change

be the Change, Gandhi said
and yet we hate it
we resist it 
we scream and shake our fists at it

we say we want it
but then it hurts
it's different, it's not
what we've always known

we nourish our fears
we kindle our anger
we kick and scream
we believe the lies

of those who say
we don't need

to change

when i was a child
i spoke like a child
i reasoned like a child
but

when I became an adult
i put away childish things

i got taller
my limbs longer
my hips rounder
my feet bigger

and i had to act like an adult

i am different today
than i was yesterday
and tomorrow
yet again

yesterday it was warm
today the leaves are gone
and it is bitter cold
yet soon

everything will be green
again

why do i resist
what is natural?

why am i afraid
of the marvel of
recreation? 

would i keep my child
in the womb?
would i keep that stick in the ground
from becoming majestic and strong?

would i insist
a caterpillar
remain earthbound?

be the change
comes the whisper
from the past
embrace the change

says the music of the wind

release your grip
breathe through your fears
ride the life of creation
metamorphasis

becoming
releasing
emerging
empowering

the breath of life
keeps breathing
the winds of creation
make new

do not be afraid
it is as it should be
as it was meant
to be

all along.

poem

People are walking around
texting, googling, facebooking
eyes to the screen
in an unreal world

while that tree over there
is on fire
brilliant orange, red, yellow
lighting up the sky

wild turkeys are waddling around
the rest stop
picking at each other
wondering where to hide in November

deer wandering the shaven cornfields
vulnerable, delicate
unaware, perhaps, that the calendar
creeps frighteningly toward hunting season

an old man holds the shriveled hand
of an old woman
sitting by the lake
bundled up against November chill

savoring each day
knowing that winter comes
bones ache, hearts beat irregularly
and every moment now is a gift

a squirrel stops and stares at me
wondering whether to run
hoping I will not approach
goes this way and that

and I laugh

as a child
I stood at my window
looking at the light across the way
my first longing, my first heartache

loving, dreaming
that he would wait for me
to grow up
and our names would share a line

the only way to survive
was to write my childish passion
my truest feelings
that seemed silly out loud

or to live in a world
so achingly beautiful
so tender and astonishing
not understanding why so many others

didn't notice

the only way I survived
was to write
to fashion words around
my soul

lest it be consumed

and then that first time
that first loss
that shattered the very ground
on which I stood

when my heart was mere
fragments laying broken
in so many irreconcilable pieces
around me

cancer and death
the first disillusioning blow
to my dreams
and hopes

oh god

i wouldn't be here
if i couldn't put one word
in front of the other
pouring out my heart

like blood on paper

my prayers
my keening
my fists shaken at
a silent sky

all on paper

an offering

given
so that i may be redeemed. 

Love Poem To October

wind blows
pushing leaves
off the branches
orange trembling to hold on

half-naked trunks
shivering in the coming winter
or are they afraid
of a tempestuous lashing?

it's your last day
we say farewell
to the oranges and reds
yellows and browns

litttering the canvas
of our days
wood smoke lacing the air
as a warning of cold descending

i will miss you
the carefree days
of In-Between Time
remembering and anticipating

crisp air
that doesn't bite
combines in the fields
bringing the harvest home

the darkness at dawn
is coming with dread
empty creation
huddled in for snow

this year must be
different
i will not give in
to winter

"think of the happiest
memory, Harry"
cover yourself
with joy and warmth

be fierce with
resolve
not to let the darkness
consume

before spring. 

Pegasus

(inspired by the Sunday Scribblings' weekly prompt: Bio)

born on the tip
of New Jersey

only girl in a
house of boys --

(an elderly woman from Brooklyn
asked me once "was that a blessing
or a coise?")--

how did she know?

watered by words
from the Jordan Valley
and Nazareth

my father a flying
giant
with black academic
wings

delievering a Word
a disturbing mixture
of Freud and Jesus

in a British accent
laced with a tinge
of Empire
and Entitlement

my mother a
misplaced Southerner
always homesick
for the Simple
and the Real

blossoming on visits
Home
amidst southern-fried
chicken and okra
watermelon eaten
in a liturgical circle

outside among the lightning bugs
and cicadas 

cholesterol-soaked casseroles
and syrupy-sweet pecan pie
on Homecoming Sunday
on the edge of the cemetary

where I learned
who I was
a member of a vast
family forest

connected
loved because I occupied
a branch

words were my salvation
up North
amid the noise and confusion
rebellious brothers
shedding their Church Skins
with great drama

