Posted in Photography, Poetry

Meaningful Gibberish

Talk to Me (October 2021)
toward the celebration of human life 
as a path to transcendence
i skip past Beethoven
land on middle C

swing past his open mouth
dance with clenching teeth
directed at my absurdity

our meaningful gibberish
we only understand
the moans escape the metal bars
i lie down beside the piled cloth

stained with gilded tears
teach me forgiveness afterwards
when a hush descends upon bended knees
Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry

Finding Lost Thoughts

Go. Get some color on paper. What color am I feeling? It feels like no color could capture the past hours. The colors all appear so dull, uninviting, wordless. With no message whatsoever to speak with. No map to direct feet. No clouds or forests to hide fears.

What color appreciates mystery? 
Do you know?

The ribbon of blue
strikes the sky
boundless energy disperses
the crowd hangs low
and into eternity i ride.
Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry

Lay my Heart Down

Lay my heart down
and weep
what little time remains
I give it all
to you
the gift of all beauty
hidden from human eyes.
You are only fed to eager souls.

I won’t be gone long. How can I keep myself from being amongst all this grandeur?

I did a little beach cleanup. I hiked miles. I painted. I wrote. Nothing here keeps me from living. Everything here pushes me to go further. The seals and loons. The cawing of crow friends. A shy heron perched as if wind was nonexistent.

The waves rush in with new gifts of sea glass. The waves recede into the greater good. The flow of sea amends all the broken pieces of life.

Be well love, until I return.

Always, Jeanne

Posted in Musings, Photography
Waxing Crescent

The world is cold and selfish. It barely bats an eye at our grieving. It spends so much time grieving its own demise.

On the way to rest in solitude, I listened to an audible book where another person told of their adventure into being with only self. Except she barely was alone. Day after day, visitors and visiting. The only time spent in solitude was when she was writing poems or finding sleep, alone, in the darkest hours of the day.

So what part of this life is best lived alone?

Looking into a mirrored reflection I beg, “Please let me find myself.” Slowly, I slip into a rhythm created by the sun, moon, and tide. In silence, one finds a way to revolt against the engulfing madness.

In trying to grasp the unevenness of life, I plan to make fear abide my courage. To wake another day unknowing. To wonder how I make my life worth living. To make a way in the wilderness.

Posted in Photography, Poetry

xxxxxx

Cant say i believe 
the words
spilling
from contraptions of reality
more digital than heart

the love is farce

and wounds bleed
while you step in line.
To listen to you
akin to the first

fire
shot.

Love has become cheap tequila
in an unsalted rim.
Posted in Photography, Poetry

sea glass rising

Eastport, Maine
Can you know this feeling
peering underneath blue
hollow bones trapped in bearded wrecks

seashell words
smashed beneath waves

gutted hearts
tangled, twisted ‘round our legs.

Who dare put out our fire
feet ensnared with desire
upon this sandcastle built?

Come find me washed ashore
waiting for your adore
disappearing…

yet some more
sea glass rising.

Yet some more
sea glass… rising from the dead
we dance together at last.
Posted in Photography, Poetry

Im awake. For what reason, i have no idea.
There is no prayer left in me.

I haven’t given up. Im just feeling a bit numb. The curtains are pulled and the heart sinks fast.

Just how im feeling. Wonder who else feels such things. There is no reason to feel this way. Unless these aren’t my feelings so much as how the world appears.

Posted in Photography, Soul Journal

Into the abyss

The kind of books that make us happy
are the kind we could write ourselves
if we had to.

It matters not if i am known. Or remain a mystery. The matter is that i am wholly me.

Not wanting accolades or seeking a tribe. The tribe always moves on to bigger houses and better views. I choose to stay in my shell.

And in my space, i read the kind of book that stabs and wounds. If the book doesn’t wake me with a blow to the head, what am i reading for?

We need books that affect us like a disaster. That grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves. Like being banished into forests far from everyone. Like a suicide.

A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is my belief.