Snowed In: Maureen Doallas

This heavy snow-carpet covers our world, swathing us in white and giving permission to shelter-in.

Winter music feeds hungry places and I sit here, soaking in quiet as snow absorbs the roar of seasonal noise. It cushions, insulates and becomes a falling poem.

The heart turns inside and the sehnsucht awakens. Beauty does this…stirs hunger…awakens the need for more.

So I fly. Through cable portal, through air and time. And, seeking beauty, I land here.

It is the home of Maureen Doallas’s blog, Writing Without Paper.

I often visit here when looking to go beyond myself. She never disappoints. This art-loving, entrepreneurial poet has known success and loss, joy and grief. She shares these experiences eloquently–always giving the right words.

And they are a gift, received with gratitude.

Glynn’s post here tells more about Maureen. It’s an interesting read. She’s had quite the life-journey– and, as she puts it: I’m not done yet.

When she told me a bit about herself, Maureen said, “Words matter a great deal to me.”

It shows in her work. Her poetry is arresting.

“I had not written much poetry for many years,” she says, “as I noted in a post a short while ago. I returned to writing poetry when my brother became ill with cancer. The poetry was my most effective way of understanding what my brother, my family, and I were experiencing while my brother was ill and at the time of his death this past May and thereafter…”

Maureen goes on to say, “I think one can ‘get’ me best by sampling my writing, especially my poetry…

I agree. I’d like to feature a couple of her pieces here, just to give you a taste, but a visit to her blog will satisfy your need for beauty.

Friends, Maureen Doallas:

This Thing Called Grief
(this is not the entire poem, just a sample)
Grief’s a shiv
in the heart, held
like free verse
rocking in the mouth
as a mother her babe
rocks lullingly
forth and back
meaning to repeat
the patterned
picking up and putting down
of solid markers
drawn like the longest
lines in the palms
of the hands
twinned to
close up to open out
till life and death
fold in
along skin-cracks
in the core that
once more
begins to heal
with the air you take in
Thanks Given
We were nine.
We were eight.
We are seven.
We were together.
We are apart.
We were mother and father,
five daughters,
two sons:
Together. One.
In Virginia and Florida,
New York and Tennessee,
in Georgia
We were a family.
We are a family
come together
with spirit,
with ghost
Eyes looking down,
looking up,
looking out
To a hillside in Arlington,
to a headstone in Venice:
Two to make
seven into nine.
Lips pressing thank yous
on shadows of air
breathed in breathed out
To save
for blessings
round tables
As one.
Copyright © 2009 Maureen E. Doallas. All Rights Reserved.
This post is part of the High Calling Blogs 12 Days of Community Posts:

Christmas Badge

Related posts:

Day one: A Gift Community
Day two: Glynn Young
Day three: Leslie Leyland Fields
Day four: Christmas Change
Day five: Mother Waiting
Day six:  Meet Monica
Day seven: Poetry Lady


  1. says

    I’ve just found that you’ve written about me, Laura. And as I did with Glynn’s post, I felt that lump go up, instantly, in my throat.

    Seeing my poems on another’s site always gives me pause. Reading others’ words about the feeling one of my poems invokes leaves me filled with gratitude. As L.L. says, it all begins with one reader. I’ve found so many to read and now to come here and see that other read me, well, that’s filling.

    Your words are a gift today. I’ll hold your gift close.

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