From Desiny to About My Memoir

By Laura Stamps

DESTINY

The third month
in a summer of rain-
another cool cartwheel
of gray mornings, wooly
and fog-flecked, as my
youngest cat jumps
on the blanket,
eager to bat the tiny
balls I roll from tissues
and toss in the air,
happy to perform
his pillow-dance.
There is a thorny knot
that lances the walls
of my soul whenever
I am not true to myself,
that lodges like a rock
deep in the silvered
water of a creek
when I am not dancing
to the work I was
created to perform.
Listening to the rain
as it tickles the forest
at night and into
the tea-stained morning,
I can almost hear
the sky breathe,
every breath drawing
me closer to sunrise,
a kind of rhythmic
sigh fashioned
from the rain's steady
tapping and the pulse
of crickets and frogs
beating against
the darkness, while
I tweak the dance
I must perform each
day to the glorious
tune of truth.

PAX

Almost dawn,
and the humid breath
of another June day unravels
the coast, creeping past
Savannah and Charleston,
across the Pee Dee,
and up to the midlands,
where my gardenia sizzles,
petalled with starlight,
its sugar-white fragrance
folding the crisp corners
of a new morning.
Meanwhile, two doves
shuffle grass seed
in the yard, encouraging
three cats tail-slapping
the bedroom window.
Saturday, eight o'clock,
the sun simmers
in the eastern sky, and
peace wraps its pink
satin sheet around us all.
Like the graceful weave
of the willow, mistakes
never thread the twists
and turns of the spiritual path.
Everything happens
for a reason, revealing
hidden opportunities
clinging to gravel
as if clumps of lavender
clover-merely divine
appointments to bless
those we stumble over.
Another day with no
regrets, doves tuning
their water flutes, seeding
the grass and its crinkle-
dance with canticles
of peace.

(first appeared in Feminist Journal)

FIRST WEEK OF SUMMER

It was Thursday, early
evening, when driving after
dinner we saw the tender
melon of a turtle balanced
on the curb, its emerald paws
eager to swim the merciless
asphalt of Harbison Boulevard.
We stopped in a parking lot,
climbed the hill, and rushed
along a finger of freshly
mown grass, while speeding
cars ruffled our clothes.
The turtle, large and lively,
paused for a moment,
puzzled by the grinding
monkey-chatter of traffic,
and allowed my husband
to redirect its mossy steps
back to the pinewoods
and the dark arms of a pond.
This I must say: no longer
are there hard places
pock-marking my soul,
no stones clenched like little
fists, no glazed shell
I cling to for protection.
Somehow I have become
a ball of yarn unwound, soft,
pliable, prone to smiling.
Somehow I have managed
to keep the light before
my eyes, as startled and moon-
wide as those of a wild
rabbit motionless in my garden
tonight-the turtle safe
in the bedroll of the forest,
two robins whistling
in crabgrass, as my soul
continues to mellow,
its glittered wings forever
enfolding the shining
heart of the divine.

(first appeared in Feminist Journal)

GLORIOUS

Daybreak patches
the sky as it scatters
wafers of sun through
the garden and grass,
these white bandages
icing the house, spinning
it into a palace of light.
Last day of June,
and a single gladiola
sips water from a bud
vase, a fuchsia anniversary
of twenty-four petals
with the promise
of twenty-four more
igniting the living room.
Let this be a day
when only good words
drift from my tongue
like the sequined feathers
of the oversoul or the pink
geranium's warm wink.
Let these be words
that bless and uphold
the spirit, knitting
a vision of goodness
flickering within.
This is my wish
for the hours etching
the fanfolds of this
day, luminous, silver-
lipped and glorious.

(first appeared in Feminist Journal)

DRAGONFLY DAYS

A dry front cools
the state, sweeping
away a month
of haze, and I marvel
at the rarity of a clear
summer day mirroring
the crisp edges of each
leaf, while the sky
swirls in layers of
turquoise, as if it were
the Mediterranean sea.
July is the month
for dragonflies,
when frisky flocks
surf the sizzling
currents of the garden,
their tiffany wings
reflecting the sun's
glass as if spinning
an enchanted illusion.
It is comforting
to know the divine
makes a home in me;
this is the place
where all illusions
cease-God in me,
one and at peace.
Like dragonfly
wings or a cloud's
midsummer sheen
or the fuchsia
wheel of a gerbera
daisy, these are
the gossamer petals
through which I see
the amazing grace
of the heavenlies.

(first appeared in Fullosia Press)

MONDAY

Last week of August,
and suddenly, shrill
whistles shatter
ebony veils of night
rain-daybreak,
and the cat's ears
whirl in anticipation.
Every morning I ask
for extra measures
of divine love,
the kind that drops
from heaven as if
on a crow's glossy
back, saturating
the cells in my body
like the satin breath
of summer rain.
The kind of love that
whispers to the river
flowing from my
heart, happy to feed
any fractured soul
feathering my path.
And like a dragonfly
offering its Byzantine
wings in faith each
day to the sun,
my silent prayer
is always answered
in glistening scatter-
waves of kindness
and compassion.

(first appeared in Fullosia Press)

HOMEPLACE

When I look deeply
into the fuchsia pinwheel
of this gerbera daisy
I see the ivory cloud
that it used to be
before it darkened with rain
and slipped to the earth,
embracing a simple husk
ordained to uncurl
as a seedling lifting
its pale arms to behold
the blue litany of a summer sky
and clouds jeweled
with the dust of angels:
those great ivory boats
that one day
will carry us home.

(first appeared in Smile)

THESE DAYS

At seven-thirty the sun
wrestles through violet clouds
and slaps the windows
with its fiery tail, hushing
the cats and their scatter-dance,
leading them as if in a trance
to the top of the stairs
where it opens its white coat
and ushers them in.
I walk through this day bedazzled,
startled by the concept
of life as a spiritual practice:
the sacred act of stepping back,
allowing stressful words
and situations tossed my way
to travel through me,
no tattered residue left
behind, this miracle
of heavenly transcendence.
My ministry is simple-
to seek the love and peace
lining the hidden pocket
of the present moment.
And the walls of resistance
in my body continue
to crumble, as my soul
slowly uncoils like a cat
pulling itself from a sunny nap-
these days spent in the lap
of sweet surrender.

(first appeared in Juice Magazine)

ABOUT MY MEMOIR

In a time of butterflies
and bluebirds, when the moon sifts
the dark sands of the night,
and the sun simmers
in the sky's hot hand, I dream
of cool sheets, the soft sigh
of a black kitten warm in my arms,
and time to listen
for the wisdom hiding beneath
the blue waters of silence.
There is so much to unlearn
in this world, a daily practice
as daring as the desire
to untangle the milky lace
of a meadow parsnip.
The greatest gift I give
to myself is to live each day
as if I have no past-
that musty book of names
and dates begging to be buried,
a burden I no longer carry.
This morning, in the darkness
before dawn, a rowdy congregation
of Canada geese honked
across the house, turning
every furry head in the room.
Let it be said that I lived my life
in the moment with no regrets,
light as the wind-flutter
of a butterfly or a bluebird,
my wings cluttered
with nothing but love
and the golden shimmer-
dust of the sun.

(first appeared in Fullosia Press)

Copyright 2004 By Laura Stamps