A Quilt For Dietrich Bonhoeffer

for at Easter, the world turned.

  (Or I believe it did.)

  At Easter, spring has arrived,

  or is knocking on the door,

  even in Britain.

  In California, spring’s been around

  since the beginning of the year,

  but in Yorkshire,

  spring was more elusive.

  I changed tremendously

  while we lived in Great Britain,

  but deeper changes have occurred since we came back to America.

  Well, all but my hair, thank you Jesus.

  I can tap dance around the most significant bits

  but to be honest,

  and I prefer honesty,

  I change every single day.

  Only when I think about it,

  or am confronted with it,

  do I feel the weight

  of who I am now

  compared to who I used to be.

  In 2014 I write and quilt;

  I didn’t do those things in 2004.

  But those are tips of an iceberg

  more massive than what sank the Titanic.

  Funny to consider all this

  just from one photograph

  while hiding out from my baseball team

  that did manage to score one run.

  A Plethora of Meanings

  Many hours were driven

  just to be with my beloveds

  for probably less than the time spent on the road.

  But I’d do it again,

  and relatively soon,

  for another chance with those I love best;

  children and parents,

  siblings and their wee ones.

  It doesn’t seem fair

  we only get one day

  yet, Easter is a funny holiday

  celebrating one of the greatest

  unbalanced moments

  of human history.

  Now it’s late,

  I’m tired,

  but I’m also grateful

  for more than these paltry words can express.

  Hugs big and small

  compensate for a miracle from over two thousand years

  which manifests itself

  in each of those embraces.

  Each time one of my family smiles

  is a reflection of the greater good.

  What a blessing indeed.

  Nine Days of April Remain

  Sometimes coming up with a poem a day

  is tough.

  Poetry doesn’t just fall off trees,

  you know.

  A Quilt for Dietrich Bonhoeffer

  I decided not to keep this quilt;

  it’s gone through a couple of names,

  The Quilt on the Wall,

  The Fat Quarters Quilt.

  It’s eventually going to be call Mi Hijos Quilt,

  my children in Spanish,

  or just Mijos for short.

  My daughter, her husband, and their basset Buttercup

  will be the recipients

  this weekend,

  but it’s a surprise…

  However, in my heart,

  this will always be for Dietrich Bonhoeffer.

  Maria von Wedemeyer-Weller too,

  for if Dietrich had lived,

  they would have wed,

  and this quilt would be for them both.

  Every day for most of this month

  I’ve been reading from his Letters & Papers From Prison book,

  then I’d go back to piecing,

  then layering,

  then quilting.

  Mostly piecing, as the rest came about fairly recently.

  But with every stitch sewn,

  this quilt left the twenty-first century,

  traveling back to 1943, 1944.

  That’s as far as I’ve gotten,

  January 1944, nearly Bonhoeffer’s birthday.

  His best friend Eberhard Bethge is in Italy somewhere,

  serving with the German Army,

  while Bonhoeffer whiles away time in Tegel Prison,

  awaiting his trial,

  which of course never occurred in a correct manner.

  I can’t begin to describe

  what it has been like learning the German perspective

  of WWII, both from Bonhoeffer’s prison cell

  and his large family’s tribulations,

  what with their son, and a son-in-law, incarcerated,

  plus the bombings.

  I never expected that, but then, what did I imagine

  when I began reading it, for Lent originally.

  Easter has come and gone, and Bonhoeffer just spent Christmas

  separated from those he loves, and Bethge is one of his most loved.

  They were best friends,

  which Dietrich expounds upon in a smuggled letter,

  how friendship slips from the radar

  compared to the most blessed relationships.

  Just another issue for me to ponder,

  sewn into the patches of a very colourful quilt.

  Within this quilt, my children certainly will never recognize the lives of

  Dietrich and Maria,

  Eberhard and Renate,

  Bonhoeffer’s parents,

  and countless other relatives.

  My clan will snuggle under this quilt

  for a day or so after they get it,

  then temperatures are going to rise,

  rendering it somewhat unnecessary.

  Yet within that comforter

  lies many truths;

  freedom

  love

  faith

  helplessness

  friendship.

  I wonder if they will sense any of that?

  Buttercup might;

  she is a hound after all.

  But I will never forget it

  when I visit their house,

  perhaps cuddling with a grandchild someday,

  or commiserating with my daughter over a sorrow.

  All that Bonhoeffer and his beloveds endured

  will strengthen that blanket

  so that over the years

  it will provide special consolation

  and tender love

  to all surrounded by it.

