Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry


Church is poetry,
poetry is life,
a life well lived.

I once blogged about such thoughts as the meaning of life. So much stirs inside me these days, i cant possibly record words. Static electricity has buzzed my heart.

When words do find their way onto paper, i do not generally share. I am unsure of myself. Various reasons explain my absence. My emerging from life’s cave erratic.

I am most grateful to be here. Regardless of what i may accomplish. Peace. Jeanne
Posted in Photography, Poetry

Three Suns

Three Suns
Static rhythms pulsate
feelings arise and suffocate
one day i am fine
to rotate and stare into space
i can imagine bliss
but i rarely hold onto peace

and not anticipating a solution)
Posted in Photography, Poetry

Wild Blueberry Fields

Wild Blueberry Fields

Not much is left wild on earth. A field here. A mountain there. Perhaps an ocean shore.

Solitude must be self-inflicted. 
A need within
rises like a tide
to be washed clean of society.
The clock hands clasped in prayer for us.

Crushed by infidelity,
we find our bodies
unable to climb
and perch upon the weathered rocks
to watch the birds fly by.

We land in red fields
ravage the blue fruited plains
and in the distance
hear the sea gulls cry
for anonymity.
Posted in Photography, Poetry

And furthermore

And furthermore
Im not so intimidated 
by your wild accusations
of leavening my bread
with words of dread

Im beautiful in all my imperfections
of wild nights of flurry
honing my feminine skill.

I refuse to be cancelled
corralled into new wineskins
that drunken my enemies
full of venom and hatred

All while I preen my peacock feathers
glistening in the sun
my perfume captures the essence of every women unsung.
Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry, Soul Journal

Making Meaning


Honoring creation, realizing there are no mistakes. We are born whole, flung into the air, and immediately plopped into crisp blankets. Fresh fabric woven to caress our skin. The fortunate ones know love from the beginning.

The wailing ensues. Lost in the noise of moving parts. Who can understand the tragedy of dying?

I gather stones like bread crumbs. Each shape resembles a thought. Each thought encompasses a season. Each season of drought, famine, abundance, joy, grief, weighs heavy on the mind. Until. Until i lay my heart on the rock bed and weight the tears. I either sink or rise. And the vapor of breath becomes a fog. The inner vines of making meaning tangle up the process, and threaten my life.

One day at a time. Release the illness. Gather the rocks. Warm yourself with their captured sun. Notice the colors swirling within. Grays, blacks, oranges, blues, greens. Reds and whites too.