Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry

Sea Voice

Maybe im wrong. Maybe my belief you could surface, that you could soar above the fray…

Perhaps a jaded person is only in need of time? To resurface, resurrect, reconvene, replenish…

What did your water dream infuse you with? Healing. Quiet. Fear. Dismay.

Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry, quotes

Week in Review: B&W

October 18, 2020 Evening (edited)

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 2018 article 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

Posted in Musings

Ponderings

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.

Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry

Week in Review: B&W

Fruitlands. October 2020.

Sometimes I wonder if I haven’t been here before. Then realize I have. The same desire takes hold as I stare off into the distance. Will I make it back home?

October 2017. Chester and Toby.
Louie looking on.

Life is not slowing down. No matter how often I stop to pause. Chester and Toby had a short-lived life. They lived on the fast track and couldn’t hold on.

Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry

Earth Song

the stillness of earth
a song well versed and rehearsed
watch my shadow crawl

What is going on with you creatively?

The haiku is taken from an expressive arts class 4/3/2020. The photo is from 10/6/2020. Life has been a bit hectic lately. Changes in my life never cease. I put a halt to my REACE training midsummer due to conflicts. My training will resume in February 2021, with a new venue out of San Diego CA.

I look forward to continuing the expressive arts as they bring me much calmness and energy. A centering of my heart is needed in the tumultuous times we find ourselves. And I am rather certain for time to come. Although others I know are feeling a respite coming. My thoughts are knowing whether it is a false peace trembling to capture imagination and souls. Or something so luminous we will barely be able to stand.

My plans going forward, once I am able to mentally give energy to all my dreams, is a new blog, Shed 33.3, to replace Soul Signs, which will incorporate all my life loves. 🥰🥳🎈🎈🎈 Although this blog will remain indefinitely as it captures the impermanence of my being. And of nature’s caress. The rawness, the muddy waters, and the hidden aspects of growth, unequivocally shared.

So stay tuned! And please consider contributing to the adventure with your soulful poems, The Poet’s Wonderment, Gift Crow, Vol 1. Read about this endeavor here. I can be reached at soulcollective67@gmail.com.

Anthony Gorman, of Hands in the Garden and Grumpy Gifts, is also on board, helping create and develop the first handmade chapbook. He can be reached at anthonytgorman@hotmail.com.

Happy writing!! Jeanne ✍🏼

Posted in Art, Musings, Poetry

Lost Love

Love is an idea when
commitment lacks confidence.

—I am only one. I couldn’t hold you or let you go. So we both suffered sunburn.

You are further away from me than I care to acknowledge. Nothing remains to settle my thoughts. I dangle my feet in the shallow; you wade knee deep. I dress in green and swirled turquoise. Beads adorn my hair, swept in a bun. The water laps our passion and icy hearts.

Posted in Advice, Musings, Poetry, Soul Journal

Crayon’s Voice***

Why do we limit ourselves? There is no simple answer.

Life is a celebration and we miss out on possibilities, cornering ourselves into a box. Unless that box is shut off from the world, by well-meaning friends or loved ones, we should not be afraid to be used. (But never abused.) If someone chooses to pick us, color with us, there is no need to cry. A lonely crayon is perfect. A used crayon, worn from tired hands, are memories to linger, lines in the sand.

Happy day to you. Just be. Linger a while in the joy of whatever color(s) you are today. What color are you at the moment? Feel free to let the world know in the comments. ✌🏼 🌈 🎨 🎶🎶🎶

***This is a post from June 2018. Ashley wrote about the drafts folder and mine is plumb full dating back to 2016. I plan on revamping some posts and letting them loose. Others will be trashed. Honestly, my blog(s) need an overhaul. I have changed so much from 2008 until now. My old selves certainly don’t recognize the new me. The me taking on life one day at a time.

Hope you will stay on this journey with me a little longer. Watch for all the changes to come. And know you are always welcome here. ✌🏼🕯🎶💙

Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry, Soul Journal

New Wineskin

Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.

Proverbial Position: Sit and ponder.

The cliche that “nothing stays the same” happens every new season. Autumn is upon us now and we say goodbye to the childish ways of summer, as the groaning of winter approaches.

I grab my wrap as I head out the door to tend to my six sassy chickens. There are fewer clover plants to pick in the yard. So I bought fresh dandelion greens and watermelon at the grocer. This delicacy, beyond the grains, entices them to brave the morning chill. A chill they never knew in June, huddled beneath a red heat lamp. Where once all six chicks fit into the space of a three month old hen.

This new environment is a challenge for me too. Soon snow will blanket the dirt. Chicken feet are easily frost bitten so I must be cautious with how long they stay outdoors. To grab my scarf and trudge into the bleak day, instead of hunkering on the couch with a good book and fire, will challenge my devotion.

I choose the chickens during a March morning, my daughters texting me, as the two-week, 2020 lockdown, was fresh in mind. There was scarcely tp or eggs, flour, milk, and least of all bravery, on store shelves. We hunkered into fighting mode.

I had always dreamed of having a brood of chickens while my kids were young. Fishers Indiana laws and neighbors kept us from acting upon those noisy desires. Nothing in this town was blocking me from ordering those cuties from a hatchery. With a bit of research and a strong sense of the present world, I added six female Australorps to the online store bin.

This new wine drunk celebrates life seasons and I will keep up. My life stretching to fill new wineskins, to reach the warmth of others in community. These chickens hatched all possibility into me. The bourgeoning of the Little Free Library, my expressive arts training, and Shed 33.3. A renewed outlook sprouting from tilled soul.

At least until the final transformation of ghostly dancing sets eternally upon my bones. My spirit ever free from the confines of flesh. A new wineskin ever new, adorned with ebony feathers.

Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry

Tender Green Shoot

In every vision black consumes the mind. Defines the boundary line.

In moments of clarity I sing. In moments of despair I moan. In this moment I spy the green seeping from your eyes.

We step in the shallow pool where leaves gather in cooler days. The reds, yellows, and oranges ripen with the setting sun. Browns crunch under our shoes. Your fingers wrap around my wrist, clenching my pulse to see if I respond. I don’t. But I do.

I reach for the new growth you promised me years ago. I see it now. The tender green shoots sprout from your heart.