  And in the back of my head,

  while other names swirl,

  one will remain as the main title for this project.

  For Dietrich, and Maria,

  and those who loved them.

  This Is All I Have, This Is All I Need

  Been listening to ‘90s singles all afternoon

  while placing another quilt on the wall.

  This has been my life for the last several weeks,

  quilts and tunes we listened to during the last years of the 1990s

  in Great Britain.

  That all seems so far away from what I’ve been reading

  at lunchtime,

  set in the mid-1940s.

  But that’s not far from a photo of my family;

  both of the young women are still living.

  My father wasn’t yet born,

  but was percolating within my grandmother.

  And all of this brings to mind

  how little it takes to survive,

  to be happy.

  Music, fabric, memories.

  Photographs from long ago

  set against words from that same time

  in a country far away

  awash in war.

  I require nothing more

  than squares of fabric,

  tunes,

  and food for thought.

  This is all I have,

  this is all I need.

  The Daughter of a King

  I’ll be turning 48 soon;

  we’re having a party,

  all sorts of celebrations.

  Around here,

  birthday festivities begin about

  two weeks before the

  big day.


  My husband goes around humming

  “Happy Birthday To You”

  not to tease

  but to commemorate.

  It’s rather lovely,

  as if the whole month

  is all about me.

  Today I’m starting a new quilt,

  listening to Simon and Garfunkel as I sew.

  I’m indulging myself,

  and doing laundry

  (there’s always laundry),

  pondering impending visitors,

  groceries to purchase,

  but no cake, thanks.

  As I sang while I sewed

  (or maybe it was the other way around)

  I was caught up

  in the blissful nature

  of feeling…

  …special.

  Which isn’t a crime,

  even at nearly 48.

  It’s noting that

  life is good

  and soon enough

  I’ll get to see

  many of my most loved.

  As I laid out more squares of fabric

  to be artfully arranged, or at least in a semblance of art,

  I considered how to God

  every day every person is celebrating a birthday.

  Not in the newborn sense,

  but in that He loves us

  enormously

  even more than my humming husband

  loves me.

  To God, each

  morning, afternoon, and evening

  should be feted

  with as much enthusiasm

  as I feel for the upcoming

  big day.

  I don’t know how that’s possible,

  but I do know that it is.

  And more,

  I am suddenly gifted,

  a few days early,

  with a tremendously liberating concept –

  each day I am so beloved

  as if newly born,

  or turning 13, 16, 21,

  30 even.

  (Actually 30 was okay. 29 was the pits.)

  Every moment

  with every breath taken,

  each word scribbled

  (then typed out onto the internet)

  means something magnificent

  to God

  in relation to our lives

  in this corporeal realm.

  I’d never thought of it like that before.

  Now I feel like not only am I turning 48,

  but my life is restarting.

  Yes, a few changes,

  like the quilting madness

  and a recently realized aversion to dairy,

  but this second part of my life

  can’t be like the first.

  Lactose intolerance and sewing

  will mesh with writing

  and laundry, of course,

  as I skip about

  reveling in being the daughter of a King.

  I really am, you know.

  What does a yearly birthday celebration

  have on being the daughter of a king?

  I can’t wait to find out!

  Rain and Hail and a Chat with My Daughter

  Crazy rain,

  crazier hail.

  Relatively sane conversation with my twenty-one-year-old

  on our way home today.

  Rain rain rain

  as if it had never rained before in its whole rainy life.

  But very little drama of old with my youngest child;

  she’s not the little girl of the ancient past

  or the teenager of recently.

  She’s the age I was when I met her father,

  although it wasn’t raining on that day.

  She’s the age… Goodness, that makes me sound old!

  (Well, you are nearly 48 sweetheart…)

  She’s the age people are

  when they are a few years past high school

  but not in their mid-twenties.

  She’s at an age

  where rain and hail

  are something to run from the car into the house

  whereas I am at the age that I walked briskly from the car

  into the house

  and was glad not to fall on my keister.

  Rain and hail

  and a chat with my daughter;

  I won’t forget this day

  anytime soon.

  The Smallest Gifts

  See blessed moments

  through a camera phone lens,

  as if your eye

  was transplanted into a device

  that lasts until the lights go out.

  Bases loaded,

  hits dribbled in;

  runs add

  to a total that expresses

  more than just a win.

  One magical moment

  from old magazines

  to conversations overheard

  and I wonder if this day will ever end.

