Of All the Places….

a handwritten poem in a journal

 

of all the

places,

i remember it

best.

 

 

 

our house

on the corner –

suburban Miami

circa 1970s:

3 bedrooms.

long hallway.

“florida” room.

tall

heater

on

the

living room

wall.

a front porch

for making

mud pies.

sunday dinners

on

the

homemade table.

jumping fish.

spilled spaghetti….

slid

right

off

the

plate!

boy, was mom

mad!

nail polish

in

the

carpet.

a bunny

(and his poo!)

in.the.house.

a dog

playing

in

our

yard.

pulling weeds

every

weekend.

cleaning

the

bathroom.

my bedroom

with

corner windows.

always

rearranging

my

books.

lots of books.

writing.

lisa t

lived across

the street

and one house

over.

cute mark,

her older brother.

his lisp

made him cuter!

terriann and

her little sister

lived

across and behind.

not so cute.

indeed.

riding

our

bikes.

teaching

gran

to ride.

a dark,

rainy

night

that

brought

thieves.

lawnmower

stolen

right out

of

the

neighbor’s

shed!

a normal life

then….

a real neighborhood:

neighbors.

playing

outside

‘til dark.

friends.

a safe backyard

complete with

playhouse —

adorned with

windows and

flowers.

a mom.

a dad.

a little sister.

{before there were two}

pets.

chores.

laughing.

fighting.

celebrations.

arguments.

getting

in

trouble.

on

restriction. . . .

a

wooden

paddle!

summer

camp.

.

.

.

of all the

places,

i remember it. . . . .

best.

 

~ Robin Le Roy-Kyle

January 15, 2017

 

The Poetry We Live

magnetic words on a fridge
Daily Inspiration….

I often stand at our fridge, looking at the dozens of words, all magnetized and waiting to be noticed, moved, and meshed into a poem or story. I wait to see what jumps out at me – combinations of words that take on a life of their own. A few months ago, four words stood out – each in its own place on the fridge, but each needing to be moved closer to the others. Here’s what they said:

The

poetry

we

live.

I moved them close together. Gave them their own space. Those four words have been there every day since, each time catching my eye when I walk by… and every time, I think, “What will the art look like that gets these words?” 

Truth is – I can’t limit those four words to one piece of art. Every day something happens, and I think, The poetry we live….

Recently, a dear friend texted to tell me her Dad was just diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer. She knew our family had been through the cancer fight two short years ago and that I’d understand. I do. Sort of. I cried when I read her message. Stage 4 is devastating. She told me a few days later that they are fighting ’til the end. Fight the Good Fight, my friend. Fight the Good Fight. I thought to myself… The poetry we live.  And then I prayed.

Then last Sunday, I met up with a friend for coffee. While we chatted, I began to think, The poetry we live…. I could feel it in the words we spoke and see it in the people around us – rushing in, waiting for their coffee, checking their phones, hugging friends, and heading out into the gray Sunday weather…. It was kind of surreal, actually.

Fast-forward to today….  I was working on a piece of art for my mom. She sent me a picture of my youngest sister (grown woman with 3 kiddos) and her pig. Yes, pig! In the picture, my sister has recently returned home from shopping and flung her bags down in an adjacent chair. She leans over to pet her beloved pig. And I swear, the pig is smiling….  

You see, she (my sister, not the pig), after fighting cancer, decided to work on her Bucket List, which apparently included living on a farm/property with lots of animals, along with her husband and children. They are crazy-happy. As I neared completion of the first draft of the watercolor rendering, I thought to myself, The poetry we live….. And I smiled… 🙂

magnetic words on a fridge - the poetry we live
Daily thoughtfulness…

And so it goes – our lives are filled with poetry we write each day – those moments we live …. aware or not…. happy or not … all contributing to our story.

Have a great evening, friends… and — go live your poetry.

r.