Poetry Walking

If you cannot be a poet, be the poem.  ~David Carradine

 

Johnny Depp refers to Angelina Jolie as “poetry walking” during a post production interview while filming The Tourist and I love that image. Is he speaking of her body, her eyes, her scent? Maybe it’s the way she carries herself or how she speaks. Poetry walking has an understated sexuality to it as well as sensual imagery.

As a woman this makes me weak in the knees.

As a poet this inspires me.

What *is* poetry walking? I’ll spend a good part of November exploring that.

Writing prompt for my nablopomo sisters – if you are so inclined – what is poetry walking to you?

 

 

Three Choices

I jokingly tell people “It’s always about me and the sooner we all get on the same page with that the better.” I’ve had a really crummy week y’all. Every inner voice imaginable has struggled to be heard, acknowledged, and at times smacked down.

I’d complain really, but the truth is none of the events of this week are really about me.

  1. I lost a friend to death on Monday. A high school friend suffered a pulmonary embolism on Monday sending all of us into shock and disbelief. I personally took her death really hard. She leaves behind a husband, a son, a best friend and many people who love her. While my grief is mine, her death is not about me. I can grieve and learn to let this go.
  2. A close family member is giving me fits. I’ve participated in their dysfunction for so long that I can no longer tell truth from fantasy. Again, while I play a part in this dance their issues and refusal to grow up really aren’t about me. I need to let it go.
  3. I joined a writers group this week with some fantastic writers. We are on a 6 week journey to find our real voices. This IS about me. This is my safe place. A place to process, grow, separate chaff from wheat and step into the wilderness of the unknown. THIS I have control over. This is a good happening.

Not everything that happens in the crazy mixed up planet of ours is about us. My first homework assignment for the group was to assess a poem by Mary Oliver called The Journey. What I discovered was not just one voice, but many. I had four days to read the poem and process my thoughts. A day makes all the difference. While processing this poem I met my ingenue, my wounded child, my victim and a new voice who is still trying to tie it all together before midnight tonight.

Wish me luck.

To Know More Than I should

It is said that too much curiosity killed the cat.

That in search for truth,

perhaps we cannot handle it.

perhaps we were never created to.

I used to think it a blessing

to be in

rather than out.

If I knew

touched

tasted

digested

it all

I’d be full.

Full of answers

Full of knowing

Full of life.

Full of certainty.

And I am full.

But not of the right stuff.

I’m full to the brim

with the sad reality that lies are lies

Hype is hype

and all is not as it appears.

You can’t undo a knowing either.

It’s like giving your virginity to your boyfriend

in the back seat of his car in a moment of passion

only to want it back tomorrow.

It simply is impossible.

The wizard was right you know.

Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

He’ll fail you every time.

Come on Toto

This isn’t Kansas

I’m not Dorothy

and not everything is meant for our knowing.

Save some magic for tomorrow.

And Leave the curtain be.

 Written by Deana O’Hara for Redemption’s Heart: Confessions of a Spiritual Bulimic. All Rights Reserved. 2/10/11

REPOST: Redeem The Days of Silence

I am taking a short vacation from blogging to spend holiday time with my family. In the meantime, I have set up a few of my more popular posts for you to read. Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Redeeming the hour

Of words unspoken

Gospels denied

Deeds undone and

Needs overlooked

Would take a life time of wishes.

If one was a simple soul that is.

Confessions made

To cold hearted clerics

Who hold the words of absolution

Our medicine

and

Our lifeblood

In the palm of their hands

And choose to say nothing

Rip the very fabric of our being;

And cause us to question the heart of God himself.

And yet a stronger soul

Emerges from the ashes of wasted words

And needless silence.

Like the phoenix

We rise

And are reborn.

Carrying with us

A heart for the unredeemed hours

Of our lives.

We see the hearts

Of the lost and the hurting.

We speak the truths

That were once denied us

To others whose needs are no more

Or no less than our own.

In place of the devils behind

Who left their teeth in our hide

We become the god with skin on

For those who need his touch.

We listen

We pray

We touch

We feel

And we tell you the only truth

You need to hear.

