Category Archives: Poetry

Finish Your Boggart

What is your greatest fear?

Finish it with silliness.

Spiders stumbling in roller skates,

tyrants donning absurd apparel,

cobras turned jack-in-the-box,

full moon a deflating balloon.

A bit of whimsy bordering on

nonsense disarms the boogeyman.

Don’t wait for your father –

he’s not coming.

Save yourself with joy,

for laughter is fear’s nemesis.

 

This poem was written during a Harry Potter marathon with my friend Debbie M. while watching the third movie Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. 

Chamber of Secrets

The key

to opening

my chamber

of secrets

is consistency.

Showing oneself

worthy of trust,

a companion

who arrives.

There is something

to be said for

presence,

the constant knowing

that someone can

be counted on

to exist

when others

are virtual.

 

This poem was written during a Harry Potter marathon with my friend Debbie M. while watching the second movie Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. 

The Mirror of Erised

What would stare back

from the Mirror of Erised

should the chance arise

to gaze into that smooth pane?

 

Only the deepest desires

of the heart reveal themselves;

neither knowledge or truth

reside in the likeness.

 

It is said that the happiest

on earth would see themselves

exactly as they are, no magic

greater than reality.

 

Do the broken-hearted souls

whose sad countenances

look longingly for the lost

ever make peace with reflections?

 

This poem was written during a Harry Potter marathon with my friend Debbie M. while watching the first movie Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. 

Image credits – The Mirror of Erised by Daan van Genechten (Harry Potter Illustration) https://www.artstation.com/artwork/bKgG0g

Whose Orchid?

An orchid appeared

on my counter last week.

It’s stick-straight stems

point proudly skyward

upholding regal blooms

of white with

painted purple lips.

Waxy long leaves

splay around the base

as though palms upturned

in adoration.

Imagine my pleasure

upon discovering that

the beautiful blossoms

in question were left

for me by my daughter.

Symbolic of elegance

and fertility,

love and respect.

Printed directions

attached to a stick

explain care and feeding,

so my granddaughter

places three ice cubes

reverently just above the roots

and waits to see

what happens next.

Goodbye, my dear friend


-For Mary by Rebekah J. Marshall 1/20/19

Goodbye, my dear friend.

“The earth has arranged her skirts

and taken you back so tenderly.”

I know you have “vanished

into something better-”

“the dark hug of time.”

What is it like “after the last day?”

“Did you float into the sky?”

I know “you never intended

to be in this world,”

yet you still got on with

“building the universe.”

“Everything dies at last and too soon,’

so I will bathe in the

“moon’s bone-white eye”

while whispering

“prayers made of grass”

until “all the locks click open.”

No matter how “humble the effort,”

I will “move my grains on a hillside”

one by one if need be

for “neither power nor powerlessness

will have me entirely”

and “I am willing to be dazzled.”

Yes, “my spirit carries within it the thorn,”

but I “keep on trudging.”

And every so often

“green leaves emerge from the tips of my fingers.”

A “fox on his feet of silk” found

“a bride married to amazement.”

I “have changed my life,”

“announced my place in the family of things,”

and “invented the dance with the wind,” for

“death is a little way away from everywhere.”

This is the very reason that

“every morning the world is created.”

Thank you for living

“your one wild and precious life.”

I will “remember your beloved name”

until I am “washed out of my bones”

because “death isn’t darkness after all,

but so much light wrapping itself around us.”     

Medication Experiment

I am taking medication

to relieve pain.

It is an experiment.

Does it help?

Am I better?

All I know is that

my mind is free to

feel joy:

for my best friend’s

IRS windfall,

my husband

on his way home,

our dog

not escaped,

the tea pot

boiling,

another episode of House

cued up,

my bed

waiting for me.

These are not new,

but my ability to

appreciate them is.

My pleasure is sincere.

The pain is still there.

I am not cured.

No marathons are in my future.

But there is a tiny space,

a slight cushion of awareness,

a sliver of hope that wasn’t

present before.

Like the absence of

intensity has given breathing room,

possibility of expansion,

a moment of focus on something

other than merely coping.

The pain is not gone,

but neither is my mind.

 

RJMarshall 6/2/16

Creative Project

My best friend convinced me to participate in a project combining my poems with her photographs.  I sent her this poem and she found the perfect photograph to go with it.

Lifted gently from my bed,

I dangle in your arms

safe and peaceful

riding dreams of breezy nonchalance

inside acorns of emotion.

Tiny kernels of light

speck frozen in vision’s grasp

just on the edge of horizon

the edge of reality

the edge of self.

A merging of wellness

and pain, fate and chance…

simplified seconds that

encapsulate infinity

between beats of my heart.

Each outward breath fills the universe

with life, spaces out the stars,

until the drawing in again

collapses solar systems,

visits death on the unsuspecting.

And as I lay me down you keep

my soul, my LORD,

my love in sleep.

-Rebekah J. Marshall

bitties

Photograph by Erica Smith. http://thebitties.squarespace.com/new-blog/

 

Creative Project

rose dying

Photograph by Erica Smith.  http://thebitties.squarespace.com/

My best friend convinced me to participate in a project combining my poems with her photographs.  She sent me this rose and I had to write a paragraph about it.

Aging gracefully is overrated –

probably perported

by the stoic who know no other way.

Can’t a compromise be reached

between classy and ridiculous?

Let me wear sandals in winter

and white in the fall if I

have the notion.

I’ll refrain from telling you your business

if you forgive my lapses of social etiquette.

Let me grow round and happy,

be silly in love like a school girl,

and I’ll still sip tea on Sunday afternoons

as expected.

I happen to enjoy tea

anytime

anywhere

for any reason.

But you can think it is because

I am being proper

if that makes you happy.

And we can both be content

in the end because we

lived lives full of what

we deemed valuable.

All of our loveliness will shrivel,

but the fragrance of our souls

will linger in the smiles of our

children and grandchildren

and the stories they tell of us.

I want my story memories

to be adventures

full of laughter,

not faded photographs

posed with ankles crossed,

pearls placed just so.

-Rebekah J. Marshall