Works in Progress

This will be about 3 blogs in 1, mainly because I'm copying and pasting. They are works in progress, and any edits (check the French!) or further ideas would be appreciated.
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"I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that dwelt first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, dwells in you as well." II Timothy 1:5

Grandmommy’s Hands
July 28, 2007

They are knarled now
Swollen to distortion, unable to accomplish the most personal tasks
All day and night, with pain they writhe,
unflexed and still,
lain upon a softly rising chest, swaddled by cloths wrapped by one, faithful 54 years
They appear as old roots sunk deeply and at length past the delicacy of newly tilled soil
Faithful and stable, aged and worn,
once full of ability, now testament solely to their love extended

All they have done reads like a list of an artist’s works,
left buried in a basement, unseen until the needed hour

Lavishly have they ministered in tenderness
To baby’s skin and dirty bottoms and bloody noses
Skillfully have they prepared in love by request
Chicken and noodles, scrambled eggs, and gingerbread cookies
Swiftly have they sent in memory
Stuffed care packages with all those favorite things; personal notes now tucked away in Bibles, journals, boxes—all of them; clipped cartoons and articles that have comforted over many a distance
Sweetly have they given in kindness
A caress of my face, manicure to my hands, and recipes from the family

They have worn with beauty and faithfulness engagement, wedding, and anniversary rings
They have held those same of their mate in sickness and in health
They have raised two children who arise to say, Blessed
They have shuffled cards, stacked dominoes, cleaned house, cared for the grandmothers, and rolled hair
They have lived well and served fully

I have only one, one set of memories
So there must be many more
If this is what I have known, what else is unknown?
What stories should be told to proclaim the magnificent works of a silent life?

They rest still now, admitting all that must be left undone, or left to another
They cannot protest or deny all that before was
Today they have their moment
Today another’s hold, comfort, warm
And their stillness tells the beauty of the generations
The line which continues their strength, their service, their love
We pray

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A La Gare du Nord
July 28, 2007

Your language spoken here
For the visitors
tourists
Mama’s and Papa’s
We are a city of many peoples

You are welcome here
Different shoes
hair
head wraps
Each their own
We are not strangers here
Though we live very far apart
Only passing daily with our bags

Your destination chosen here
For work
pleasure
escape
We are a city linked to many places

You are free to roam far from here
Different capitals
mountains
cities
beaches
All of some place else
But always, come back

Where would you prefer today?
Café across the street
Slide up the Eiffel Tower
Opera in Vienna
Poisson at a port
Guard change at the castle
Waffles and whited sepulchers

Your language spoken here
You are welcome here
Your destination chosen here
Your freedom found here

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How Do You Say…?
July 28, 2007

What is in a language
For wouldn’t your voice in any other be as sweet?

But my language is more than voice,
it is me and would you take that from me?
Moi-meme, she would be lost without her language
Groping for expression amidst a vacuum of metaphors

What is in a language
For wouldn’t your story in another sound the same?

But my story is living and so is my language,
Would you take my breath and leave me
Gasping for the telling?
Without my language, I have no story
It becomes non-descript and I am no longer its subject
But some other tongue

What is in a language
For wouldn’t your relationships be as good?

But my relationships exist in the space between my mind and my actions,
In that holy place where histories, hearts, and humor are shared
In that precious space where we engage according to native rituals born first out of our mouths

Do not mock my language and its power to name all that another would leave silent
Built out of that Tower which by pride was stacked and by power was felled,
it knows me and I it and we complete a unit amidst my people, diaspora
Spread to corners east and west, north and south, beyond borders and over seas,
my language recounts a way of being in the world with others, known only to us,
Us though separated by disparate cultures, by choice, by sin, by structures
Yet, if we listen, the hearing might be had
if we recall the unity our language creates

Do not take it from me
for I would be barren, unable to birth out that which might in the end speak Good.

Mais, la remplace avec une autre
laquelle exprime et vit
Peut-être un jour je trouverai un chemin à dire quel je voudrais
Aujourd’hui, je suis sans ma culture, ma personnalité, mon histoire, moi-meme
Je suis perdue sans tous que je sais
Je suis silencieuse sans tous que je dire
Je suis toute seule sans ma langue

(Translation:
But, replace it with another
which breathes and lives
Maybe one day I will find a way to say what I would
Today, I am without my culture, my personality, my story, myself
I am lost without all that I know
I am silenced without all that I speak
I am alone without my language)