Poem. Old/new

Posted on January 21, 2015 by betsybeadhead | 2 Comments

I find it very interesting
that young children
and old people
are very similar.

They both need to be wheeled around
by someone else.
They both need their print large
in the books they read.
Sometimes they even need
or want
someone else
to read their books for them.

Someone else has to handle
their affairs – bills, doctor’s appointments,
groceries. Someone else has to cook.
Sometimes it even means that
someone else
has to feed them
soft food
spoonful by spoonful.

It isn’t that
the old are becoming feeble.

It is that they are practicing
being children again
for the next go around.

Poem – Blue Paper

Posted on January 20, 2015 by betsybeadhead | Leave a comment

White lines on blue paper
Could be a
Blueprint
An x-ray
A map of the stars.

It shows the bones
Of a building
A body
Or the sky.

A sketch of the lines,
An outline.
A marker of where we are
And where we need to be.

Poem cart/carriage

Posted on January 16, 2015 by betsybeadhead | Leave a comment

I saw them, crossing the bridge.
A mother and her baby in a carriage
on the left side of the road
against traffic.

The margin is wide there, plenty of room.

Such a cold day!
All the bundling, all the wraps
the blankets covering.

I smiled a little, but was concerned.
This road isn’t really for pedestrians
and it is very cold out.

This wasn’t a stroll.
There was purpose to this venture.
Perhaps a trip to Target
for detergent or apples?

And then I got closer
and saw
the mother wasn’t
because she
was a he
and there was no baby
and that was no carriage
but a shopping cart
filled with any and sundry
Possessions
worldly and otherwise.

And it all deepened
and went sideways.

It was still a sunny day
it was still cold
the road was still not safe
for walking

but now there wasn’t the hope
of new life,
of young life
but instead the awareness
of something else
in my neighborhood.

Poem – details

Posted on January 12, 2015 by betsybeadhead | Leave a comment

They say the Devil’s in the details.
I say it’s God.
The Devil can’t be bothered with details.
The Devil says “Give up, don’t finish,
leave it for another day.”
God says “Keep on going. I know you can do it.”
God says “I’ll stay with you the whole way.
It’s worth it.”
God cheers you on
when you think you’ll never get there.
God knows you are almost
at the end of the task
while you feel you’re
at the end of your rope.

Poem – Mountain

Posted on January 4, 2015 by betsybeadhead | Leave a comment

Lord, I’m afraid of the mountains.
So high, so far, so few.
It seems as soon as I unpack
it is time to get going again.
I never stay here very long.

Lord, why call me to stand on the mountain
When I can’t stay there?
The mountain is to
catch my breath
or catch sight of
where I have to go.
I can’t breathe,
I can’t see,
in the valleys.
Too many people,
too many chores,
too many things.
It is too much
and yet not enough
at the same time.

I’m grateful for the view, Lord,
don’t get me wrong.
But every now and then I think
a hill
would be better
than a mountain.
Not so far to come back down.
Not so far to go up, too.

Make my path straight Lord,
so I don’t turn left or right
from following you.
But also, if you don’t mind,
make it level too.

Poem – Valley

Posted on January 3, 2015 by betsybeadhead | 1 Comment

Lord, help me to love the valleys
that runneth over,
that fall, headlong into my life.
The mountains seem so far away.

Lord, help me to love this place
You’ve called me to.
Remind me to sit down
and smell the roses
along with the ragweed.
Remind me to notice the lilies
in this valley.
It would be a shame to overlook them.

Lord, help me to love You
as I wait for things to change,
to get better,
to get going.
This valley seems to go on
longer than a road trip with my
weird old aunt.

Lord, help me to remember
that every time
You’ve led me
through these dark valleys before
You’ve always led me out.
It wasn’t always when I expected,
but it was always when I needed.

Lord, help me to love the valleys,
because it is here
that I remember
to love You.

Poem – Grief is messy

Posted on December 28, 2014 by betsybeadhead | Leave a comment

Grief is messy.
People don’t like to get it all over themselves.
This is why they brush it off, brush you off.
This is why they say “At least it isn’t…” or
“At least you have something left…” or
“It could have been worse…” or
Any number of things designed to get you out.
Out of their heads, out of their lives, out of the room.
They are afraid that your grief
Is so big
It will spill over
And cover them
And maybe even infect them.
So they say “At least” and “If” and “But” to hem in
To wall up
To shut down
Your grief
Just in case
It is catching.

Poem – Mary

Posted on December 24, 2014 by betsybeadhead | Leave a comment

You say you want
God to be a woman
Vulnerable, caring, open.
The male version of God is too
Loud, too pushy, too much
And yet not enough
for you.
Rather than playing with the Hindus
And their multi armed multi faceted
Plethora of faces of the
Divine that
Are female
You play it safe
And worship Mary
Forgetting that Mary
Would be yet another mother
Who had high hopes for her son
Yet another in the many long sad years
Of mothers known and unknown
If it weren’t for the fact that
This mother
This Mary
Would be forgotten
Ignored
Leftover
Left behind
If it weren’t for the
Tiny little fact
That her son
Wasn’t just anybody.
You can’t worship the mother
and ignore the son.
If it weren’t for the son,
she wouldn’t be a mother.
If it weren’t for who the son is,
we’d never know her name
Or her story.
The two are tied together
In an umbilical cord kind of way
A woven blanket, warp and weft united,
A lullaby sung by two.
You can’t have one
Without the other
Attached.

Word search

Posted on December 24, 2014 by betsybeadhead | Leave a comment

We plunged, edge first
into the kayak sunset,
secret valor our only prayer.
Vespers had come too soon,
sulking like a lion
late from a sunburn,
a bone his only friend.

Bonjour to plaid!
Out with olive!
The seasons change faster
than faucets around here.
The suspense is too much to bear.
When will it ever be the right time?
I’ve misplaced my crayons again.

(Commentary)
Fortunately it is never too late to have experiences. Well, it is only too late if you don’t ever start. We are in a cabin at a state park, and instead of watching TV we have a fire going and are enjoying coloring and activity books designed for children. We are lying on the floor in front of said fire. Crayons are involved. We are not drawing in the lines, or even following the implied rules most of the time. This seems like an experience we should have had as children, but didn’t. Forget bucket lists with grand things like skydiving and eating fresh caught mussels on the beach – I just want the holes from my childhood filled.

So I’m doing this word search and I start to see words that aren’t really there. Closure is happening, and the words are just interesting enough that I wrote them down and decided to make a little poem out of them.

Here are the words I found that weren’t really there.
Kayak suspense plaid lion bone vespers sunburn valor prayer Bonjour faucet olive edge secret