Blue Ice

The Sunday Whirl: Wordle #237

piece, bucks, hike, law, match, ramp,
drone, cross, chop, bay, see, believe

Sunday’s Whirligig: Wordle #45

germs, skirts, envelope, fever, carrying, cake,
swaying, memory, suitcases, hiding, scissors, sharp

Poets United: Poetry Pantry #289


Blue Ice

Driving up the ramp to the long bridge
that crosses the mouth of the river, where
it meets the bay. See long line of snow and ice,
like white frothy frosting on ice-blue cake.

I was flower girl at their wedding, wore a soft
blue satin dress that swayed as I walked down
the aisle in matching satin slippers. We are quiet,
skirting the issue that precipitates this journey.

Each carrying individual suitcases of memory,
hiding germs of grief that cut like sharp scissors.
Although we believe (enveloped hope) in an afterlife,
reality bucks its head with unasked questions.

As we hike up to church entrance, am aware
that this piece of my past is no longer breathing.
Conquered by that final fever and the natural
law that all life ends in death.

Not anticipating drone of funeral organ, I look
up to see his sons. Each one wearing aspects
of his visage. Can finally let go of the breath
I’ve been holding and see image in my head.

An axe falls, chopping ice into smaller and smaller
chunks, allowing it to melt so that life may flow
freely once again.

Elizabeth Crawford  2/7/16

Notes: My uncle passed away and we attended his funeral on Friday. He was my favorite of the twelve we had, and husband to the woman I am named after. I was four when I stood up for their wedding. He was an integral part of my existence, both of them present at every major celebration and family gathering. I was okay once I saw his sons, now in their forties and fifties. It was like knowing, deep inside, that somehow he would still always be there.

I used all of the words and the image is a photograph taken two years ago and  enhanced digitally.

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The Call of the Other I Am

Poets United: Mid-Week Motif -Identity


The Call of the Other I Am

Do you ever catch a wisp of sound?
Not quite a whisper, but holding
the promise of one?

Or a fuzzy fragment of image? Blurred
with color and movement, and impression
that this is as important as food?

Something, someone is calling your name,
but who might it be? Trying to say “Hello”,
yet unsure if you will listen.

Does it frighten you? This sound that isn’t
a sound? Not grounded in everyday
language, or easily interpreted.

Or that blurred side glance, dancing out there
always at a slant? Does it raise goose bumps
on skin cause you know it comes

from within you?

Elizabeth Crawford  2/3/16

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Swaying In The Arms of Disappointment

Sunday’s Whirligig: Wordle #43

guilty, mossy, witness, sway, glint, praise,
woe, disappearing, fierce, hush, look, going

The Sunday Whirl: Wordle #235

fix, fight, facts, action, anchor, state,
team, heavy, end, hit, hours, risk

Poets United: Poetry Pantry #287

Scan_20160120 (2)a

Swaying In The Arms of Disappointment

The forces that affect our lives, the influences that mold
and shape us, are often like whispers in a distant room,
teasingly indistinct, apprehended only with difficulty.

Why feel guilty? She’d taken a risk,
and failed. Couldn’t fight the facts.
Certainly didn’t need a witness to her
heavy, numbing sense of woe.

For hours, she’d been drifting without
an anchor. Looking for some glint of plan
for action, only to find herself disappearing
into this mossy covered hush of indecision.

A state that would not fix, or put an end
to her fierce inner turmoil. She was alone.
Didn’t have a team of friends that might
assist in hitting on some praise-worthy resolution.

Swaying in the arms of disappointment,
she suddenly knew she was just going to
have to begin,

Elizabeth Crawford  1/24/16

Notes: The quote is by Charles Dickens and I found it on the front page of a Dean Koontz novel, titled Whispers. My site wouldn’t allow me to cite it properly.

This is simply what the words brought to mind. I did use all of them. Was tempted to change mossy to mushy, but thought that was too much of a stretch. When I decided to stay with the mossy, the image immediately came to mind. It is yet another of my new templates, done in India Ink.


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Dreams and Memory

The Sunday Whirl: Wordle #234

revenant, fluctuation, justice, drop, pilot, sigh,
shaft, claim, bustling, engage, dismiss, roar

Sunday’s Whirligig: Wordle #42

trying, shoes, logic, fumbling, stands, anger,
trembling, memory, father, knot, tight, untie

Poets United: Poetry Pantry #286

Scan_20160102 (2)4

Dreams and Memory

There are some who claim when one dreams
of their father, they are really dreaming
of a fluctuating revenant of God, trying perhaps,
to engage a fumbling awareness too easily dismissed.

Logic says that memory doesn’t always stand
in truth or justice. That it might even tremble
in a shaft of chosen forgetfulness, releasing only
a sigh of what is hoped to have been.