God sings over you

Your sins are forgiven

Rest in that knowledge

And forgive those whose own scars

Rendered them silent on your behalf.

You are more than a simple soul

Living on wishes and lies of others.

You are a phoenix

More valuable than silver or gold.

Bought at a price

Redeem the day.

Of Mice and Meaning: Part Two

I’m in a mood. It’s not good or bad, it just is… ever been there? You’re female, I’m guessing you’ve been there what three times already today? laugh. Me too.

Our neighbors are fighting. I can hear him destroying her gardens with a weed eater and she’s yelling at him to go inside and cool off.  I scrub floors when I need to cool off — men build or deconstruct. That or they go find a man cave and veg.  He’s cooling off just fine, she just wants him to cool off — on his turf, not hers. They are newlyweds and the house they moved into was her house. The gardens he’s destroying have been the envy of the neighborhood for years. This might not end well. I predict tears soon.

Mine is a mood that comes when I know I’m stuck and need to get unstuck. It’s not a turf war unless you consider the new ground I’m trying to break. Somewhere along the last few years I decided that learning how to be fearless would be a good thing. Hiding in cave doesn’t get me there. Neither does scrubbing my floors.

I “get” the dream I had last week — being fearless doesn’t mean being a bitch. Nor can one be fearless by being a people pleasing doormat with no sense of self. And you can’t be fearless and full of self-pity at the same time..

I told you last week that Jim’s book kicked me in the gut — it did. Do you know how I know I was reading truth? I started feeling sorry for myself – a sure sign that I needed to keep reading. Turns out I left out a key ingredient in my new adventures. I forgot to define what kind of woman I want to be. I know, I know – My kids are grown and almost moved out, I’m doing stand up, my husband travels — I tell people all the time that I’m the ADHD Bouncy Ball of Tulsa that keeps my family moving. Who needs definition? Well, turns out it might be a good thing after all. Besides, I can already tell that my husband is at great risk of being mothered by me, and that as we all know is bad.

In chapter 2 of Real Men, Jim writes” and so he asked me, when the (deleted) are you going to grow up and become a man?…to do that he told me I had to define what kind of man I was…there is a big difference between knowing what you want to be and defining it…”

Are you following me here?. Growing up isn’t just about finding a man, settling down and raising a family. Sure that’s a great thing, and maybe for you a big part of it, but if you — or I — don’t define for ourselves WHO we are, we leave ourselves open to the waves of opinion and emotion, and have no home turf. There is nothing more draining on a man – or woman really – whose mate uses them as their only mirror of self-esteem and knowledge. Wanting to be fearless and going back onstage isn’t going to do me a darn bit of good if I don’t have clearly defined direction. My spine will be crushed under the weight of need.

He goes on to write: ” the kid has a goal in mind, but has yet to develop his definition of himself…he needs to identify a few things that define his goal…we as men (sic women too) need to take back our sense of self, define who we are and stand by it, instead of listening to what other people want us to be and then trying to stuff ourselves into that mold…once you figure out what is important to you, you have to stand by it..Most (people) have not defined who they are, and have not come up with their terms.”

 Part of learning how to be fearless — involves action. Willingness (to be fearless) without action is fantasy — I say that a lot. I thought I was the right track, and yes and no.  I missed a step or twelve. So that’s why I’m in a brood. (which my word for moodiness caused by brooding.) Instead of defining what I want that closet to be filled with, I’m coasting, hopeing someone else can define it for me — that way if it doesn’t work out? I have someone else to blame.

That’s really what coasting and people pleasing is you know — a passive form of blameshifting. The victim of this tactic is usually our parents or significant other.

This is actually really good advice. And it’s something I apparently needed to be reminded of.

To quote my friend Pam – also from Chicago I might add — this my friend is AFGO. Another Fantastic (not the word she used) Growth Opportunity. Yes, Pam it is..

It’s not all loss. I’m moving forward, I just need to go back and fill in some gaps even if I am ADHD and would rather wing it. What about you? Do you have your road map? Or are you just coasting along hoping someone else navigates thereby letting you off the hook? It’s okay if you are, recognizing that is a great start – – don’t stop there — do something about it. I am, starting today.

