My blog is on hiatus. For a long time? For a short time? For an unspecified time.
I need a break from my head. I need to sail away from life.
There are plenty of questions with no answers. I wish I could say differently.
I already miss you lovely people. Stay well and take care.
If you need me, you probably know how to reach me. Peace.
Always Happy Writing with you, Jeanne ✍🏼
And please don’t forget about Crow Gifts, my first collaborative chapbook. Submit your 1-3 poems, short bio, and links to soulcollective67@gmail.com. Thank you to those who have already done so. 😘❤️
silent nights voided days the human pulse fades away lying still in slumber bed daddy finds his boyish head asleep on pillows fluffed at noon now compressed by hallow dread.
running home workday done daddy falls on bended knee to watch his son being fed opiates, a final call police and dealers, absent lovers too all relinquish his human goo.
silent nights voided days daddy wanders crumbled earth releases anger, bottled grief showers only begotten witness life is simply rotten.
Rest in peace Adam, 21, aspiring chef and accountant.
Unfortunately, this is true. My mind is running ragged. Throwing thread-bare cloth to the ground. Nothing fits in the tired luggage i lug around.
So i am sitting here. Typing on my phone. To an audience i cannot smile towards. Or notice the faces that hold an ounce of cure. Hoping fate drags me from this gear that imprisons my soul.
Contradicting myself, i slump back into my head. Wallow in my memory, to bank an unknown future on prayer alone.
Good morning. Yes, it is morning where I am. Most likely afternoon and heading towards evening near you. May the days and nights for you be blessed and encouraging going forward this new week. And evermore.
At the moment, my creative life is a bit dulled. Im listening to books on tape to fill my mind with imaginative feasting. I chanced upon Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago 1918-1956 while reading a June 2018article written in First Things.
Two hours into the book and several poems popped out at me. I love to listen 🎧 and take notes 📝. It helps greatly with my concentration and my comprehension. The takeaway from the first two chapters? Nefarious ideas in the wrong hands are dangerous. Every heart bleeds dark.
How to tell the truth.
the pottery, thrown from the cupboard lay in pieces, a heap to bury laughter of the past
they hurry you to frighten you
their names slip into insanity forever vanished from blue sky broken branches of a dying tree
shaking dumping the crunch of littered leaves under foot
notice the still orange flower silent repression without the freedom to rise caught in light rays turning future seeds into prisons
the passing of past into future without a map now becomes silent paths in the gardener’s hands
“If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?” Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
They who love in excess also hate in excess. —Aristotle
Avoid men or women who refuse to have their soul pierced with any thoughts other than their own.
Avoid men or women who champion their politics over knowledge, wisdom, truth, or charity.
Avoid those who choose to exterminate you over good-hearted conversation. A debate is always worth having when answers are greatly needed. Avoid those who avoid the hard questions.
Any voter who ignores reason and relies on a deceitful heart truly imprisons their neighbors.
Simply put, avoid anyone who blindly follows an ass.
Being either
too much
or not enough
Buried in the Noise
i dream
but nothing can be as i want it to be. Oh well?
Not sure i am painting the truth
or if i am,
i don’t understand the sights
and truly lost is where i can be found.
February 2018 Buried in the Noise was a chapbook I had intended to publish before my mind changed. I never found the fortitude to proceed with the project. Today, I look at my poetry website and cringe, growl, weep, and wish i could organize my thoughts. They are scattered seeds that occasionally sprout.
My life lived in thirds. The missed chances, no longer regrets. The regrets never molded by my hands. The mannequin standing naked in the window was never meant to be dressed.
I started filling out Proust’s Questionnaire December 2019. I finished it today. The dream finally clear and in focus.
