My Feathered Heart

Jeanne’s GoodReads Review Please feel free to add me to your Goodreads’s friend’s list. 😁🕊🎶

My Feathered Heart (original poem)

My review of The Feathered Heart by Mark Turcotte.

I once found a teeny-tiny downy woodpecker feather. At most, the feather measured one inch (2.54 cm) in length. My guess as to the year found would be 2010. I had since lost the treasure to find it again while packing up our house to move. Today’s date 3/11/2018.

The feather, seen above in the bookmark constructed, is grey/black with five incomplete white spots. The spots are not complete circles as the white color lies on the fringe. As such, it mimics my teetering heart, lying on the edge of an invisible border erected by thoughts. It is my feathered heart that led me to find Mark Turcotte and his book of poems, The Feathered Heart.His book will be returned to as often as needed. To remedy my soul with feeling words erected as fences. (I found a used copy, to be delivered just in time for my birthday, through Amazon 😁.)

My wayward feet travel searching for answers. The silences weave protection. The war i battle is not within but from outside the curtained window. I learn to dress in velvet’s hope.

Poems: A Reading of the game of boxes


A book purchased at Indy Reads. I like her style, voice. Poetic fragments of stories told in concise language, with much left to imagination. The subject matter of relationships, both with lovers and with children, give reason to celebrate our excess and absence of connection.

Chorus (p.19)

The ones we love fall asleep
to our abandon,
we are always abandoning them
and then finding them,
we’d be lost could we not
abandon them, could we not
find and abandon them.

Tell no one where we go at night
in our sleep, how far we walk,
toward what, but accompany us
to the soundings, the quicksands,
and the rocks.

Her average rating on Goodreads is 3.69. One critic gave her zero stars, stating he “was pretty unimpressed by this work…nothing challenges, nothing is unique or traditional.” He goes on to say “it reads like someone who wanted to write what she always thought poetry was but never considered what it could be.”

Another reviewer gave her one star with “reading this collection is the limited range of poetic resources on display…the plainspoken voice can only carry a reader’s interest so far.”

For those who enjoyed her poems, one reviewer was “won over by the plainspoken…playfulness and the repetition.”

Susan said “you need to read if you are of this century but also a little bit lost in the past.”

Other words to describe her were “abstract but not over the edge”, “easy to read with a density to them”, “Surprising. Haunting in a delicious way.” and then “the language of the poems…often felt unfinished or like they were missing something or like I was missing something.”

Poetry, for the consumer, is really about the pull into the story far more than the textbook understanding of what a poem is or could be.  The Game of Boxes is 4/5 stars for me, but then I am not a critic of poetry, but rather a consumer. So really, what do I know about critically assessing others language other than if it moves me, like a man leading in dance, then I confess my love.

Swim Against the Waves

For my lovely daughter. Always. And Forever.

Wow! Yesterday was quite eventful. Not in a good way either.

There is a back story to this story that unfolded shortly after breakfast. I was busy writing Christmas greetings to family and friends, realizing how few cards we had received this year. The amount of personal greetings slashed by modern life.

When, to my surprise, my daughter came bounding down the stairs, so early in the morning.  It is Christmas break from studies so this was most unexpected.

I despise Snapchat. Instagram. Even Facebook has become a weapon against humanity. They had assaulted my daughter again. Naked photos of themselves. Asking her to send in like.

She had never wanted to fight back. She is a teenager and teenagers do not always think so well. Hormones and all. But she had been attacked too many times to lay down her sword. She picked it up and I stood with her. I picked my sword up too.

I made a phone call to the school. I needed to speak to someone. Was any one going to listen? Really hear me and my daughter? Do something to change how we interact.

There seems a hollow cry in our schools, churches, government, to stop bullying, assaults, sexual victimization against each other.  People talk loud and do little. They stand up strong and bend with the wind.

Sex is a beautiful gift. Meant to be protected by love and care and understanding. Not a quick fix to fill a void. Not a solution to calm the raging inner world. Who even believes that anymore? Anyone?

So the Dean of Students and the Assistant Principal sat there and listened. Their advice quite trite, get off social media. What? She wants to make friends. Be a friend. Why should she not fight back and change the landscape of abuse? Why do the good people need to retreat and lay down their swords?

As we exited school property, two police officers pulled up. Our schools are now protected by officers of the law. What little law is up held. We are flying free in the streets, rioting and not caring of the girl, weeping in the night. Now afraid to be a friend to the world.

My daughter has recently turned 18 but she was made an adult before she had a chance to be a kid. So it is with modern society. It has become an adult before it ever figured out how to be.

Six word story

There is no excuse for abuse. 

Six words to say it all.  It is intimidating to stand before others and fight for beliefs, even though it is justice served to stand up for others.  The adage actions speak louder than words rings true still someone needs to speak up for the voiceless.  We can come up with a million excuses while the following happens in America yearly…

Nearly 700,000 children are abused in the U.S annually. An estimated 683,000 children (unique incidents) were victims of abuse and neglect in 2015, the most recent year for which there is national data.

CPS protects more than 3 million children. Approximately 3.4 million children received an investigation or alternative response from child protective services agencies. 2.3 million children received prevention services.

The youngest children were most vulnerable to maltreatment. Children in the first year of their life had the highest rate of victimization of 24.2 per 1,000 children in the national population of the same age.