Poetry: Redeem the Days of Silence

Redeeming the hour
Of words unspoken
Gospels denied
Deeds undone and
Needs overlooked
Would take a life time of wishes.
If you were a simple soul that is.
Confessions made
To cold-hearted clerics
Who hold the words of absolution
Your medicine
and
Your lifeblood
In the palm of their hands
And choose to say nothing
Rip the very fabric of your being;
Causing you to question the heart of God himself.
And yet a stronger soul
Emerges from the ashes of wasted words
And needless silence.
Like the phoenix
You rise
And are reborn.
Carrying with you
A heart for the unredeemed hours
Of your life.
You see the hearts
Of the lost and the hurting.
You speak the truths
you were once denied
To others whose needs are no more
Or no less than your own.
In place of the devils behind
Who left their teeth in your hide
You become the god with skin on
For those who need his touch.
You listen
You pray
You touch
You feel
You tell the only truth
Anyone needs to hear.
God sings over you
Your sins are forgiven
Rest in that knowledge
And forgive those whose own scars
Rendered them silent on your behalf.
You are more than a simple soul
Living on wishes and lies of others.
You are a phoenix
More valuable than silver or gold.
Bought at a price
Redeem the day.

This post written by Deana O’Hara for Redemtion’s Heart. All rights reserved. May 1,2010

I am His Beloved, but is He Mine?

If God could write a Valentine today, what would it look like? What would He say? Would it be flowers and prose? A card from Hallmark, or maybe a rose?

If God were to write a Valentine today, What would it look like? What would He say? Would it be candy or something as sweet? A box of dark chocolates? Now that would be neat.

But that doesn’t quite do it. Its not quite his style. No, He’d probably think and ponder a while. He’d keep it simple. And that would be best.

“Come home to me Valentine, and I’ll give you rest.”

My Dearest Valentine,

You were, and are still, my first true love, created for my pleasure. Your parents gave you a name at birth. I have my own name for you. I call you “Beloved”. Do you know? Do you remember? Or have you forgotten?

I called the heavens and the earth into being with my voice, yet I saved you for my hands to create. I am still creating, making you more and more into my image, even as you live and breathe. Can you feel my touch? Have you seen my fingerprints? Your name is carved into the palms of my hand. Nothing can snatch you away. Not even your sin. I knew you would fall and I created you anyway. I already had a plan worked out from the beginning of time, so that I might keep you by my side.

I came down to be with you. To eat, sleep, walk, dance, and touch you. I gave you my time, my love, and my life. Your time, your love, your life and your faith and more precious to me than silver or Gold. Do you weigh the cost? I did.

Did you see the sunshine I sent you today? I wanted to watch it shine off your hair and in your eyes. Did you feel the warmth? Did you hear the songbirds? I wrote that song just for you. Does my music fill your heart? Yours does mine. Oh, how I love to hear you sing. And that breeze? It’s me caressing your face like I did for Elijah. Did you notice me? Do you hear the leaves rustle in the trees? That’s my whisper. Can you hear me?

I can’t wait until you see what I have in store for you on Easter morning! Will you be there? Will you see me? Or will you miss it? Please be still beloved and know that I am God and that you are my first true love. Would only that I could be yours.

So tell me Beloved, will you be my Valentine?

Love,
God

Copywrite: Deana O’Hara, Red Bridges Home 2009

The Neurotic Messiah

Back in December of 2000, I chose to take a chance and sing with Tulsa’s All Lutheran Messiah. Not because I’m such a wonderful singer that I wanted to perform – quite the opposite. I joined and took my feable voice as a praise offering to God. I was having a rough year and brought to the table, the only gift I had. The sacrifice of praise. Praising God, when your heart is shattered, is not easy, but it is healing.

I cannot read music but was assured I didn’t have to. She lied. I shook through the whole thing. Each practice I’d go, try to sing, and shake, and then go home saying no. I even had this cute little thing next to me tell me she didn’t know the music and I shouldn’t follow her as that’s probably what was making me sing off key. Wasn’t she a sweetheart.