I wrote
I bathed my soul
in the nicotine-charred voice
of Neil Diamond

lost between Places
seeking my own "I Am"
in the lonely years
of high school

disillusioning years
among Fundamentalists
finding
losing
finding

in the Never Dull
Circle of Life
doing battle
binding wounds
wearing the Black Robe
like Dad's

delivering a Word
shaken
grounded
wounded

by that Word

of Life and Death

finally
coming home
to a place
I'd never been before

right in the Middle

finding Love
to settle me
and open me

my heart torn open
and healed
by a child

shedding the Robe
walking out
of the musty sanctuary
taking some of
the Old
and looking for

the New. 

riding shotgun

 

 

 

I stopped for Turkeys

but They would not

stop for me---

 

they gathered

in the middle

of the highway for

a very important meeting

 

no doubt

 

they went This way

and That

perhaps trying to agree on

Why the Chicken crossed

the road---

 

and did she go to That side

or This one?

 

What was her Motive?

What was she thinking?

 

Still they waggled

back and forth

like a ladies' church committee

trying to decide whether

to serve chocloate cake or

white or lemon

 

and should we have peanuts

on the side

because you know Ms. Jones

has a severe allergy

 

meanwhile

Traffic Stops

Children Go Hungry

Terrorists Bomb

Congress Can't Agree

Willing to Shut Down

the Whole Damn Thing

take their Toys and Go Home

 

and I can't help but laugh

as the turkeys are all aflutter

on the double yellow line

 

over which side to be on

while in the opposite lane

a Hound Dog is Riding Shotgun

in a Red Covertible.  

through the mist

mist over
     unharvested corn
cloud descending
     swallowing the land

I drive forward
    trusting the straight road
won't bend

that the path I know
     will be faithful
as I move blindly

aren't we all
      just one bend away
from madness?

does the sky-blanket
    protect us
from seeing too much?

we put names
    on things we cannot
understand

build boxes
     and containers
for clouds
      wind

trying to lay claim
     to the grass
          the water
                 the sun

and the trees
      just laugh

the waters flood
      the wind destroys
            the fire consumes

we shake our fists
      at the impersonal skies

we're all dancing
       on the edges of insanity
           and wonder why

someone falls
       taking hundreds, thousands
               with them

no one wants
     --after all--
          to perish alone

but I whisper a prayer
        to the Morning

move boldly
      toward the mists
           enveloping cloud

trusting the wind
          giving thanks for the sun
                embracing the mystery

all is calm
      all is bright
               today

I am alive
         I go forward
               against the fear

lunch break

cool breeze
tousles my hair
through the car window

like a lover
caressing my face
focused only on me

a young boy
sits across
from his father

at a picnic table
playing a game
stealing a moment

to make it matter

for now
this morning
the boy can be

a boy

the father
can be
his Dad

no pressure
to be cool
in front of the guys

no need
to play a role
that's expected

for now
just
beauty

we're all
escaping
to the park 

to be
what we really
want to be

I breathe in
I breathe out
I float

on the fresh
summer breeze
of sabbath

children screaming
laughing
a song of abandon

living, receiving
the sheer joy
of being

no thinking
no wondering
or fearing

I smile
in mischief
in gratitude

that we're all
getting away

with it. 

to the morning

(When I was in middle school, my parents owned a little house in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania.  We went there to get away when we were able, and I spent hours wandering in the woods, writing poetry and picking up orange salamanders...)

 

 

the path

is spongy

beneath my feet

from morning dew

 

moisture enclosed

by walls and a

ceiling of trees

housing the dawn

 

it's as if I

crossed a threshold

between

here and there

 

a field of dreams

and an ordinary

backyard

or

 

an antique wardrobe

that opens out

onto

a snowy pathway

 

in the woods

 

but it's not winter here

the trees whisper

their greeting

a chipmunk says

 

"good morning"

 

I sit on a rock

brush my hand

over the carpet

of moss

 

catching a salamander

organe and soft

its tiny claws

bearing no weight

 

on my hand

 

I dip my toes

in iced water

flowing over

slick, mossy stones

 

fishes darting away

from my giant feet

distrubing their

morning routine

 

it is quiet

still

a world innocent

and fresh

 

a place

to believe again

in new beginnings

in goodness

 

and a God

who keeps it all

together

 

it is here

as a child

I became a poet

a connosseur of beauty

 

where I learned

to meditate

before I'd heard

the concept

 

it is here

among the salamanders

chipmunks

and feet-numbing brooks

 

that I learned

to worship

sing silent praise

to the morning

 

and

be

whole.  