My Dad was my emotional pilot through childhood.
Never bustling, always moving with caution,
while dropping his quiet wisdom without a need
for roaring anger. I remember following him,

placing my shoes in prints he left in moist soil of North
Wisconsin woods, while seeking a trout stream we didn’t
always find. His memory remains a tightly woven inner knot,
a precious reality I have no desire, or need, to untie.

Elizabeth Crawford  1/17/16

Notes: I believe there are certain words that carry so much association with them, that they carry us along no matter the circumstances. One of those, for me, is the word father. Try as I might, this poem simply wouldn’t go in any other direction. Thanks Dad. I did use all of the words.

Image is one of my templates colored in India Ink and enhanced with a bit of digital background.

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A World of Difference

Sunday’s Whirligig: Wordle #41

bullet, heard, weaving, rising, bow, digital,
picking, bitten, tears, wounded, odd, greenness

The Sunday Whirl: Wordle #233

mouth, spill, possible, keep, change, head
skeletons, step, wire, gift, moon, present

Poets United: Poetry Pantry #285


A World of Difference

Wounded, she had bitten the green bullet
called change. Carefully weaving her steps,
picking a path around skeletons of past,
oddly wired to the present and possible.

Bowed head to already spilled tears, yet kept
a slivered-moon smile on her lips, a gift
she shared with rising number of digital friends.
Somewhere she had heard, that a mouth used

wisely, can make a world of difference.

Elizabeth Crawford  1/10/16

Notes: Loosely biographical. When young, I was an angry person. Never realizing that anger is a form of defense. Writing helped me find a different, better path. And the blogosphere went a long way in helping me find the individual I have become.

Image is a zentangle I colored with colored pencils and then put through the kaleidoscope app. Green is the color of growth and purple symbolizes personal power.

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A Certain Loneliness

The Sunday Whirl: Wordle #232

gasps, dial, left, angels, slap, snare,
dust, remember, loss, pause, days, cold

 Sunday’s Whirligig: Wordle  #40

twilight, grazing, ripple, loneliness, wet, munching,
tufts, falls, delicate, wrist, break, gladly

Poets United: Poetry Pantry #285

A Certain Loneliness

There is a certain loneliness that ripples
through the days of aging. A sort of twilight
zone that might snare a delicate psyche,
creating a cold slap that makes one gasp
while pausing to remember all of the losses.

But, there is a way to dial down this sort of
fall, even when grazing through these bleak
tufts of dust from the past, munching on what
best is left to the care of angels. Gladly turning
fragile wrist of time back toward the future.

Breaking its hold by recalling that past is past,
can not be changed, and all we really have is this
wet with life, present moment. Then deliberately
choosing to use it.

Elizabeth Crawford  1/3/16

Notes: Missed last week. Too much Holiday visiting and visitors and I didn’t have the energy needed to struggle with words that were fighting me tooth and nail. Was worried that it would be the same this week. But was pleasantly surprised to hear that first line walk through my mind and the rest followed slowly. I did use all of the words.

The image is an old pen and ink drawing I did several years ago and recently found in a sketchbook I had forgotten about. When I finished the drawing, I tried a bit of water color to delicately enhance it. When I found the sketchbook and the image, I put it through the kaleidoscope app and this is what happened. I love those kinds of happy accidents.

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Confession On Paper

Sunday’s Whirligig: Wordle #38

brown, friends, white, palm, born, burnt, consonants,
windows, unmarked, sins, paint, pantry

The Sunday Whirl: Wordle #230

fact, fear, sweet, vicious, scheme, flood,
lines, lure, crease, stream, spreads, extreme

Poets United: Poetry Pantry #283


Confession On Paper

From crease of palm, constant stream of consonants
and vowels floods my world with sometimes scheming
lines of poetry that often lure others to clear windows
of my pantry seeking fearless facts and sweet truths.

While, at other times, that same source paints images
of rich brown earth unmarked, beneath a spreading sunset
of inviting friendly colors like burnt ocher and muted
turquoise, deco-orange and peacock blue, or purple.

Between these two, confess sins I was born to create.
Spreading their extremes, with joyful freedom lacking
any viciousness, on clean, clear, pure white paper

Elizabeth Crawford  12/20/15

Notes: Was really struggling with the two word lists. Having attended Catholic Parochial School for seven years, the word sins has a rather strong affect on my person (the nuns went to great lengths to explain how sin leaves an ever broadening black stain on a pure white soul. I was avoiding the writing by creating a template that fascinated me because it made me immediately think of a sunset over a North Wisconsin lake, and the colors began calling to me as soon as I printed it off on paper. Eagerly dove into that process and when I finished it, went back to the word lists, and began to hear that first verse and where it would take me. Some call it “following your bliss”, while others sometimes refer to it as “guilty pleasures”. I do, on occasion, refer to my creative endeavors as my sins because there is an enormous amount of pleasure to be found when they happen with ease and seemingly little effort.

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