I made it literally on my knees. I’d pray myself up during the week and go practice again on Sunday. I could not visualize the presentation, that terrified me, but I could visualize one practice at a time. And that, is how I got to sing in the All Lutheran Church Messiah – the second longest running presentation of The Messiah in the United Stated.

I process things through writing and through humor. And this is what I came up with.

The Neurotic Messiah

Oh no! What have I done? I cannot read a single note. Not one.
This score is much more complicated Than I ever anticipated.
I haven’t sung in a choir for twenty year.
And so began my chorus of fears.

The starts, the stops, the highs, the lows
The beats, the counts, the arpeggios.
The conductors who speak in some foreign tongue
Is it Latin, or Italian? I know not which one.

The M’s and P’s, and F’s and M’s.
Oh, these aren’t your typical church service hymns.
Am I an “S” or not an “S”
I do not know
and now they say my costume I need to sew.

(Uhm, I failed home ec, ya’ll)

“Light the fire but don’t take it out”?!
Would someone please tell me what that was about?

Now I’m told to sing like Ethel Merman
and that we aren’t singing, but giving a sermon.

Oh how I’m beginning to rue the day
when Sue Paulison said “Come on let’s play.
You don’t need to audition,
just show up and sing.
Being a part of “The Messiah” is a wonderful thing.”

I’m now thinking my impulse to do this was rash.
This may be a check I’ve written that my body can’t cash.
This is not good, not good at all,
but then again, does pride not come before the fall?

I drove straight home and on my bed I sat telling my husband,
I’m not going back!
And that is that!

Then standing in the hallway whom did I see
but my 9-year-old son listening to me.
“I thought you once said don’t ever quit.
So please tell me now, why are you doing it?”

I searched through my brain to frantically look
for some wise answer to get me off the hook.
Failing that I tried for the truth
Hoping somehow he’d understand, even in his youth.

“That may be true.” I answer, “But don’t you see?
There’s too much to learn and it’s too hard for me.
Besides, I really can’t sing, not like the rest.”
And he said “That’s okay Mom; just do your best.
God won’t mind, just wait and see.
Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”

And so I sat with a guilty heart
wondering when my son got so smart.
And wondering why he now would choose
to remember my words and those words use.

Then henceforth came my next blessing
I caught a cold while I was dressing.
I coughed and sneezed and wheezed and gasped.
My voice, once loud, now barely rasped.
I cannot sing and cough no sir, they have to let me drop now, I’m sure.
No guilt, no blame, It’s not my fault. This cruel dance can finally come to a halt.

But Leon’s good. He doesn’t miss a trick.
You’d better get well and get well quick.
I’ll let you sing you’ll do just fine, people catch colds all the time.
And so went my last excuse.
Fighting God on this one seemed no use.

My costume’s all sewn by my friend Cyndi, with care,
At least now I will have something to wear.

I thought a “piano” is what you played and not what you sang
and this cold still makes me sound like a cat in the rain.

I’m not an “S” and this much I know
that’s to keep us from hissing during the show.

The Marys and Josephs have been picked out with care
now if only they could decide when they’ll be there.

The last practice has come we should know what to do.
Stand up straight, bend your knees, and that includes you.

The Altos still outnumber the rest by a score,
next year could you please try soprano some more.

The orchestra is with us, it’s coming together.
Somehow I doubt we could get any better.

Tell us Pastor Carter how does it sound
now that we’ve done this last go around?
“It needs to be crisp, we’ve lost that somehow.
Remember, you are praising God, so let’s pull it together now.
Sopranos are too strong, bring it down just a bit.
Bass’s your not emphasizing the lines that you hit.
Tenors and Altos your entrances are late,
but other than that I think it sounds great.”

Our differences we have quietly tucked away,
as all Tulsa Lutheran churches sing in harmony this day.
Clear and true our music does ring
as we praise and worship our new-born King.

All fears and joking are now put aside.
This is a worship service and our joy we can’t hide.
The true story of Christmas can only be told
through the lives of the ones who dare to Behold.

“Behold! I bring you tidings of great joy which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior which is Christ the Lord.”

