giving thanks

So, many of my Facebook friends took the 30-day Thanksgiving Challenge.  I thought about participating but then realized two things.  The first is I would probably forget to post every day.  (You would think I had ten kids from the state of my short-term memory these days.)  The second is, how could I limit myself to only 30 days, not to mention one thing a day?  Not to brag, but I have the most wonderful family and friends and a pretty amazing life (even though I forget sometimes).  I decided a blog post would work better.  And then I realized time and space probably would not permit the entirety of my thankfulness.  So I had to be ruthless (ruthless!) in my giving thanks and limited it to the following:

I am thankful...
...for my Grandpa and my Granddaddy for teaching me Truth
...for my Grandma and my Mimi for teaching me Faith
...for my Mom and my Dad for teaching me Love
...for Rosie, Kefi, and Jac for teaching me Friendship
...for Jobie and Gare for teaching me Courage
...for Ginny and Timmy for teaching me Perseverance
...for Elijah, Erin, and Robby for teaching me Hope
...for Aida, Sophie, Robert Gordon, Michael, and Lucy for teaching me Selflessness

And I am thankful for all of you, for putting up with my craziness and loving me anyway.
Happy Thanksgiving!

memory eternal

I don't know what I can say that hasn't already been said (and much better than I ever could) by my sister and my cousin, so I decided to post this poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.  I've used parts of this poem in a previous post, but I felt today warrented the entire piece.  The last three stanzas hit me especially hard (italics are mine).


Christmas Bells
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said,
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep;
God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!


May their memory be eternal.

ocean breezes

Ocean Breezes

by Catherine M Braun

It could be opal

or mother-of-pearl

abalone shell.

Maybe a puddle on the road,

slick with oil.

A perfect glass surface

iridescent in the waning sunset.

The hazy horizon a dusky purple

as the sun slips down

behind islands that look like mountains.

Down here in the valley that is not

I ache; I’m awed by the beauty.

I taste salt on my lips.

This, this is what I miss

when I’m surrounded by rolling green hills

and mountains that smoke,

when I taste damp with every breath –

only this –

and blue mountains, golden foothills

that fall to the sea.

The salt finds its way.

Ocean breezes flow overland

two thousand miles to roll down my face.

happy birthday, rosie

Today is my sister's birthday.  A few years ago I wrote her a poem for her birthday, and I thought I'd post it here today.  Happy Birthday, Rosie!  I love you!

For Rosie, on her 20th birthday

by Catherine M Braun

A vision of pink

with peach voice,

music to the poet.

Sweet blossom –

delicate petal –

brilliant goddess –

Rose angel.

Soothe my heart;

hear my cry above the sound

of the sunshine.

I cannot myself.

Blood not water saves.

book lovers day

Today is Book Lovers Day. In my mind, that means I should get a paid day off to wallow in pretty much my favorite thing to do – read. I love to read. I love books. I mean, REALLY love. Of the four walls in my room, only one doesn't have a bookcase on it and that's because it's taken up by the closet and the door. I have five bookcases and they are stuffed full of books, stacked two deep in some places. And this is after I sold/gave away about 8 boxes of books when I moved last. (Six years ago, when I moved from Tennessee back to California I had 18 boxes of books. Eighteen. I only lived there seven years.) It's a family trait – my Granddaddy has so many books he had them cataloged. My Grandpa regularly gives my dad books he's already read because he doesn't have room to keep them anymore. (These are the men I pretty much give credit to and/or blame for my personality.) One of my aunts even read in the shower. Now, I haven't done that but I do admit to reading while taking a soaking bath.

I can get lost in a book, block everything else out. I can't count the number of times I got in trouble because I didn't hear my name being called. I may even have read through a fire alarm. I'll read anything that interests me -- Fiction, Nonfiction, Romance, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Mystery, Biography, History, Anthropology, Science -- you name it, I've probably read it.  And if I like a book I can read it over and over again. I have books I've read at least five times. (To be fair, I also have books I've never read. Apparently just buying them fulfilled the interest. I swear I'll read them eventually. Really!) I'm in awe of people who can create a universe and keep it alive for 200, 300, 700 pages, and still have me wishing for more. I have a hard enough time doing that over three verses (which is why I'm pretty sure I'll never write a poem longer than a page).

