Solace is a Chocolate

I like my chocolate dark
and just a touch
before bitter. I like my
chocolate barely sweet.
There are hands
that would close my lips,
priests who would say
I should feel guilty for
taking thin Lindts
on my tongue
like wafers at communion.
What do they know
of the Christ at Cana,
who is just now leaning in
to slip me another piece
of solace.

We are writing "solace" poems at HighCallingBlogs. Want to join us?

Dancing on Spec

What does it take to dance?

Maybe the same things it takes to write.

Julia Cameron says she writes on spec. In other words, she doesn't need a guarantee that her writing will "go anywhere." She gives herself permission to simply write for the joy of it. When counseling a writing friend who is afraid of looking foolish, she reminds, "All we need is the courage to do the next right thing."

I have been thinking about this before Julia said it. I have been thinking about what it takes to play piano, study French, dance ballet. All these things have required permission from me. Permission to do one thing at a time. One more scale under my fingers, one more foreign phrase, and now one more pointed toe.

To the fearful writer friend, Julia also says, "Don't worry about being new. Worry about being human."

Translation...

Don't worry about being Chopin, worry about feeling the notes. Don't worry about working as a translator, worry about the way French caresses the heart. Don't worry about being Nutcracker material (slim, graceful, strong), just worry about embracing the surprise of movement.

Go ahead, I hear Julia say. Play, speak, dance on spec. The delight is yours.

Laura in the Moss

Sometimes things come together. You don't know how, or why.

Like this. A week ago, I walked through woods, noting how the seeds on trees were hung, dry and in their various shapes... like grapes, or lady's fingers dangling.

Suddenly, at my feet, moss. Brilliant, soft. And upon the moss, a sprig of berries, red. Like accidental Christmas. Whimsy.

Tonight I sat to take it down in soft pastel. But the whimsy joined with a joy of knowing Laura. Psychologist, writer, new poet... a gift to me... as the berries to the moss, at the side of the trail, unexpected.


Laura in the Moss, in soft pastel, by L.L. Barkat.

_____

Join us in celebrating others at HighCallingBlogs...



THE 12 DAYS:
1. Mary's Advent
2. Laura in the Moss (this post)
3. Social Media Guys
4. Snow-White Butterfly Tree
5. Butterflies and Parties
6. Let Me Not Forget
7. Hey, Have I Met You?

Communion

I went
searching
for grace
on the back
porch, found
it moldering
green, licking
slow biting
swallowing
the base
of a terra
cotta pot.


This post is offered for the Searching for Grace writing project.

Color God

What were you thinking
when you forged scarlet,
birthed purple
from the bowels
of the universe?
Pink was a no-brainer,
soft and innocent
lavender would greet
the mornings, whisper,
"hope, hope" even
when death
shadowed the doorway.
Green would be life
ever lasting to
counter our ways (hemlocks,
white pine, ivy, fern).
Brown, a reminder
of where we began.
Black, the night to hold forth
diamonds. White, the sea foam
and clouds ethereal. But what
were you thinking
when you forged scarlet, birthed
purple, into our sight...

This is an offering for the writing project going on over at Seedlings in Stone.

Harvest Song

Bind us together, in
ache and space of
silence.

Together, bind us,
in tumble of words,
beginnings ever afters.

In song, bind us, in cry
and swoon, cadence
of verse, together.

Us together, bind,
in life that turns on life
and back again.

Bind. Us. Together.
Golden sheaf, fat against
the fire of dying sun.

Together, us. Bind
and lace with holy
cord, chafing grace.

This prayer was inspired by a post I did over at High Calling Blogs, called Together Road.

Illumination

I had been taught
to love the light,
the way it crisps color,
casts shape in my
sight, throws
shadows like
dancers on the
wind. I had been
taught to love
the light and
despise darkness
as if it only harbored
sin. What did I know
about the way light
lies, leads me
to think I know
the path to tread.
Darkness should
be, I was told,
a thing to dread
but as it goes
I'm steadied in it,
stilled, sculpted
into a magnet for
sound, a silent
one who's wise
to wait,
listen,
be
found.

More poetry at the High Calling: RAP: Nepotist's Delight

Grace Table

I come to Your table, out in the little woods.

All is present here. Needles fallen, bronze, gone to earth, mouldering as day fades. And the leaves of maple so lately yellow, now brown and too disintegrating. The asters, white with seed like down, have lost their supple bend and sway.

But the hemlocks dance in the sharp breeze, evergreen, as does the pine. Wood-winged bushes reach, half-dressed in peach and yellow tongues of fire. Spirit licked. The dog next door is filled with zeal, barking, wagging at noisy birds.

I come to Your table, out in the little woods.

All is present here. The loss of a year, the hope of a spring. Sorrow and joy. Death and life. Spread thick over the ivy and the earth.

Thanksgiving comes soon, I think. And then, Let my table be as Yours.


(Do you have a Thanksgiving prayer or reflection? Come share it at the Thanksgiving Celebration.)