  No, I don’t think it will.

  Patches and Stashes

  I won’t say I’m a fabric junkie;

  I am a colour junkie, oh my goodness yes.

  I like bright hues,

  seventies style, according to my eldest.

  I also like batiks; the stack is from that young woman

  who introduced me into the world of quilting.

  Now she wants me to acquire a stash of cottons

  that would rival the stacks of records and CDs

  in this small room.

  It’s not a big room

  but it feels bursting to the seams.

  The WIP is a queen/king comforter

  for summer,

  hence the vibrant shades

  and that’s only seen from the back.

  The fabrics neatly folded

  and awaiting a home

  (much like a boll weevil)

  are for… Now, you tell me what am I supposed to make with those?

  I don’t say that with a snarl,

  only the rolling eyes of a mother

  rightly surprised by the varied fat quarters,

  also greatly pleased.

  And wondering where in the world they are going to go,

  not project-wise,

  but in this rather small-ish room

  that houses music and my computer and an ironing board

  amid other possessions.

  It’s also home to a laundry basket,

  Dandelion Library Books,

  and a closet that is stuffed to the gills.

  I don’t want to become a hoarder

  as well as a quilter,

  but if my daughter has her way…

  I just wanna sew some quilts

  (I just wanna go to the beach).

  I just want to share a little love

  in the guise of a lap-sized

  (or larger)

  blanket that I myself fashioned.

  But I won’t deny the joy

  of opening that little paper bag

  filled with rolled fat quarters

  of varying colours and types

  as if I was stepping into another’s life,

  handing them my love

  which they could wrap around themselves

  and I’d be with them forever.

  Is it like kids who leave things behind

  so they have a reason to come home,

  or those who leave texts and voicemail messages

  just to be heard?

  I don’t know.

  All I know is those fabrics are aching for me to figure out what to do with them.

  They’re screaming,

  “You’re making an e-nor-mo summer blanket,

  don’t forget about us!”

  And while I write this poem,

  I wonder when

  and how

  and for whom

  that quilt will be

  made and

  what it will look like.

  Well, regardless of the pattern

  or size,


  I do realize one thing;

  it’s all about love baby.

  All about love.

  Just Sew Baby

  I’m building a garden,

  acres of wildflowers

  amid a fabric horizon

  awash with a soft, cottony feel.

  I’m writing this poem as I sew,

  pinning as I go,

  dancing to U2

  as flowers stir around my heels.

  Lilacs and roses

  attract hummingbirds

  while posies of bright blue-backed

  bouquets spring like

  lollipops.

  Guitars ring along as the words flow

  while the flowers grow,

  row by row of 8 ½” squares

  turning into blocks whipping as they are whisked from

  the sewing grotto into the living room

  while the music spins the wind

  whipping petals

  like the pins removed

  so the needle doesn’t sew over them.

  I’ve a garden within my house,

  soon enough spilling out onto the bed

  where fragrant blossoms

  will perfume the room

  as my memories trip along

  the keyboard

  as easily as guiding the fabric over the feed dogs.

  And one day this field will grow for others

  as they snuggle under bedding

  wondering where and when and how

  so many flowers came together via threads and batting.

  Another story for another day,

  I’ll say, as we turn pages of another book

  wrapping the scented love field all around us.

  Gone But Not Forgotten

  You might wonder what a writer does with books that don’t have a home.

  I’m not talking about unsold paperbacks,

  but those rough drafts that linger in various cyber realms.

  Actually, mine live in playlists

  made for each novel.

  Which sounds a little…

  Strange, but it was how I rolled.

  Or rocked,

  or wrote.

  One of the three, but as the songs waft in the sewing grotto,

  I’m reminded of something else I used to do.

  I haven’t been long at this sewing gig;

  quilting is fairly new on the scene.

  Prior to drowning in cottons and thread

  I was neck-deep in plots,

  novels mostly,

  many novels.

  And with those novels came music,

  many playlists,

  heaps of tunes.

  Over the last day,

  while basting and tying the summer comforter,

  I’ve been awash in projects from the past

  all in the music pouring through small speakers

  in what used to be my writing room.

  Funny how one small space

  can house many lives,

  mine and those I created.

  Right now it’s Leish, Casey, and Greg,

  from a novel about twenty-something’s

  facing mortality

  and love

  with copious amounts of boysenberry yogurt.

  The book is called

  Some Happy Endings,

  the playlist filed under

  Completed Drafts