I just love books.  There's really nothing more to say so I'll leave you with a few quotes.  Happy Book Lovers Day!

A book is a garden, an orchard, a storehouse, a party, a company by the way, a counselor, a multitude of counselors. -- Charles Baudelaire

There is no Frigate like a book to take us lands away nor any coursers like a page of prancing Poetry. -- Emily Dickinson

Beware of the person of one book. -- Thomas Aquinas

comfort and joy

(I wrote this post nine months ago, as a Note on my Facebook Profile, but I've been thinking about it lately -- especially last night when for some reason it felt like Christmas and I decided to listen to my MercyMe Christmas album.  And obviously it's been on the mind of some of my friends because when I signed into Facebook this morning I had a notification that two of them had commented on the Note yesterday.  I don't usually look for signs as to what I should do, but that's a pretty large flashing one, don't you think?)


Up until two years ago I had a hard and fast rule about when I would start to listen to Christmas music – the day after Thanksgiving.  Never earlier.  I don’t remember the reason for this rule.  Maybe it comes from working retail and having to listen to incessant and insipid renditions of Christmas carols starting in what felt like June.  Or maybe it comes from being in the school choir and needing to start learning music in September.  Or maybe I’m just contrary.  (I know which reason my family will pick.)  But all that changed on October 17, 2008.  I know this because that’s the creation date for my Pandora Christmas Radio station.  Whether or not I actually listened to Christmas music before my self-imposed date, who knows?  But I have to think I listened to some.  Otherwise why did I create it so early?

Last year, though, last year I know I started early.  Early October, to be more precise.  I’d been thinking about what I was going to put on my Christmas mixed CD and decided, why wait?  So I ordered MercyMe’s Christmas album used from Amazon on September 30, and when it showed up in the mail the next week, I started listening to it.  In October.

This year, I started today.  Sunday, October 3, 2010.  I was in the mood and wanted to listen to MercyMe’s album, so I did.  Twice.  (Did I happen to mention I was contrary?)  I hadn’t forgotten how much I love their version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”, but it hadn’t been in the forefront of my mind since last year.  But listening to it today, I was struck by the chorus: “O, tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy; O, tidings of comfort and joy”.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I sure could use “tidings of comfort and joy”.  It’s been a hard few months for my family.  Heck, it’s been a hard year: both my Grandmothers had surgery, as well as one of my Grandfathers and one of my sisters; the child we took in last year turned out to be so damaged we couldn’t fix him (a bitter pill to swallow, especially, for my parents); and, as always, the myriad little things that seem to drag you down until you’re not sure you can get back up again.

Then yesterday, yesterday we went to a memorial – a “Celebration of Life” – for a family friend who died too soon.  As at all memorials, there was some laughter, there were some tears, and the knowledge that there are two young men out there who had to grow up faster than they should have.  But thinking about the number of people who were there, all the people who were touched by this man and his life, I have to think it brought some comfort, if not joy, to his family.  To know how much he, and they, are loved.

Because we forget that, don’t we?  We forget there are people out there who love us.  Because life gets in the way, and the peace and certainty of love gets torn from us.  That’s one of the reasons I love Christmas so much – the peace and certainty get restored.  Yes, Christmas has become a very secular celebration with the moron brigade out in full force at the mall.  But for those who believe the promise of John 3:16, Christmas is a new beginning.  “A thrill of hope; the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn”.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote a poem which has since been adapted into the carol “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day”.  I probably didn’t need to write the previous six paragraphs; the last two verses say what I mean, better than I ever could:

And in despair I bowed my head
“There is no peace on Earth,” I said,
“For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on Earth, good will to men.”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor does He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on Earth, good will to men."