ageless

Bingo and Rummikub
on today's agenda
exercise in the morning
kicking the giant beach ball

an elderly pastor sits
Bible open
white and purple-haired ladies
huddled close

listening for the Word

my host, voice shaking
her head jerking slightly
from a Parkinsonian tic
leads me outside

to brag about her musk melons
growing like an epidemic
in the resident garden
ripe for the picking

sweetness waiting
to be broken open
indulged
like ambrosia of the gods

there are peppers and
onions
tomatoes
and cucumbers

tilled faithfully
harvested and shared
giving slower days
the pleasure of accomplishment

I see the images of my own
many fears
of "me, someday"
the slow deterioration

uselessness of body
and often mind

a woman glides by
leaning on a walker
shoed with tennis balls
to make the trip smoother

she smiles at me
her wrinkles rearranging
around the relentless
sparkle in her rheumy eyes

then there's music
my host brightens
and grabs my arm
with arthritic fingers

leading me toward
the joyful sound
coming from a far corner
as if in another dimension

an old man slouched
over the keyboard
absorbed
fingers dancing on the keys

a distant smile
on his aged face
remembering, perhaps
a dance, a woman, a different life

tunes far too old
to be of my memory
perhaps WWI or II
a pub in France or Germany

a time, a moment
away from guns and bombs
romance amidst the ruins
joy amidst the sorrow

my host sways and claps
with delight
and I am taken with the music
the absolute joyful abandon

on the old man's face

so much joy amidst decay
dancing, at least in spirit
amdist arthritic joints
and edemic ankles

the little old ladies
on the couch,
resting from the journey
from dining hall to "home"

smile dreamily
feet tapping, heads
keeping time with the music
that takes them back

the old man
oblivious to an audience
playing for life
playing for relief

for not only remembering
but experiencing again
as if no time had passed
so cruelly upon his body

experiencing grace
love eternal and romantic
life against all odds
in defiance of death. 


(I learned later that the piano player just turned 101).

Angel Girl

Little Girl
don't you know
you're beautiful?

There are so many
stars in your eyes

as you dance to music
in your own soul

oblivious to judges
with ratings in their hands

a 4, a 2, an 8
it doesn't matter

because you move,
like you know you're a "10"

pudgy cheeks
piercing blue eyes

hair that doesn't curl
for nothing or no one

oh my god
I can't believe

the world goes on

people do dishes
watch the evening news

as if there is no
extraordinary love-angel
in their midst

how could they miss it?
your light would have blinded them

made them turn aside
to revel in your wonder

but you danced anyway
and stored that freedom away

as your feet got bigger
and you folded in on yourself

lived in the shadows
terrified to be seen

lest someone ransack
your treasure chest

yet little by little
you began to whisper

no

took one more little step
into the light

and you remembered the words
to your own song

and Boom! Baby, Baby
those big feet found their rythem

that sweet voice
started to sing

your whisper became a shout!

and others came out
of the dark too

(if SHE can do it, maybe I...)

and the music got richer
the angelic choir got fuller

and the light grew bright
from within your soul

oh, my Dear One
you didn't come here to hide

you are Here
to sing your song

to add your voice, your line
to the Poem

Angel Girl,
you came here to

Shine.

Shine on...

Being Quiet

      It's not a disease.  It's not a character defect.  It's not a maladjustment.  It's not abnormal or immoral.  It just is.  Sometimes it's even a gift.  It took me about 40 years to figure that out.

      It's a very talkative world we live in.  When I was in elementary school and the teachers wrote comments in those boxes  on your report card, I always got the comments:  "Susan (my childhood name) is very quiet.  Doesn't talk much."  I "played well with others."  I even "worked well with others."  I got a lot of Outstandings in my schoolwork, and no UNSatisfactories.  But still, it was if they had to say something, find some concern.  "Susan is very quiet."  Year after year.  Or those adolescent-nightmare moments when the teacher called on me and said,  "Susan, you're very quiet, what do you think?"  and I wanted to melt right into the linoleum. 

