The hour between December and January

is hunger.

It is a tangle of roots dodging worms and

scattered seeds that have died of sorrow.

It is blue without traces of white and

embraces that deceive with their warmth.

It is a time full of sea-questions:

Does the sea miss me and

long for my tears?

Do the crashing waves feel emptiness?

Does the sand remember each footprint

washed to quickly from the shore?

We break open and

find our beginning.

We reach into the darkness and

discover our hands full of yellow stars.

We touch night and feel day rising.

***************

and there is still time to join michelle for 30 days of delicious writing, beginning january 16th…

I.

Is there a word for the color of the sky on a sleepy autumn morning?

The sherbet-hues of dawn rising from the horizon,

the light reflecting off the pale pastel expanse.

Is there a word for the careful way the branches

cradle wisps of clouds like crooked fingers wrapped in twine?

Sometimes I stand under the half-bare trees watching the golden leaves

flutter to the ground, and I whisper, “God, here I am” and that

is my prayer—simple, holy. It is a prayer of longing: the longing to be seen,

remembered, the desire to anchor myself in the present, to say aloud

if only to myself and my understanding of god, I exist.

I inhabit this moment. I am part of something far bigger than the

confined sphere of my existence, something that reaches beyond

anything my human mind can comprehend.

I am here—a part of the fabric of life, a part of the whole,

wanting to do good, wanting to be filled, wanting to open,

wanting to pour myself out.

II.

When autumn is still loose, still young and unsettled, the world

still grasping at permanence, resisting the demands of change, I find

my prayers steeped in the language of longing. It is a season of want,

a season to lay the soul bare to the elements of transformation and

the transient nature of life. You and I stand side-by-side

in the brisk afternoon air, catching our breaths and viewing each other

through the veil of our experience, through eyes turned inward.

We mutter our prayers and they fall to the earth. They find their way

to each other; they press together for warmth; they exchange secrets

and in the spring something grows in the shadow of their memory.

III.

I wish poems arrived like the sand cranes who every fall pause

from their journey long enough to feed, to fuel,

to nourish their winged bodies. Their song is sharp and hollow

in the evening air, their bellies luminous in the setting sun,

their splintered V-formation reminiscent of the tracks carved

by all wayward pilgrims. Today I know the wonder

of small things: the fringed edge of a fallen leaf,

a child’s hand in mine,

the shuffle of weary pilgrim feet,

a word…

a word…

a word…

and the poem being formed in the heart.

*add a little holiday cheer to your week and win a spot in michelle’s brand new ecourse here in the Wishstudio, starting on january 16th! enter by sharing the link to this workshop on facebook or twitter or your blog etc, and be sure to let us know how you entered either by tagging wishstudio and/or leaving a comment.  the winner will be selected randomly and will be announced here in this post on sunday… good luck!

***** and the winner is elizabeth! so happy to have you in the class ****

It’s raining words, she said to no one in particular,

which was good because no one was listening.

She stood at the window and watched as drops

of grief and coffee gathered on the pane.

Words poured from the sky—short, overused words,

long, tangled-up words, words we all should use

more often, words we’ve forgotten the meaning of.

She watched them wash over the world around

her—time kissed the tired zinnias, afterthought

gathered in the cupped leaves of the redbud,

promise bathed the dusty buildings. Stepping

outside to get a better view, kind dripped down

her arm and fragment landed softly on her cheek.

Circumstance plopped on her eye lashes,

smudging her mascara.  Striped umbrellas

lined the streets, protecting well groomed heads

from comedy and drip-drip-dripping with tussle,

with hunger, with tomorrow. She splashed in

puddles of true and tarnish; she skipped through

hiatus.  As she stood on the curb, a passing car splashed

evening all over her skirt, starlight dripping from

the frayed hem and down her skinned knees.

Periphery gathered in the flower beds and in the

distance sword hung on the horizon from low,

grey clouds coughing twist and pillow and ambiguous.

The lakes rose with the heaviness of so many words.

The day was damp with words that have no

other home but the shadows of the clouds,

which on this day burst with the weight of

everything unspoken and unwritten. Soon love

floated past her, bumping into please and

thank you as it went.  The crackle of thunder

echoed nothing.  She watched helplessly as something

spiraled into the gutter.  Standing in the deluge, she

opened her arms to feel the cool relief of so many

stashed-away, leftover words.  She let the drops

sink into her skin and soon she was carried on a

river of yes, want, forgiven.

by michelle ensminger

It’s Saturday afternoon on the Rue des Rosiers.  From the bedroom window, she can see the tree-lined boulevard.  All of Paris is spread before her.  Her phone doesn’t ring.  No one knocks at the door.  The only audible sound, besides her own breathing, is the maddening drip-drip-dripping of the bathroom faucet.  The smell of damp, decaying leavings rises from the street below.  The day appears to move in slow motion, like a tortoise who’s forgotten there’s a race to run.

She came to this city to look for something she’d lost.  She came hoping to find herself in the cobblestone alleys and centuries-old cemeteries that hold the decayed bodies of saints and rock stars.  Maybe one day, while wandering the narrow streets, she’ll round a corner and bump into herself, some fairytale version of herself wearing Yves St. Laurent and walking a yappy poodle.  But instead she’s watched the world through her thrown-open window, never wandering further than the quaint bistro two doors down.

She’s made a mistake.  She can’t find herself in this place, not amidst all the paralyzing fear.  She can’t accidently stumble upon a better version of herself if she can’t convince herself to leave this closet of a room.  People say she’s brave.  She thinks she’s a fool.  People have commented that she’s a woman of great faith.  She doesn’t know what faith is anymore, unless it’s dragging herself on her bloodied knees through the drawn-out days of her life.  People say they admire her.  She can’t stand to look too closely into the mirror.  People say she’s lucky.  She just feels lonely.  She’s sure of nothing, nothing except the mysteries and unanswerable questions that visit her each night.

