

to make them feel at home

in their  glass houses.

when we caught 4 or 5 or 6 of them

we would sit

on  warm concrete steps

of the stoop

and watch

as they filled the jar with light

and crawled desperately

over the grass

and each other

their wee red heads and

gray striped wings whirring

their little legs trying

to climb the slippery glass

our cold sweaty hands

held over the top

feeling the tickle of their

great attempts to escape

with a piece of granite and a nail

holes would be punched into

the jar's lid

and screwed on tight

for the night

time for bed

in the morning

they were dead

the first time

i cried

but then

 i got used to it.

billy and earl

billy bluejay stellar

and earl squirrel brown

lived in murphy's walnut trees

far above the ground

earl was a workaholic,

gathering night and day

while billy was a lazy cuss 

stealing where he may

                                                              earl squirrel found each nut

and buried them for later

but jay would follow, dig them up

and take them,  leaving craters

jay'd drop the nuts from way  up high

and listen to them crack!
then fly down to the open nut
 and eat them with a grrack!         chkchkchkchkchkchkchk.

                                                      earl squirrel ran in the road

(poor thing was such a clutz)
he died that day and mean old jay

cried 'blast! i'm outta nuts!"

i wish i could fly . . .

           



        

  i miss my mom

w i n d 's s t o r m

i felt a rush in my head as

the barometric pressure

dropped rapidly.

it'd been warm for a few days in

 february.

the groundhog month.

the shortest month.

the love month.

the month of betrayal.

every february i am beguiled

as her cold grey churlish character turns docile and

sunny days move through

beckoning  me to clean garden beds,

plumping buds and forcing bulbs to emerge

from the comfort of their sleepy little burrows.

the  siren song of a warm friendly south wind

changed the tune of the chimes hangin on my porch.

and with rake in one hand and trowel in the other

i stand fighting my urge to make plans,

and get busy.

until this day,

again this day

when february laughs at me,

turns round once more and with a playful BITE

comes rushing back from the
West NorthWest

crashing into the warm south visitor
and pushes 'er OUT!

i heard her comin.

it was dusk when i heard her

blustering through the cedars,

whipping rain and snow in furious spits.

as we went to bed that evening, i opened the sash just a whisp

to hear her moan and whistle as she blasted by

slapping the tin on the roof of the barn

clangin all the chimes and threatening

to push down a tree or knock out the electricity

i snuggled under the down and smiled.

she didn't get me. 

nope.

i got a lot done while she was gone, and now i need a nice little break

to plan for the real spring

comin right behind her.

mulch

yesterday was a perfect  day for working outside. the sky was blue, the breeze was very light, and the robins were doing their canned laughter imitations.

i had had a wonderful valentines day and aside from the flowers and chocolate, he gave me a yard of fine bark mulch.
***the perfect thing for a serious case of spring fever.

so after we had eaten our morning oats (which i hate, but he loves, so i eat them) and i had made his everyday lunch and got him out the door to work, i got on my mudders and florescent green gloves and headed out to the utility trailer where the steaming mulch huddled from the frost.

retrieving the wheel barrow, shovels, rake and broom, i began scooping up the rich black mulch and wheeling it over to blanket my naked gardens. ahhh. it felt so good to use muscles that had been left to sleep, while crochet muscles took over for the winter. it felt so good to feel the fresh air, fart out loud, wipe my nose on my sleeve and feel my hat fall down around my eyes.
the mulch was damp and because there was barely a breeze, it went onto the beds with ease.
every now and then i'd take a break and look into the sky, get the binoculars and check out the neighbors, and let the chickens out who were tangoing by the gate.
they love being free like me.

i had hung sheets on the line and they were so crisp and fragrant!
and after a nice long day in the sun and with aching musckles, i climbed into our bed with sweet memories and the feeling of a job well done.
i slept like a log.

i resolve

i resolve to revolve in revolution to my resolution by

reconstructing reconciliations with reassuring realizations of regenerated redemption.

i am resigned to a reformed refined reflective regiment to rehabilitate, renovate, and repudiate 

the restrictive  result of retentive and repressing replenishment remisses.

with reflux reducing redundancy, i shall refrain rebellious reaction, and republish  reasonable recommpense

with recollections of  recipes recommended to reconcile this receptacle with it's rectum.

if i should regress regretfully and return like a retriever to  it's regurgitation,  i will retaliate with reticence against this recidivism and

refuse to reverberate or revivify the resonance of this resolution, regardless. . .

