The Writing Group

Nesting Poems

Let go

Let go and let God

Let go and let God feel

Let go and let God feel your need and heal.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

Give me peace

Give me peace, give me love

Give me peace, give me love, give me hope

Give me peace, give me love, give me hope, give me joy

Give me peace, give me love, give me hope, give me joy

Give me hope eternal

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

My heart cries out

My heart cries out for you

My heart cries out for you in your garden of flowers

My heart cries out for you in your garden of flowers among the daisies and tiger lilies

My heart cries out for you in your garden of flowers among the daisies and tiger lilies with a white butterfly

My heart cries out for you in your garden of flowers among the daisies and tiger lilies with a white butterfly letting me know you are near.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Jesus, I can’t let you wash my feet!

Jesus, I can’t let you was my feet because I have sinned.

Jesus, I can’t let you wash my feet because I have sinned but it’s OK.

Jesus, I can’t let you wash my feet because I have sinned but it’s OK, say but the word and my sins will be forgiven.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

How beautiful it is

How beautiful it is, the glorious sunset

How beautiful it is, the glorious sunset, a red crimson ball.

How beautiful it is, the glorious sunset, a red crimson ball

Falling beyond the horizon

How beautiful it is, the glorious sunset, a red crimson ball

Falling beyond the horizon like the three ball in the corner pocket.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

I love reading

I love reading when the house is quiet

I love reading when the house is quiet and not even a child’s cry heard

I love reading when the house is quiet and not even a child’s cry is heard

just the creaking of a rocker

I love reading when the house is quiet and not even a child’s cry is heard

just the creaking of a rocker and my breath going in and out

I love reading when the house is quiet and not even a child’s cry is heard

just the creaking of a rocker and my breath going in and out

like my grandmother’s bellows.

The Writing Group: Foreword

The people who contributed to this collection of pictures, poetry and prose range roughly in age from thirty to eighty. Some live or have lived in the Tedford Shelter or in their cars or in tents in the woods; some live in subsidized housing. Some are unemployed; some live on disability checks; some have part time or seasonal jobs; others are retired.

What we all have in common is The Gathering Place at 5 Tenney Way, Brunswick, which is open Monday through Friday from 9:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. for coffee, snacks, companionship, cards, puzzles and on Thursday afternoons for writing.

Over the past four years, I’ve hosted anywhere from one to a dozen writers who have shared stories, laughed (a lot), and cried (a little). I usually throw out a general topic—the first, as I recall, was “Scars,” and the latest, as I write this, was “Doors I have Walked Through--- although people can (and do) write about anything that is on their minds. Some of the topics I’ve given will be self-evident as you read; other topics won’t matter: what’s important is the response. Some of the pieces have been edited from grammar and spelling, but we’ve tried to maintain the original voice and content.

When we first began writing four years ago, some people thought we were having an English class, so they moved as far away from our table as they could; when we began sharing what we’d written, however, they can back, at first to listen, and then over the next few weeks, to join us.

Why? For many of us, writing is a way to make sense of the world, especially when our minds are looping around a particular problem. What I’ve also learned is that all of us need to be heard—listened to, respected—especially if we’ve fallen on hard times and feel that no one care anymore.

What else have I learned over the past four years? Probably the most important thing is that despite common stereotypes, homelessness and poverty have many faces, many voices and that both homelessness and poverty go far beyond not having a physical place to live or a specific job to get to. “Homeless” might mean losing a job that has given you an identity for twenty years, losing a spouse, a child or a friend, losing your health. “Poverty” may mean any number of spiritual or emotional deprivations.

Someone once said that going into The Gathering Place, he couldn’t tell who was a volunteer and who was a client. Four years of writing and listening to stories have shown me that’s because there really isn’t that much of a difference between any of us.

--Rick Wile
Writing Group
The Gathering Place