So I know this is a bit early, but my hope, my wish, my prayer for you is this: May the hope of Christmas be your comfort and joy throughout the year, and never forget you are loved.

inspiration

In a previous post I mentioned how sometimes the words just flow, but I thought I'd expand on that a bit more. The words usually only "flow" when I've been inspired (or when my muse decides to drop by for a bit). Luckily for you, this happened recently. :-)

I was listening to one of my favorite songs, "Show Me The River", by eastmountainsouth, and one of the lines just hit me. It's not like I'd never heard that line before. I've listened to the song multiple, MULTIPLE times. But for some reason it jumped out at me:

Got love on my mind, but death on these hands

(It wasn't really italicized in my mind. It just echoed.)

So I pulled out a piece of paper and started writing. What came out is the following poem (slightly edited and expanded upon, and formatted for your reading pleasure, although I haven't figured out a title yet).



They marched us long and hard,
for God and Country and Freedom.
But the heat of righteous conviction is hard to hold onto
when winter sets in and the men seem to drop like flies.
Every hole in my boots,
every child marching next to me,
every friend made and lost only serve to drag me down.
The more I fight the less I understand what we’re fighting for.
My heart was left behind with you
– in its place lead enough for a cannon ball.
I can no longer see the green fields or blue eyes I yearn for;
their hate has stained my hands red, my soul black.

If I make it home, I will plant my feet with the corn
and wait for the rain to wash me clean.

great poetry reading day

In honor of Great Poetry Reading Day, here's the first (and so far only) prose poem I've written. { Also, this one's for Amy, the main reason we made it from Nashville to Santa Barbara in four and a half days, even with all our stops. That girl drives even faster than me. :-) }



8 Hours in Abilene
by Catherine M Braun

We limped into town three hours older than when we started, mouths Texas dry, skin drowning. The A/C gave up the ghost 630 miles ago, while we were looking for the King in the Jungle Room. Hell would be a welcome reprieve after Arkansas without recycled air. We made do with Dallas. 13 hours out of Nashville, that first night we crashed and I hoped whatever was wrong would work itself out with a 12-hour rest.

Hope may spring eternal, but sometimes it’s smothered, stifled, soaked, and heat-stroked. That second day we thanked God for the Texaco man who knew a place we could go. The dealership had a waiting room and a shuttle. We chose the shuttle – and the mall. Things always look better after pizza and bookstore browsing (my version of retail therapy). Until they look worse. And I didn’t have that kind of money.

Back at the dealership a deal made, a compromise. Forget the A/C, but fix the oil leaks and the dodgy camshaft. Tomorrow we’ll do Carlsbad in two hours, with the shin-splints to remind us. Tomorrow we’ll have lunch with aliens, be the first visitors from Santa Barbara at the International UFO Museum and Research Center – at least this month. (And I’m no longer from Nashville.) Today we haunt two leather couches and a cow-hide rug.

I had hoped to sleep in El Paso the second night. We only made it to Pecos.

trampling down death by death

O Death, where is thy sting?
O Hell, where is thy victory?
Christ is risen, and thou art overthrown!
Christ is risen, and the demons are fallen!
Christ is risen, and the angels rejoice!
Christ is risen, and life reigns!
Christ is risen, and not one dead remains in the grave.
For Christ, being risen from the dead,
is become the first-fruits of those who have fallen asleep.
To Him be glory and dominion unto ages of ages.
Amen.

- St. John Chrysostom (from his Paschal homily)

Christ is Risen! Truly He is Risen! A blessed Pascha and joyous Bright Week to all!

magnetic poetry

Sometimes the words just flow. Sometimes I work in fits and starts. And sometimes I use a gimmick to help. One of my gimmicky techniques is to use a "magnetic poetry" kit. I like how the limited word choices make me think about what I'm trying to say.

Dream Song
by Catherine M Braun

The meager carnival of summer
has faded into fall.

In the blue prison of the sky a solitary whisper rose,
murmured still music into ecstatic symphonies.

Gardens blossomed to Paradise;
meandering streams to immense seas.


Beneath the picture moon
red petals scent purple shadows.

The night sky dances to rain rhythms and storm music.
Blood sizzles in my veins – thoughts tingle on my skin.

My voice aches to sing
the raw beauty of this moment.


