Tag: tribute (Page 7 of 8)

it’s time

September 11, 2011 / jeanne / 6 Comments

today’s a day
when we remember,
and in that remembering,
we’re put squarely
in touch,
undeniably
in touch,
with our own
mortality.

we know
we’re all gonna’
die,
not a single one of us
is exempt.

Clock2

we know
we’re gonna’ die,
but we do not know
when
or where
or (regardless
of circumstances)
how.

Clockface1

if you’re reading
this,
you’re alive.
you haven’t died,
though your clock
is ticking.

Tree1

so, scoot.
get on out there
and live –
really live,
treating us all
to your very own
gorgeous genius
and genuine glory.

Leaf

and hey,
while you’re at it,
why not stop,
every chance
you get,
and notice,
appreciate,
pay tribute to
somebody else’s
beauty?
they shine,
you shine,
we all shine,
even though
we might never
know why
or who to thank.

My Tree Of She

June 27, 2011 / jeanne / 9 Comments

MyTreeOfShe1

i am a grove
a copse
a rich, fruitful orchard.

my tree of she
bears the fruit
of music
and cloth
and sparkle
and words.

MyTreeOfShe3

my tree of she
bears blooms
of food
and flowers
and a strength
so soft,
it’s often mistaken
for weakness.

my tree of she
bears leaves
of dance
and duty
and generosity.
leaves of
preserving
and nourishing
and protecting.

MyTreeOfShe2

my tree of she
is rich
in the red roots,
of blood
and hearts
and spirit,
and tears,
in the determination
and tenacity
and quiet boldness
of the women
who precede me.
their fierce independence,
their unbounded love,
their unending creativity,
unlocking the wonder
and the aching beauty
that is
my tree of she.

MyTreeOfShe4

Today’s post is inspired
by the lovely Lindsey Mead
who sweeps me away regularly
with that special brand of wisdom
she shares over at a place called
A Design So Vast . . .

piecing

June 23, 2011 / jeanne / 10 Comments

Hardhead

do you see the silhouette there?
the face in the stone?
you need to know this about me:
i am bad to personify.
equally bad to tell stories . . .

every morning
at dark thirty,
she pulls her soft, wispy white hair,
a gift from her matriarchal lineage,
into a bun at the nape of her neck
to keep it out of her way
while she feeds fabric
under the needle
that dances up and down
in direct proportion
to the cast iron pedal
she pumps up and down with her feet.

the steady whirring
of the old singer machine
fills the air with music
as she creates quilts –
one for each child,
one for each grandchild –
from assorted scraps of fabric
purchased from
her friend across the street,
paid for with one of her
award-winning
pineapple upside-down cakes.

she, more

June 21, 2011 / jeanne / 7 Comments

Wovenwhole

in the beginning
there was light:
the lightness of laughter,
the lightness of femininity,
the lightness of self-assurance.
she was fiercely delicate,
this one,
fluent in the strength of vulnerability.

eventually her sure and tender feet
encountered the straight and narrow,
a path lined with directional signs
and dire warnings,
a path with unwavering rules,
a path that blistered unprotected souls.

then came the day when she
stopped –
she just stopped,
i tell you.
picked up the fabrics of her life,
and ripped them to find the straight grain.

she wove
then stitched
the strips together,
the up/down
in/out
over/under
eventually blurring the lines,
fraying the edges,
unraveling things just enough
to form
a whole cloth,
a blank slate
a stout, staunch cloth
on which to write
the rest of her life.

wishes

June 13, 2011 / jeanne / 5 Comments

Lotus

i wish
i had something profound
to share with you,
something that would
change your life
or better still,
enhance your life.
something that would
validate and confirm
what you already know to be true.

i wish
i had something profound
to share with you,
something that would
make you see the world
or yourself
or even your cat
differently.

i wish
i had something profound
to share with you,
something that would
encourage you,
give you the nudge
you need
to start that project
you’ve carried around
for so long.

i wish
i had something profound
to share with you,
something that would
make you smile
or better still
laugh right out loud.

i wish
i had something profound
to share with you,
something that would
erase all the bruises
that have made you
tuck yourself in
and be smaller
than you really are.

i wish
i had something profound
to share with you,
something that would
convince you
that your life
is precious to me
and to so many others.
something that would
convince you
that the world
needs your project,
your talent,
your words,
your ideas,
your creativity,
your love,
your laughter.

mostly, though,
i wish
it was as easy
as serving you
a page full
of words
for you to know,
to know at the cellular level,
how precious
you are.

i love her. i seriously love her.

May 8, 2011 / jeanne / 6 Comments

MomWBabyJeanne1

Artist and writer Frederick Frank wrote: “I know artists whose medium is life itself and who express the inexpressible without brush, pencil, chisel, or guitar. They neither paint nor dance. Their medium is being. Whatever their hand touches has increased life. They see and don’t have to draw. They are the artists of being alive.”

She wakes up each day
to a blank canvas of 24 hours,
and she fills it with strokes of
love and laughter
and
nourishment and beauty.
She is a creator of relationships.
Friends, family, strangers,
flowers and food . . .
those are her paints.