       As I got into high school, college and even seminary, it was still apparently a problem.  "Why are you so quiet?"  I was asked repeatedly by teachers, students and friends.  It only caused me more anxiety to try to be something I wasn't:  talkative.   Of course, in college and seminary especially, part of my grade was based on class participation, and so no matter how smart I was or how well I did in the coursework,  I always got graded down because of my lack of speaking out.  I was terrified of speaking in front of large groups, especially without a script!  And I was never really encouraged to think for myself growing up, or to have an opinion worth sharing, so I wasn't ready to share anything that I thought, lest it be torn apart.  On a high school choir trip, I was voted "Quietest Member on the Trip," and given a whistle as a prize.  I was mortified.  At church camp, I was asked to lead a prayer group and my first night, I simply froze up.  Couldn't think of a thing to say, and was therefore ashamed that I couldn't be a good Christian example.  Fortunately, in that case, I had a very kind, gracious pastor-camp counselor who understood that my gifts lay elsewhere, and he assigned me things to do more in accordance with my personality.  He assured me that being quiet was not a character defect and certainly didn't make me less of a Christian or beloved child of God.  He was probably the first adult in my life that made me feel truly accepted and valued for who I was.  His name is Ed.  We still keep in touch, 33 years later.  You just don't forget something like that.

     Obviously when I became a pastor, I had to start speaking.  I clearly remember my first sermon 23 years ago.  I was trembling, nauseous, sweating profusely, my hands were ice cold and I could barely breathe.  But I made it, and got a lot of praise for that first sermon.  That gave me confidence, and I went on to preach for 20 years.  It became one of the biggest gifts that brought me more out of myself and made me feel strong.  I loved preaching!  It was a high.  It was a chance to step out a little more, be more verbally expressive, even use a little drama and flair.  It wasn't that I was being someone else;  obviously preaching was a big part of me, it was a gift.   But outside of the pulpit, I was less expressive.  I was still quiet.  I still felt more comfortable with people one on one rather than big groups.  I wasn't one to "work a crowd."  I'd sit down with a few and visit.  Some people thought I was snotty.  Some accused me of being rude, or "she talked to so-and-so but didn't talk to me..."  I gravitated toward kind faces. 

      I have never been good at small talk.  Being in the ministry for 20 years I had to cultivate some skill at it, mind you, but I still don't like it.  I'd rather be honest, real, talk about things that are important to me or the other person.  I still don't like big crowds.  I'd much rather visit with a small group of friends, play a game, have a nice dinner, or play badminton or something.  Even if I did drink more than an occasional glass of wine, I wouldn't feel comfortable in a bar scene where it's noisy and people get loud.  I tried karoake once when it was still a new thing, and I may as well have stood up there in my underwear for how comfortable I felt.  I let a guy get me drunk once just to see what the fuss was all about, and I didn't get it.  I never felt so sick in my life, and I didn't understand why anyone would do it on purpose. 

     My idea of a good time is a Friday night at home with my family, or a couple of good friends, talking, dinner, maybe a game.  We watch a lot of movies.  I could spend hours reading, sitting outside.  Spending a whole weekend with my husband and my daughter is pure heaven for me.  We don't even have to do much.  Home is my refuge.  There I can let it all out.  I can be myself completely and know that I am loved for who I am.  I can be goofy and silly.  If I'm mad, I can express that, or I can cry and complain.  I can curl up with one or all of my three cats and experience pure bliss. 

    Call me boring.  Call me weird (many people have over the years).  I still get accused of being a snob, or "hard to get to know" (I hate that one-- ask me anything, I might just tell you), or just the tiresome old one, "too quiet."  How can one be "too quiet"?  I usually only speak when I have something to say, which I have found to be a very wise practice.  Too many people talk for the sake of hearing themselves talk, and usually say a lot of dumb things-- even hurtful, painful things.  If you talk less, you tend to listen more.  You notice more about what's going on.  It's taken me till the middle of my life to realize that being quiet is just who I am.  Because of it, I'm also known as a good listener.  People trust me, for the most part.  I don't like to be around a lot of talkative people for too long, I get a headache and I need to go someplace quiet and breathe.  I am very uncomfortable in loud, noisy, crowded places.  I don't fit in in most places.  But I've realized, I'm not meant to fit in, I'm meant to be me.  And I am quiet.