I'm drunk on the taste of my dreams.

in which i explain myself

I've always wondered about those recording artists whose sophomore albums are named after themselves, and not their debuts as is the norm. Could they not find a title they liked? Did they run out of ideas? Maybe they had more artistic license the second time around and felt the album was more theirs.

Whatever the case may be, I seem to have done the same thing. My first post flew from my fingertips and shouldered its way in before I could explain what this blog's purpose is supposed to be. (It's a family trait, though. I have three brothers, of whom the oldest is the only one not named after someone in our family. The youngest has our mom's maiden name as his middle name, and the second is a junior. Although, technically, he's not. Yes, that's right, my parents forgot to put "Jr." on his birth certificate. Of course they didn't. That would make things too easy.)

So, the purpose of this blog is poetry. (You might have already figured that out.) Specifically, poems I like and poems I write. It's supposed to make me write more. We'll see how that goes.

In honor of the unseasonably warm day we had today, here's a piece about one of my favorite places in the world.

Franklin, Tennessee
by Catherine M Braun

Cicadas and porch swing creaks
serenade fireflies
as wet earth and mossy pond
perfume the air.
A slight breeze stirs,
reprieve from the still night.

This is the quiet time,
when the world winds down,
emptying the mind.
When there is nothing to do
but breathe the loamy air
you wade through
during the heat of the day.

If you stay long enough,
blood thickens,
weighing veins down
‘til they sink to the bone,
and the brick wall of humidity
you used to hit lung-first
disappears.

You think if God dropped you
into the thin air of the Rockies
you might just float away
and not touch down
‘til you reach the river Harpeth.

the present moment

I have been seeking to live in the present moment.

Well, it might be more accurate to say that I have been thinking about it. Which defeats the point, I know. But I have this problem of "living in my mind". I have a very active imagination (not vivid, mind you. Active. There is a difference) and I usually play things out in my mind. Including what I'm writing now. This is actually the third or fourth draft, although the previous drafts never made it this far.

This "living in my mind" can and does cause problems in real life. In some ways, it's a family trait. We tell each other things in our minds. It works like this: I need to tell my sister something, so when I think about what I have to tell her I imagine how I will tell her and what her reaction will be. And then, I think I have told her so she never actually gets the information. There are some important things I didn't know about until after the fact because someone told me about them in their mind.

So, "being here now" (to be trite and commercial about it) could be considered a coping technique for me. But the reason I really want to live in the present moment can best be summed up by the following passage from "Bread & Water, Wine & Oil" by Archimandrite Meletios Webber:

"We can only make decisions in the present moment. We can only enjoy sights and sounds in the present moment. We can only love or hate in the present moment. The present moment is the interface between ourselves and the rest of the universe, and, more importantly, it is the only point of contact between the individual and God. Of all the possible points of time, only the present moment is available for repentance. The past cannot be taken back and remade. The future remains forever outside our reach."

The past cannot be taken back and remade. I think living in the present moment might heal those things in my life I regret. It'll be a struggle. But I think everything worth having is worth struggling for.

What I'm struggling for can best be summed up in a poem I first heard sixteen years ago. It's by Edgar Lee Masters and is part of his "Spoon River Anthology". (I supposed "dramatic monologue" might be a better description than "poem" as I first heard it as part of the only theatrical production I was a part of in high school.)

Fiddler Jones

The earth keeps some vibration going

There in your heart, and that is you.

And if the people find you can fiddle,

Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.

What do you see, a harvest of clover?

Or a meadow to walk through to the river?

The wind’s in the corn; you rub your hands

For beeves hereafter ready for market;

Or else you hear the rustle of skirts

Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove.

To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust

Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;

They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy

Stepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.”

How could I till my forty acres

Not to speak of getting more,

With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolos

Stirred in my brain by crows and robins

And the creak of a wind-mill – only these?

And I never started to plow in my life

That some one did not stop in the road

And take me away to a dance or picnic.

I ended up with forty acres;

I ended up with a broken fiddle –

And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories.

And not a single regret.

So, on this journey I've started I'm praying for this: for no regrets, for no anxiety about the future, and to meet God in this present moment.

You're welcome to come with me.