The River Stream

             I have a deeply hidden...desire
              for something beyond the daily life.
                     Virginia Woolf

stepping stones led us
around a bend and into
a place of desire

On Alert

Now we have mosquito repellent and tick balm to weather the outdoors. When an errant golf ball disappears into the overgrowth it remains. Remember running barefoot in the grass? According to those in the know we should don long pants, long sleeves, and  a wide brimmed hat before picking a weed.

It’s downright dangerous out there. And in a town nearby an eight foot python left his abode and wanders in the neighborhood. 

Years ago, when I was in the third grade, our school rented an old movie called— I believe— Frank Bring them Back Alive Buck. In that movie Frank allows a twelve foot boa to coil around his torso. It all worked out because three extras unwrapped the coils. 

That night I asked my father to look under the bed, in the closet, and in the shower lest there was a boa in our home. All he found was my grandmother’s ball of twine. 

Hyper vigilance — code words.

Everything Has a Beginning

The road dipped before the rise—
before it flattened out,
my stomach dropped
my breath held still
until we hit the straightaway—
It worked out best 
to keep a foot
on the gas pedal
That summer
we drove back and forth—
seeking the right speed
We ate long strands of red licorice 
and smoked unfiltered cigarettes 
One night when the leaves shook

we stopped at the bottom of the dip

to bathe in moonlight

How long ago 

and yet I recall that road,

and the taste of summer heat

Standing With Others

Tonight I opened up scripture 
and read the readings for Shavuot 
and the readings for Pentecost. 
I counted the days from Passover— 
I counted the weeks. 
Forty- nine days.
Seven weeks.

Tonight the sun went down--
the time for study began.  
I study the proscribed readings—
the lines and verses not mentioned. 
They mingle together—blurring boundaries.

Tonight I am ready to set- up camp,

to unfurl my bed roll and wait

for the pyrotechnics to begin

Everyone—those who came before

and the souls of those unborn—wait

I,too, stand at Sinai 

Shavuot

Let’s gather

at the mountain

with cheese and crackers—

a sweet cake and a drink

You don’t need to wear

finery or high heels
Come as you are

If you own a guitar

strum a melody

and we’ll sing 

while we wait at Sinai—

In the wilderness

we’ll listen for God’s voice

Starting Over

After posting on Marginalia for twelve years—although only consistently for the past five years — my blog  no longer could stay abreast of the new tech demands. I had refused to transfer my blog to a new template when it became apparent that the transfer was not foolproof. Some posts might slide into oblivion. And because I had never bothered to back-up my posts, nor copied my poetry,  I envisioned lines floating in space, no longer tethered to other lines. Endings to poems might suffer the embarrassment of being doomed to the plight referred to as unearned endings.

The decision to close down one blog and start over brewed for weeks. Then I couldn’t find a name that fit. Everything I thought of was either too snug or too loose. So what does Bending Toward Words really mean? Why did I select that name? And here’s the rub. I think I just wore myself down to the nib trying to find an acceptable name.

I visualize myself bending over and finding words in crevices and nooks, stockpiling stacks of words, and then threading words into sentences. An occasional visual might appear—my own attempt to decipher meaning. And of course I will write of my faith walk— both the sputtering and the ascents.