The All Lutheran Church Messiah will be presented again this weekend at First Lutheran Church at 13th and Utica. I’m not singing in it. But I will be attending. See you there!

Pollyanna this Ain’t Folks

This blog will seem random – and I guess it is.. It’s not my typical happiness blog – but part of a bigger personal psalms piece. It makes sense to me and is actually part of a bigger story to be explained later.

There are seasons, that are rough to bear. Storms that keep us soaking wet and unable to stand. Realities that lay thick in fog. Days where the devil seems to win, and God seems distant. Hold strong, and wait for the rider to appear.

In due time

There are seasons where it seems like the devil is winning
But they are only seasons
Not life times.

Things you should be able to trust become untrustworthy
they trick you into thinking they need you
or that you need them.
They tell you lies
About how special you are
How important you are
How they need you
Because you aren’t like “them”

Only “them” doesn’t seem to bad,

The longer you listen to the lies
“them” no longer seems to like you.

He’s good at that

The liar
And the thief

He needs you
To hide behind
Because he can’t face himself.

He’s told you the truth
You are special
You are needed
but not like this.

He twists it
Much like an unwanted vine twists over a fence
It’s the wrong vine
He’s grafting you to.
Don’t take hold.

He knows your weaknesses
He knows your fears
He knows your needs

He zones in on them
And Exploits them

Rather than listen the spirit
Who warns of an enemy near.
You feel fear
lack of faith
Or think yourself the enemy.

You feel betrayed but don’t why
And think maybe it’s just you.

You want to tell
But no one hears you
Or wants to listen

He’s built a wall of lies between you and them
Trying to keep you for himself
Trying to stay unexposed.

You believe the wall but
It’s just apparition
A figment of his imagination
Created for you.
and you believe it as if it were real.

It’s fog
If you reached your hand out
It would go right through
But you don’t.

You’ve stopped trusting, even yourself.

So you sit
And you wait
For the author of truth
To bring darkness to light

Time passes
Too slowly it seems
And soon
When things are almost forgotten

The rider appears
faithful and true

He is trustworthy
He is your redeemer

A sword in his mouth
Cutting the darkness
Showing the truth

No longer will you be called forsaken
Arise and shine
Daughter of Zion
For your time has come.

Standing
With no one to blackmail
Or blame
Or darken the sun.

Clothe yourself instead
with
Humility
Forgiveness
And grace.

Knowing your God has heard you.

————————–

We serve to an audience of one. But it’s easy to forget that. At times our witness appears to deny Christ, and we are denied in return. Been there, done that. I found an old prayer journal the other day. It was written during one of the worst fire storms of my life. A season where everyone it seemed had turned against me, and the enemy lay in wait – a season where the wrong choices felt right. A time where I almost threw it all away, I prayed.

One of my prayers was simple really – “Dear Lord, when the world has turned against me, teach me now how to seek out only you. Let your approval be all I need.”

I learned how to play to an audiance of one.

Of Mice and Meaning

I found mice today, cleaning out a closet he said was too full.
He was right you know,
about the closet that is.

Underneath all of the clutter and stuff that is my life
was a nest of shredded books and papers.
A paper back that was once mine, was now theirs.

Chewed and torn and turned into a home.
Only the top half of the book remained.

I coudn’t even make out the author’s name
or the title for that matter.
Bill something not that it matters now
but it did once.

Digging deeper,
I found more papers
More torn books
half chewed and then rejected.

Perhaps the binding was too tough?
Or the reading too slow.

Who knows.

In a moment’s time
my trusty vacuum cleaner
swept through their home
and my life
like a tornado Ripping it to shreds
until nothing was left.

I set traps
sticky ones that were supposed to be kind
or at least mess free
but they aren’t
a baby got stuck and cried for it’s mother
only she never came

And he wound up in the trash

I won’t use those again
it’s much too sad.

I’d rather buy a cat,
but he hates them
so we have mice instead.

The closet is empty now
purged of it’s former inhabitants
and free of bothersome clutter

waiting to be refilled
or reorganised
whichever comes first

much like my life