Neglect is the most common form of maltreatment. Of the children who experienced maltreatment or abuse, three-quarters suffered neglect; 17.2% suffered physical abuse; and 8.4% suffered sexual abuse. (Some children are polyvictimized—they have suffered more than one form of maltreatment.)

About four out of five abusers are the victims’ parents. A parent of the child victim was the perpetrator in 78.1% of substantiated cases of child maltreatment.


These are the children known about.  Who else is out there silently crying in the corner?

Personally I hide behind the written word to let others know how I feel about atrocities against the vulnerable but to be seen and heard is another thing.  I guess I am use to being voiceless.  Shot down by those who want to steal my being.  I once felt I was no one and often return to past behaviors.  It is hard to believe when trust is broken.  I question those who say they love me.  “Do they really?” an inner voice asks.  “Do they?”  Is that maltreatment not enough to be there for others facing neglect and emotional abuse?  It is even more heart-wrenching to know others face physical and sexual abuse.

I recall a few years back, tutoring at a women’s homeless shelter, a sixth grade boy came in for help.  He sat down and could not make eye contact.  For a half hour I waited and in time he turned towards me.  During our conversation he told me of the bullying by fellow classmates who stole his backpack and ridiculed him for wanting to get an education.  Mind you this is in the inner city where gangs, drugs and distaste for others is the way of life.  The behaviors are learned and passed down through generations stemming from neglect by society at large.

There is blame to pass around but to point fingers does not solve the situation.  Instead we need to roll up our sleeves and get to work.  Whether it is hands-on, one-on-one, or directed to groups at-large, everyone must pick up the torch and move forward.  Let no one be subjected to demeaning and shame for being.  Humanity needs healing.  We are a fallen people hanging on by a thread.

Sebnem Sanders

Sebnem Sanders is more than Another Blogger. Today I call her friend. And I am beyond elated to send along her debut book link, as posted on her blog.

I am expectantly waiting for my book to arrive as early as tomorrow. The anticipation of holding the pages surreal, knowing all the thoughts are carried from a land far away. I have never traveled outside of America but soon a lovely soul from Turkey arrives at my home.

May all success be yours, Sebnem. I know the toil poured is beyond measure and the layers of life have been neatly laid, page after page. Always Jeanne Elizabeth 🤗❤️👏🏻

Ripples on the Pond

Yes!! 🎈💫👏🏻❤️

virgina woolf

I have sat with virginia woolf, on occasion, to muse my way through her words.  They ride stunningly, i immersed beneath her rougher sea, see-sawing back-n-forth, her waves treacherous to travel.  At times I am overwhelmed with meaning… actually what is she trying to confer? (see below.)

Today, propped near a chair, scattered here and there, To the Lighthouse, Orlando, Waves, Mrs. Dalloway Reader, A Writer’s Diary, A Room of One’s Own.  In each I grasp snippets, enough to digest in one sitting.  During and after, I find myself scouring to see what others spy, hidden between her time.  On top of everything sits Bloomsbury Group, Charleston, Monk’s House and the myriad of ideas of what it meant (or not) to be in Victorian time.  She was rather a rebel.

vanessa bell
Virginia Woolf at Charleston
Reading, I steal a glance Ms. Woolf’s way, capture her very essence creeping from between two worlds…hers and mine.   The practice of mindfulness ensues as I look out my window to watch; waves stand still and move away and come back to me in a different way.
So at this moment (10:04 ET, U.S.) while reading…
ORLANDO, I find a book chock full of descriptive encounters. I am enamored.  In the course of a few pages

  1. a strand or two of course, dry hair, like the hair on a cocoanut.
  2. When he put his hand on the windowsill to push the window open, it was instantly coloured red, blue, and yellow like a butterfly’s wing.

And then the musing of what color green and the scattering love of passion and need.  So what is Orlando’s story:  a diary of days, a love letter to the world, a shattering of emotion?  All three?

I like Woolf’s fluid style of writing. Feelings pour over me but I am amiss in the meaning. Must it take pages to enter Orlando’s world? Do i hold back in fear I will be engulfed, losing myself? I slowly immerse, the water icy… I see texture and color but what is the plot? Shouldn’t I be privy to the plot?

Aladdin! (Updated)

6/11/2017  6:30pm How will they perform Raja, the Genie, Flying Carpet? Oh, will they have a real monkey Apu? And an elephant in the parade?

🐒 🐘 🐯 Jasmine and Aladdin ❤️

6/12/2017 7:00am  Having watched the Disney animated version numerous times, my youngest daughter and I came to Chicago with wanting something similar in the Live! version.  Our preconceived notions put us mentally at a disadvantage but the imaginative cast and crew put on a marvelous production. 

The set was vibrant and glittery, Genie was intoxicating, the dance numbers stunning and the flying carpet was magical. We both ended up in a whole new world! 

The Cadillac Palace Theatre is itself a stunning production. Absolutely beautiful!! 

Food for thought…

The issues at hand are more complicated than understandable and living simple, autonomous lives, in horror we can surmise actions of mobs or enjoy peace in the chaos. In this we lay down our choice to be or not to be alive.

Government is both a curse and a blessing. Why anyone would choose to take a job that breeds gray hair and a longing to only paint and write, well enough said. I just hope all the political bs washes away soon. Never soon enough.