Some people live in glass elevators, with nowhere to go but up or down, the world observing what it thinks to be true of them.  The doors open and close too quickly too exit, too abruptly to glimpse any real change of scenery.  She used to know her name, now it’s an indecipherable blur of vowels.  There is a suitcase with her name on the luggage tag shoved under the bed.  Its contents are out of date and out of fashion.  They belong to days when she walked with more certainty, more determination.  Now she shuffles her feet through ankle deep regret.

If this story ends with a girl at a window, we will all feel a little disappointed with our lives, the weight of our limitations, the circumference of our fear.  Instead, we’ll end it with our heroine plucking a camellia from a vase, tucking it behind her ear, then wrapping a cable knit shawl around her shoulders.  Now she’s standing in front of the glass elevator.  Now the doors are opening.  Now the scent of damp leaves becomes stronger.  Now your own story begins where this one ends

the color of winter is

the silhouettes of trees,

heavy with their emptiness,

the last leaves, curled and

brown, like my fingers lonely

for your hand

it is the clouds bending

to touch the ground

with their gray kiss

what the earth knows on

an afternoon in January

as that under the surface

of cold and dreary longings,

of bitter and frigid memories,

lays a heart beating,

a sigh awakening

the color of winter is the

the moon, full and luminous,

cradling the brave night

with light and promise,

in love with night’s black embrace

because it bends to its radiance

what the earth knows on

an afternoon in January

is that there is no remember

there is no wait until,

there is only now,

and my breath curled

around the blank sky

waiting to be filled

with birdsong

For me, December ushers in a time of reflection.  It also tends to usher in a time of stagnation.  The cold, barren days of winter often leave me with a case of the winter blues.  I pull into myself, hibernating in my deepest depths until spring issues the first glimmers of rebirth.  Winter can be a time when my creative life slows to a standstill.  While honoring those seasons of our lives is of utmost importance, there are days when I feel the desire, the need, to show up on the page (or the screen, canvas, sketchbook, etc.) but feel as empty as the December sky.

One of the writing prompts I use to get the creative juices flowing is to write a poem based on a favorite poem.  I read something another inspiring poet or author has written, and then I write my own poem based on their style or the concept of the poem.  Then from there, I keep going until I hit my own stride and find the familiarity of my own voice.  I wrote the poem below based on Jane Kenyon’s poem Otherwise.

**********

Otherwise

I wake to the silence

of the house, pull

the heavy blankets

tighter around my body,

listening to the darkness

before rising from the

warm bed. It might

have been otherwise.

I watch my son dress,

his lean body wiggling

as he pulls his shirt

over his head.

It might have been

otherwise.  I dress

my own body,

gently aware of its

changing texture and

contours.  I sense

myself yield to

the dawn’s unfolding.

All day I hold

the soft overwhelm

of my becoming

in my cupped

palms.  It might

have been otherwise.

I watch the grey clouds

melt to a canvas of blue.

It might have been

otherwise.  I speak kindly

to those who cross

my path knowing

we are all pilgrims on

a long journey.  I honor

the currents of energy

that rise and wane

within.

Tonight I watch

the fire blaze as

the cat curls in

my lap.  It might

have been otherwise.

I watch the embers

turn to smoke and

soot, conscious of my

own impermanence. It

might have been

otherwise.  I think about

tomorrow, its challenges

and possibilities. I

whisper a prayer to

no one or nothing

in particular knowing

one day it will be

otherwise.

**********

Your poetry assignment over the holidays is to read a favorite poem and then write your own poem based on the poet’s style and concept.  Use this assignment as an opportunity to touch base with your creative voice during a time when the demands, stress, colder temperatures, and barren landscape can often pull us away from the connection we long to nurture with ourselves.

Many blessings to you this holiday season and as we walk spirit to spirit, hand in hand, into a new year.

for the power of being fully present to the world around me, the all the bits of pieces of myself

to share this sacred space with you, two beings, slightly broken, overflowing, fragments of the divine

to hold your hand, to carry your burden while you regain your strength

for the questions and the gentle reminders that beg me to look at the truth I am creating in my life

for the grace that holds my becoming in its center

for the horizon, flat and blurry, and beyond that, and still beyond that

for the toes my toes find in the dark

for the delicate scent of jasmine still lingering in the morning air

when two stories intersect, shifting the plot and the characters toward something more brilliant

for honey colored whispers that spin their magic into a new day

for the way the setting sun’s light shimmers off the withering hyacinth

for petals, curled, brittle, colorless, dropping one by one into a pile on the sidewalk

for leaves draped in color and tumbling, a downward, a weightless dance

for a dream being born somewhere, carried through the spiral of time by faith and courage

for the way autumn slips in with her ribbons of red and yellow, orange and gold

for the tears and bravery of others

for prayers, rising like incense to fill the space we hold

for familiar, dog-eared pages that know so well the shape of my hands

for the things that weigh heavy in me waiting to be born

for the way a moment can catch in my throat like a song needing to be sung

when scattered pieces come together, making sense for a moment, then blurring to confusion again

for the softness of breaking open, daring to be tender, daring to love, daring to be seen

for the nervous energy of unknown beginnings

for contradictory thoughts that grapple with each other until they make peace

for the palette of choices at our disposal in each moment

for the invitation to explore what it means to be called woman, mother, human

to the stillness I come back to again and again

for this breath, and this one, and this one

for love, and what else is there, really, besides love?