Fathers

 Father.

Laborland, the impending.

You whisper strong statements until I realize it is You speaking.

A list of things you sent me:

2 dreams

people

books

recordings

Miryam Brown

Rach Izu

Sarah Verhoef

Angels

temple trips

my son

visions

D&C 6

a journal

so many words of scripture (a gift. fear not. remember. can there be a witness greater than this? hold your peace...)

Bread

meals

small pieces of paper to put on the wall

a witness.

"whatever experience you'd like me to have..."

"a showing forth of my power." 

    -- my Almighty God

"A sacred, gentle home birth," I wrote. "To welcome him to earth."

(Father. Thank you. Father.)

mothers

 You are handing me a baby.

"Take it" you say. "He's beautiful. He's ours."

I am on hands and knees, tub water still clear, 

Kaleb squeezes on my hips and I think of this boy you're handing me -- 

I am surrounded by angels, and I know it. 

Them. I know them.

But you -- You are holding him and I am crying out

and he is passing through fire, and water, and his head will tumble out soon but now he is in the in-between

I am in the in-between

But you -- somehow, you are not.

You are clear, you are loving, you are solid, and sure. Somehow, you are unseen and unknown and yet gently you reach out your heart to me, hands outstretched with a boy.

Unseen, unheard, understood that we could not be motherless after all. 

My knees press bruises into the floor,

the baby gives me a rest for 20 seconds --

just long enough to feel that I am ready --

"I can do this"

"I am surrounded by angels"

"I love my baby"

Kaleb at my back, Sarah near the tub, in our home we are about to burst the veil, 

and I push through it --

His head, you are placing it in my hands

his shoulders, they tumble,

and I am reaching through the water bringing him up to my heart.

Mother I never saw your hands -- though I am sure he felt them--

and, "oh, he's beautiful." He's ours. 

solitary tea

my words haven't died they've just been tossed out with the dirty diapers

Mixed on low for 3-5,

Slid into the oven,

My words, my thinking

High schoolCollege

Now headaches

And a laughing boy named bliss

And my poetry 

left behind 

years ago. 

I realized it's been 10 years since Nelson's writer's Paris. 10 years of this blog!

Hey, wait up--

I used to like the fire poetry made me feel. 

the list (where I described how I want my life to be) felt like you. 

I wanted 'me the poet' to be my eyes, my brain.

I loved to feel real 

in the way I do with a pencil and notebook.

poetry, could we hang out on my kitchen floor, even if we're exhausted, like we hung out eating lunch in school hallways, backs against lockers.

we hung out in my son's hospital, we had to.

will we hang out through deployments and meet again over solitary tea, just me in the evenings, just me and you, and will it feel real and fiery and 

like I have new glasses?

Sharper, vivid. will i see blurry things clearly, see clear things that'd gone unnoticed,

and notice the details of this peace lily and my marriage, and the arch of my life 

in a way we both want?

give the words life, give me... ?

Poetry is not what I want to fill me up. 

I'm hungry for presence, for rich life,

not just the beautiful words describing one

But they do change my present, those beautiful words,

and they're delicious when shared.

I guess I want substance intwined with art

?

ago

The thoughts that I am thinking are worth thinking, likes trees

They grow into giants 

I pick rubber leaves from them

And mix them into soup

Creamy sunsets bright summer morning soccer game kids laughing 

Stir them together into a feast and

Breathe in, deeply, 

Heart-soup,

Feeds the good thing and the good life 

And I

I wonder if God is looking down at me right now

Lifting up my chin to see his eyes

Milky

Clear

Depth

Eyes that hold me in his palm 

And give me forehead kisses

And I close

My doors

And bleed into new colors

Ocean calm 

resting depth

And. 

Peace. 

----- 

The things we won’t say:

As we discuss with these other missionaries, 

I am thoroughly convinced of my own church.

Air Force wives

we are tough we are really tough women

we are somewhat idealistic, we 

have our husbands, we are new to the Air Force, they are with us in holding flight and at least 

some 

minutes 

most 

days.

Disillusionment stands up, walks toward me to shake my hand. 

I don't take his hand yet, but I know it is there, an option,

a firm, very firm, I think, handshake.

husband gone, gone, gone

all the time alone, alone, with myself and my thoughts, with my kids, not alone

but not with him

so, enter Disillusion

not today, but I see you down the road, you will bring your hand back and I may shake it then

I don't want to, but I'm sure I will know you in moments, at least.

Disillusion, some of us fall into you and lose ourselves. Where do they go, when they lose their dream?

"I want to be with you all the time

all day, spend time with you,"

“I want to spend at least some time with you, some days,”

dad worked from home

but you will be gone, gone, gone

and I will be alone, 

and.

Hospital, a series: Poetry

You can't kiss poetry

you can't rock poetry to sleep

Give me my son

Hospital, a series: Why

to 

be a punk teenager

learn how to walk

start talking and say mama

teach you to read

hold your kids

to 

be your mama when you're angry and angsty

cheer on your soccer games 

hug me when you're home from school

make me and dad laugh

be a big brother, meet your siblings

draw with sidewalk chalk and jump on the tramp, play with the neighbor kids and have a crush on one of them,

feel sunshine warming your skin, go to lake Powell, surf the ocean with your dad, taste fresh coconut milk, have a Christmas, read a good book, travel the world with grandpa, serve a mission, 

let me take care of you while your throat's all sore from these tubes --

There's so much, buddy. So many reasons why.