      I don't dislike loud people or talkative people.  Some of my closest friends are talkative.  The word of the day is Extrovert, and I am Introvert.  It's Yin and Yang.  You need both of us.  One is not better than the other.  We're just different.  You can go to your party and dance on the tables if you enjoy that, but don't be offended if I'd rather have a quiet dinner with my family or friends or spend hours reading a good book, or listening to fabulous music.  I am not "too quiet,"  Mrs. Grade School Teacher,  Ms. Cheerleader or Mrs. Class President.  I am me.  I'm a Poet, a Writer, a Singer, a Reader, a Good Friend,  a Thinker, a Muser, a Mystic, a Pray-er, etc.  There's even a Preacher/Public Speaker lurking in me if you wake it up in me, but the Poet is bigger.  So I'll have my glass of wine at home in my living room and tell you a fun story about the time I sang "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" after several beers many years ago with a guy I barely knew and didn't need to know after that, but I won't relive it.  Though I may write a hell of a story about it.

Between the Veils

her head

popped up

amidst tall grass

gentleness incarnate

 

large ears antennae

searching for

danger

cause for alarm

 

eyes like marbles

deep, brown

eyelashes of a starlet

her whole body taut

 

 I think

how dangerous

the world

for gentle souls

 

how harsh the landscape

for passionate artists

always on alert

forever aching

 

for understanding

 

Rocky Mountain Highs

not easy to ascend

proven to be that lost horizon

for the courageous pilgrim

 

those gentle souls

walking a labyrinth of violence

open wounds in rivers

of antiseptic

 

run, my heart says

to the creature

in alliance

run, protect yourself

 

it is sometimes hell

for dreamers

a battlefield for those

who don't want to fight

 

this world burns up

the passionate

those who stand

between the veils

 

but they sing

their songs

and leave us

their poetry

 

their burnt offering

their firstborn

on the altar

as they go down

 

in the flames

still hoping to rise again

from the ashes

to the world of their dreams.

 

 



test

 

 

sitting in my car

waiting

they want to

"take another look"

 

"density"

"shadow"

on the picture

'probably nothing'

 

meanwhile

i work on the border

between life

and death

 

i walk people

to the line

over which

they can only go

 

alone

 

and i always

wonder

what do they see?

what do they feel?

 

i see people walking

toward

the big white cross

over the door

 

welcoming them

to the Place

of Life and Death

of No Denial

 

some bring flowers

some bring overnight bags

some young

some old

 

eyes down

in a hurry

flags fly at full mast now

some distance from

 

the Most Recent Horror

 

the helicopter

perches on the roof

ready for action

awaiting emergency

 

a dark spot

on a film

and i am thrust

from observer to participant

 

reminded

again

that life, if anything

is personal

 

mortality

the great equalizer

 

some stranger

will push, mold

cram my breasts

 

between two

metal plates

 

as if

they are just flesh

to be screened

and not

 

the most intimate

source of memory

that forever bonds

my child and i

 

as if they are not

miraculous

sources of nourishment

and raw need

 

sacred

 

an old man

waddles forth

burdened by

aging bones

 

a pregnant woman

moves forward in the

direction of her belly

equilibrium challenged

 

birth and death

arthritic joints

and new pliable bones

being formed

 

in the dark

 

shadows in pictures

revealing only mystery

contemplation

uncertainty of forever

 

we are all

 

Here

Walk A Mile

     One of my favorite Elvis Presley songs is "Walk a Mile In My Shoes":  "Before you accuse, criticize or abuse, Walk a Mile In My Shoes...."  Fitting for him, but fitting for every time and place. 

     Most of you know about my daughter Sarah's class project for her "Intro to Ethic Studies" class in which she dressed up as a Muslim for a few days, did the prayers and rituals, ate only what a Muslim would be allowed to eat, etc.  She did this on a college campus that prides itself in diversity, as they have a large international population.  I was of course concerned for her safety, warning her to not walk anywhere alone at night, stick with crowds during the day, etc., but I thought I was being overly worried.  Then on the third day, she was pushed into the salad bar, yelled at to "get the hell out of our country!" and three boys dumped a large bowl of cottage cheese on her head.  No one came to her aide.  No one admonished the boys or stopped them.  Sarah wiped off the excess cottage cheese from her head and walked out.  You can read her reflection at:  www.thisisall19.blogspot.com

     I grew up in New Jersey, which today is extremely diverse.  Growing up in a pastor's house, though, I was very protected and sheltered.  I trusted the world to be safe and ok.  I felt safe.  My friends and I fixed up a clubhouse for ourselves in the backyard of our house in Red Bank, NJ, decorating  it with carpet samples, wallpaper samples and furniture from the attic or someone's curb.  It was a cozy little place to hang out for a 9-year old.  But one day, when I went to the clubhouse, I discovered that it had been vandalized.  There was red spray paint all over the walls and carpet, spelling out what I could do to myself but which is anatomically impossible.  The wallpaper was shredded, my posters were ripped into pieces, my notebooks and books were torn apart and strewn throughout the room.  I remember feeling terror, of course.  The world had attacked my own backyard.  I was suddenly aware that the world wasn't necessarily a friendly place, that people could hurt you without even knowing who you were, for no reason.  I was innocent.  I didn't understand.  I suddenly didn't feel safe in my own backyard. 

