Posted in Art, Photography, Poetry, prose

The Path (a pilgrim’s meditation)

Posted on by Jeanne
Brooklyn Art Library submission (not complete)

Art has a way of confusing me. My mind never relaxes as I struggle to make meaning. And to make matters worse, the formation of ideas triggers my perfection.

Most of my work on my blogs is far less about perfect poetry or admirable photographs or attracting followers, then it is about releasing unspoken and buried pain and loss. Of making meaning while never knowing why.

The glitter of diamonds is rarely found without first removing the heartache and wiping the tears. —me

I am struggling at the moment. Life has become one long movie cut that keeps getting axed. Nothing feels right. There is no long term goal forming and my energy to pursue an advanced degree is waning. I look at my blogs with a desire to simplify. The blogs are as messy as my life. And still I pursue collecting and creating and coagulating the runny substances that create sticky problems.

Looking at it from a distant, maybe my artist fingerprint mirrors the uneasiness of my stumbling in the dark. I am not a prepared scout on this journey. I am a scrap-carrying, scribbler-eating, thought-crunching gypsy who is more comfortable exploring than settling into a home.

I carry my home in my heart. Even a cracked shell has some ability to keep dreams from fraying into oblivion. I may still arrive at my destination. The long and winding version of finding myself.

Posted in Photography, Poetry

Imminent

Posted on by Jeanne
You tell me this is it.
There is no turning back.

The winding down of summer puts me in a heavy philosophical mood. —Robert Fulghum

One person cannot save the world, much less lift their hands to praise the day’s cycle. The shape of time has dipped into an abyss. I drown in heavy-laden words while the complaints of many clog my veins.

At the moment, my heart isn’t enamored by art or creating worlds with color paper. I overwhelm myself with listening and feeling what doesn’t belong to me. One cannot sleep when so much threatens the thoughts. So, like the sun, I give way to the bleak. Dip my brush in ink. Splash my body invisible and spread darkness.

Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry

Seeing with Passion

Posted on by Jeanne

Evening sparks light

My desire is every person understood we are ever evolving in our understanding of ourselves. Realize we get trapped in sick thoughts to dwell on our failures and shortcomings. Feel ill-equipped to deal with those who harm us. Desire everything that is wrong in order to numb our pain.

But time waits for no one. While moons rise and suns set, you will realize the warmth of forgiveness. Live for that day.

I believe in love and ultimate truth. What remains relative is desire. Desire does not search for or find truth, but rather forcibly bends light, to pompously plop itself down on a pedestal, and demand its way. This is neither love or wisdom.

Posted in Photography, Poetry

Broken Voices

Posted on by Jeanne
My glasses are kaleidoscope lenses.

I’m not sure how this happens. This felt hurt in soaked land. Or why I share the shards. Pieces not able to fit together. How far I fell before I flapped wings, sewed as rainbow parachutes.

Sometimes. —-I dont play fair. I play true. You asked me not to care. I played true then too. Quieted my heart until i barely breathed. Felt unsure why my soul still sang. Then dared the impossible. And you ran faster than the wind could carry me.

Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry, prose

The road arrived.

Posted on by Jeanne
Life is lived on levels and arrived at in stages. —Edwin Louis Cole

Good morning. As the turning of days and as the grass sprouted from winter slumber, I found myself at a point where I realize I can tarry no longer. I must be courageous and serious. I must be willing and full of hope. I must grasp every word that spills from my heart and wring them dry, until I no longer see the darkness inside. What then should I do when the light allows too much room for curiosity? The despair I roam within ebbs and throws me into oblivion. I must be willing to try and write what I set out to create. Even if I fail. I must no longer tarry as if my days are endless. Grey is as good of a place as any to either brighten the world with hope or darken it with tragedy. I hope my efforts will lift us to hear the galloping of freedom drawing ever near. That heaven’s promises of long ago will not cease to keep heads from drowning under the growing storm. I sense the road has arrived. I cannot deny my calling any longer. I cannot be a child of milk and cookies. I must be willing to learn and sift knowledge. To discern the day’s signs and the evenings quandaries. To be, is my last attempt at fulfilling my heart’s rhythm. The beating lasts but a few days more. I am ready to accept my fate. Let it be so. 

If we fail
fail to see the wind
coming at the break neck speed
of a metal horse
on tracks,

If we fail
fail in our comfort
food, shelter and clothing
scraped together with goodwill
given as scraps to wild dogs,

If we fail
fail as foreign spies
on fellow citizens
drumming up grievances and rounding up heads
rolling in wooden bowls
we ravish our own hands.



We fail.
We won’t change history any more than armies before us.
We drip in mother’s blood
and scour our bodies of father’s filth.
We bury bones in rags
doused with our enemies vapors. And cheer.
Cheer our own demise as we beg for freedom from our own ills.
Posted in Poetry

Abandoned Voices

Posted on by Jeanne

The emptiness was swallowed. In the end, nothing was left except tired. She took to the pillows with ease. Found her pulse where needle injections hurled insults into the vein. And breathed through another night, absent of light.