Four years ago, a still unknown someone gifted me a writer’s retreat at Laity Lodge in the Texas Hill Country. I got the call while sitting outside at a nursing home with my mom who had just been diagnosed with a brain tumor following a fall. The only workshop still open was a poetry workshop led by Julia Kasdorf.
Poetry? Yikes!
What follows was originally posted four years ago yesterday in response to a Random Act of Poetry prompt from Tweetspeak Poetry. I’m reposting it now (with only a couple edits to the first part) to celebrate Random Acts of Poetry Day. #raopoetryday
How Did I End Up Here?
How did I end up here
in cedar-scented sacred breeze
benched above a liquid mirror
where I share space with a black squirrel?
I’ve plucked some word fruit from the white bowl,
a line from which I’m supposed to extract juice,
to write from it without lifting pen from paper.
“You are intended to write every poem you write,”
she said. Really? I’m intended to write this?
“It shall be sure forever as the moon’s return
faithful as the skies remain . . .”
And I began to write.
Forever as the Moon
It shall be sure forever as the moon’s return
faithful as the skies remain, the song of the bird,
the bird with one song that sings that song
over and over and over,
the song of the man in the moon.
I stop and seek the song
in the lines, the lines of desire,
designer lines engraved in my heart,
a magical maze of delight
that lead me to the song,
the song of the man in the moon.
I seek the song in my desire,
and I desire the song in my seeking.
It shall be sure forever as the moon’s return
faithful as the skies remain
that I sing the song of the bird,
the song of the man in the moon,
the one song
over and over and over.
And there are rumors of water.
It will not end up here.
My mom’s brain biopsy showed an aggressive malignant tumor, and she died eight weeks after I returned. During those last weeks, we spent a lot of time outside gazing at the man in the moon.
In the stillness,
Sandy
I’m sorry about your mom. But what a way to spend the remaining days, huh?
I think I would rather gaze at the beauty of heavens too than worry about other things.
Beautiful poetry.
Thanks, sweet friend. Yes, we are coming up on the 4th anniversary of her passing. But I’m convinced that time above the river was orchestrated in preparation for what was to come. 🙂
(sigh) You make my soul breathe with all the wonder of life and even in view of the darker colored hues of pain around it’s edges. Thanks…. and I’m going to extend some random acts of poetry beyond the 7th because, poetry.
Ah yes… because, poetry. 😀
Your poem made me want to sing right along with you. Beautiful, Sandra!
Blessings!
Sing, Martha, sing! 😀
I know you miss her, Sandy… and I know you are still singing. I’m thinking this poetry was not so random… hugs
So much love, dear Dea.
Sandy, you’ve written about your beloved mother before, and I’m so very sorry. I know you will never stop loving and missing her. I’m glad you know that she is with Jesus, and that you were able to receive God’s healing gift of poetry both to prepare you for her loss and to comfort you when she found herself, face to face, in her Savior’s embrace. this is such an exquisite poem. God used poetry to help heal me when Daddy died. It was a smaller container for overwhelming grief. how I miss him!
You’ve inspired me to post one of my favorite poems (that I’ve written 🙂 ) on my FB page in honor of the day. I was unaware of it. Bless you for your wonderful gifts and for sharing them so generously!
Love
Lynn
Oh, heading over there now… 😀
Thanks so much, Lynn, for your always encouraging words. xo
BTW, today is National Poetry Day…
Tears and sighs Sandra. So beautifully written and how tender are your memories. I am sorry that you had to let go of your Mom. The Lord was was watching out for you and giving you this gift of poetry to bring comfort and to remember and maybe even to let go again and again and remember. ((Hugs))
Crazy how God works, right? Hugs back to you, dear Kelly, and for the inspiration you’ve been/are in your own journeys.