Her muse may wait for her
in the kitchen
and in her garden,
but her life is her canvas.
Her life is her art.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
I love you.

AlisonAndAda

grief is messy

December 2, 2010 / jeanne / 45 Comments

ten years ago today, my daddy died. if you have a minute, read about it here. it’s a pretty amazing story, if i do say so myself. (hint: scroll down and start at the 10th paragraph. i spent the first 8 paragraphs linking the post to that day’s prompt (a year later, i don’t bother), and the 9th paragraph, well, we’ll call it a segue cause honestly, i have no idea how that made it to print.)

i shed tears as prayers of remembrance and gratitude
i chide myself for wallowing.

i crave darkness
i turn all the lights on.

i spew words and send emails to people who rock as my rocks
i scold myself for letting people see me like this.

i long to crawl back in bed and sleep the day away
i choose to honor daddy and my self by leaning into this tender bruise.

i am tempted to stay in my floppy flannel pajamas all day long
i hear the ole familiar “boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses”
and know that
only pretty girls can get away with such indulgences.

i forego today’s walk
and eat cookies
and do little
besides reading
the occasional blog.

i ask myself:
did i do all that i could do?
was it wrong to give him permission
to go?
should i have knocked on
door after door after door
until some physician eventually healed?

one thing i do not do
is make my daddy more in death
than he was in life.
he was not perfect.
i wouldn’t ache for him so
if he had been.

~~~
This post is (loosely) (or maybe creatively sounds better) written in response to today’s #reverb10 prompt:
Q: What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it?
A: Lately everything contributes to my writing. And nothing – nothing at all – was gonna’ come between me and my writing on this day.

daily tributes: day 7 with mother

October 11, 2010 / jeanne / 4 Comments

she sprinkles her conversations
with words and phrases
coined by others,
always
always
always
giving due and proper credit.

“as ruby mcelroy used to say,
‘it just does my heart good.'”

“as willie used to say,
‘it just slud down the hill.'”

“as kipp would say,
‘i didn’t know i be-ed this good.'”

“as alison would say,
‘this is ree-dik’-uh-lus.'”

each one
a tribute
in the vernacular
of those she once knew
and still loves.

my slug

August 28, 2010 / jeanne / 4 Comments

except for when i’m really tired, it seems like just yesterday when i first met him.

today is my son’s birthday. kipp is his name; slug is my pet name for him. slug, from the book atlas shrugged by ayn rand – the hottest coal that keeps the fire roaring to keep the train’s engine moving. yep, he is my slug.

he is a true renaissance man – one who loves hiking and skydiving and reading and snowboarding and playing guitar. he’s a wicked good actor and writer, and if you mapped his various areas of intelligence, his brain would light up like our neighbor’s house at christmas.

he makes halloween costumes you just wouldn’t believe and just recently, his idea for a startup company took first place at startup weekend. he’s kind and articulate, and he usually smiles (which is great cause those braces weren’t cheap).

unlike his mama, he’s hardly a picky eater, and unlike his dad, he enjoys post-movie conversations of deconstruction and philosophy. like his dad, he likes fine art and georgia tech, and like his mama, he likes handmade journals and stories. like both of us, laughter is his religion.

he is handy with a camera, and hopefully he’ll pick it up again one day soon and start taking more pictures because he has a way of seeing that stops me dead in my tracks. like the time we rode under telephone wires . . . he looked up at the kudzu creeping and skipping its way across, and said simply “nature’s reclamation.”

wallace stevens was once his favorite poet, now he’s going through a billy collins phase. he’s a good companion to his dog, even letting otto have a pet roomba (the robotic vaccuum cleaner) because he knows border collies just need to herd things.

he is my son, and i frequently wonder what i did in a former life that landed me fortunate enough to be his mother.

happy birthday, kipp.

i love you.

things i have survived:

August 27, 2010 / jeanne / 10 Comments

eating grapes

eating mudpies

cords on blinds

eating hot dogs

a wooden playpen

swimming in a pond with cows

cabinet doors without latches

summers without air conditioning

hanging wallpaper with my husband

eating peaches right off the tree

my high school guidance counselor

a mugging on the sidewalks of new york

roller skating without protective armor

riding in cars without carseats or seatbelts

telephones with no voicemail or answering machine or call waiting

bike riding before helmets, gloves, kneepads, and gears

an F on an undergraduate biology test (i was in love – i’ll tell you about it one day.)

and now: my brother going to afghanistan.

he leaves tomorrow night, and i’ve tried hard not to waste our time by missing him while we are together. but every now and then i kinda’ practiced, kinda’ opened that door to my heart just a teensy little bit to see if i could survive him being a world away.

why will i miss him?

oh, just let me tell you (some of) the ways:

he can keep secrets.

he always – and i mean always – has my back.

his soft spot for animals is about the size of the milky way. maybe bigger.

he’s so damn good on the golf course, i had to learn how to strut.

he has a deep insightfulness that sometimes takes my breath away and always keeps me thinking.

he tells the truth.

he is funny – i’m talking knee-slapping, side-hugging funny.

he wouldn’t know pretentious if it up and bit him on the nose.

he loves me just the way i am, bossiness and all.