until
next monday

blood moon

i don't sleep that well anymore anway, but when ever there's going to be  a total lunar eclipse or some other night sky event, i get kinda weird.
i wake up every half hour to see what time it is. this time i finally woke up at 3:30 am., when the moon was supposed to be fully eclipsed.
i pulled on my shoes,  grabbed a coat from the closet and ran outside. i stood there in the pale night searching, searching the sky for the blood moon, when i realized, there were no stars. the fog was very high, and i knew if the moon weren't eclipsed, i would be able to see it through the heavenly mist. but it was hiding behind the earth's shadow, so i couldn't find it. even eclipsed, the moon combined with the fog made the night not dark. it was gray. void gray. dark shadows of trees, farm lamps piercing their surroundings with long needles of light. cold silence. i stood there taking it in, as i rarley go outside at 3:30 am.
the donkey in the barnyard snuffed. i felt like the moon was laughing at me. i imagined where it was. i thought i saw a whisp of it for a fleeting second and i determined it was right above me. i gave up. i yawned, and walked back into my warm house. i hung my coat in the closet, kicked off my shoes, and climbed into bed.
me and the moon had a thing.

meet joe fox

yesterday morning i decided to make a pot of vegetable soup.

it was a snowy morning and that just sounded like the right thing to do.

i went out to the frig that's in the garage.

up top in it's freezer, i keep frozen berries, apples, pumpkin and cherries and in the lower part i keep potatoes, onions, drinks and carrots.

my carrots from the garden.

i gathered a few assorted shapes n sizes and brought them on into the kitchen.

i peeled them carefully and then went to slice them.
my knife crunched through the first giant orange thumb and woah! the aroma was so powerful!

it was SO powerful , it transported me back in time. back to 1975- i think.

i lived and worked in kalispell montana. i got a job at a healthy food deli.

joe fox

we served everything with alfalfa sprouts. the soups were artisan, the sandwiches were mountain high and ya know, everyone who worked there had long hair.

kila

one of the gentlemen who worked there was joe fox. i quiet man from vermont who was quick of wit and loved to laugh. he lived in kila. a little settlement in a beautiful valley just 10 mi? outside kalispell.

he invited us to his house one day and we rode on out there in our 48 willys wagon.

his house was an old old house, and we were surprised to see, when we went inside, he had insulated the entire house with stacks of newspaper tied in bundles. it was a bit dangerous, but we were young and didn't really think about those kind of things. it seemed like an excellent idea!

he heated and cooked with wood. it was snowy outside and  it gets very cold in montana.  it was getting near dinner time so  he said, 'lets go out to the garden and get us some veggies'.  we got our coats on and went out to the snowy covered patch.

dead remnants of herbs and marigolds, tansy and sunflowers stood like three dimentional shadows drooping toward the earth.

he got a shovel, and low! and behold! he started digging up carrots and turnips ! (this was before i had ever grown a serious garden so this was really something!)

eureka! we hit gold! i think we even had to pump our own water but in the end, i cooked us up a stew i'll never forget. nothing like a cast iron dutchoven simmering a home grown stew on a wood cookstove.

i had many little adventures in montana. such hard working idealistic folks there. you had to have some kinda fire in your own belly to make it through those 20-40 below winters. but there never was anything more beautiful than the stars that hung above the rockies. i can see why they stay.

those montana rockies

the subject was wrinkles

allegory

 

 

i wadded up a new fresh stiff piece of paper

and then i unwadded it.

it was all wrinkly but it was a little softer.

i wadded it up again and then i unwadded it.

i smoothed it out. it's wrinkles made it pliable.

i wadded it up again and again and it started to take on a different color.

it reflected light differently.

and it was so much more interesting

than the fresh stiff piece it had been.

the fresh stiff paper could take on someone elses rendering.

it could be what someone else thought it should be

but the wadded paper had it's own character.

 

a regular person came in the room.

they wanted the fresh white paper

so they could draw themselves on it

or turn it into a hat or a plane.

if they made a mistake, they would tear it up and throw it away.

they didn't want to have anything to do with the wadded paper,

because it was old and used.

but then

a remarkable person came into the room.

they looked at the stiff new paper and the old soft wadded paper.

and said, 'well, what have we here'?

the remarkable person picked up the wrinkled paper and held it to the light.

the remarkable person stroked the soft used paper and decided

this would be much better to wrap his precious gift in.

the end.

 

october's hope

 last life most bright

showing all 

 the best of what it has been

resonating joy against

impending finality

fruit and seed, color and golden light

all defy it's ominous promise.

proof that

death is not the end

but a silent timeless sleep

while the earth is prepared

for new life

more glorious than the last.

by gigi murphy

writer's guild  #3