     I still don't understand.  Why do people hurt people at all, much less people they don't even know?  Why, when someone is hurting inside, do they decide that it's a good idea to hurt someone else?  To share the pain?  I waver between being cynical and deciding that it's safer to just not expect anything better from people, and being optimistic and hopeful.  I want to believe we can do better.  I want to believe the best about people, despite so much evidence. 

    When I gave birth to my daughter, I felt like my heart was now thrown out into the world, vulnerable and exposed.  It's still a hard world for women.  We've come a long, long way, but we have a long, long way to go.  Extremists always attack women and women's freedoms when they want to win votes.  Women don't always support but undermine other women.  Women are still blamed for all the sin and problems in the world.  The other day, after I'd heard about my daughter's assault in the dining hall,  I pulled over and just had a good cry.  As I was sitting there,  a man came up to my window and knocked on it.  He'd read my bumper sticker that says,  "Eve Was Framed."  He pointed to the back of my car.  "I don't believe she was framed at all,"  he said.  Then he walked away.  He apparently needed to defend man-kind for some reason, but it was very bad timing.  I still ache that my daughter will continue to face sexism and ridiculous, hateful attitudes in this world.  I want to throw my body in front of her and protect her from all that.  However, she proved to me this week that she can handle it.  Not only can she handle it, she has the passion, nerve and confidence to speak out against it and try to make a difference.   She is not afraid like I was when these realities started occuring to me in my young adult years.   She'll be ok. 

      I pray for all our daughters and sons in this world that can be so hurtful.  I have seen Muslim women in WalMart, in the library and grocery store.  I am more inclined now to greet them, look them in the eye, and maybe get up the nerve to ask them what it's like for them to be here in Central Nebraska, or the United States.  I know Sarah will go out of her way now to talk to the female Muslim students on campus.  Her world has expanded, grown, deepened.  Her story is spreading around the community; friends are passing it on to their friends.  I pray that we can all take the energy and time to at least imagine what it's like to walk a mile in someone else's shoes, whoever they are, and refrain from hate. 

     And so it is.

Cup of Tickets

(From the Sunday Scribblings writing prompt:  Ticket)

 

"She's got a ticket to ride..."  The Beatles

 

in a coffee cup

on my dresser

i finger through

the small scrapbook of my life

 

tickets saved

through the years

that tell a story

of sorts

 

The Places That Shape Me

 

Events That Gave Me Joy

 

there's a bus ticket

from New Jersey

to New York

my first long bus ride

 

alone

 

16

travelling alone

to see you

you who received me

 

with open arms

 

we went to the Fair

and rode the Viking Ship

you laughed at my horrified face

from the ground below

 

on our way out

we linked arms

as if a family

and sang a silly song

 

the ink on the bus ticket

is faded

but I can still see

the destination

 

those moments

imprinted forever

on my heart

and soul

 

there's the ticket

to Dan Fogelberg's concert

my brother and his girlfriend

treated me that night

 

my brother not too crazy

about the acoustic

whispery-voiced music

but he went for me

 

or the Kenny Rogers concert

he took me to

when I was 12

and I embarrassed him

 

by running down to the stage

and asking Kenny 

for a kiss

it was my birthday

 

I didn't get a kiss

but I never forgot

that night

just him and me and Kenny

 

and there's Springsteen

and Garth Brooks

and Mary-Chapin

when I was older

 

Sesame Street Live

when my little girl

swooned when Big Bird

came out onstage

 

tickets to Graceland

and the Tupelo Tour

images of my girl

kneeling at the King's grave

 

in the rain

 

Broadway shows

The Color Purple

The Lion King

or Les Miserables

 

getting lost in music

stories of hope

of overcoming

of being able to fly above it all

 

a cup full of tickets

that tell a story

My story

a story of a life

 

filled with music

wonder

adventures

and joy without boundaries

 

little pieces of paper

that draw a map

of where I've been

and where I hope to go

 

I keep it on my dresser

by my mirror

to remember

 

and give thanks

for the journey.