Posted in Art, Musings, Photography, Poetry, prose, Soul Journal

Week in Review: Voice Gone Dark

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. 😘❤️

Posted in Poetry, prose

Freakout Voice

Hypocrites. All of us jaded. (WP library)

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.

Alone.

Posted in Photography, Poetry, prose

Hush

Quick, tell me, what is the state of the world?

On a July morning, in the height of summer, the ants are busy on the sunflowers. Today, I wake to the same routine regardless of the weather. The coffee poured, I light a candle.

They are hens in their own right.

Glistening green in the sun’s heightened shadow, I wonder if i should write a letter to a friend. The thought fleeting. I don’t want to add my emotions to his already pocket full of pleas. I let my mind settle into this opened space. Drum out the crinkle of autumn leaves and find solace in my reverie.

When we return to the land, will our hearts be able? The hours bend into baskets, carrying our troubles downstream, where the beavers damn us for wanting freedom. Will we ever furnish a house with all our plans?

You see me. I love 
my love in thought.
Can you know
the waiting fires the bones?
Posted in letters, Memoir, Poetry, prose

diary excerpt —the old broke through

Felt brave -well enough, so i peered into the book and read his words. Our words.

Jan 19, 2017, 2:13 PM

Stopped my thoughts

and when i stopped
writing you
voices flooded in -mocking

“Why are you bothering?”
“You’re not going to make it?”

Concentrate on anything
but this
this tight chest and lorazepam.

The knife digs in -relentless.

“Just take it.” I hear.

Forced to give in
I conquer fear.

i feel safe.
i’m home.
And that can be
a problem
i need to overcome.

Do u think it is social anxiety because i read something and it made sense. But also about attachments and neurosis.

Do u know when u dont answer i can find myself growing anxious. Second guessing myself, not feeling safe for saying stuff i mean to keep to myself. I havent been bothered lately. I find myself looking around but im okay. Just a couple times, anxious, and

upset with myself because of this.

I cant be still not knowing what to do. Should, or rather, i need to talk.

I dont know and that makes it bad. Then another thing, this taking medicine. Should i try to stop. Maybe ill be all right. But what if not. Will it just cause more harm. Fretting that im stuck in this hole. But i dont feel stuck now, everyone is gone. Its okay. Its better that way. This is long.

Sorry.

I only notice when I leave the house. Looking out

the top floor window seemed safe to leave; leaving was a totally different reality.

“What do you think? I feel like i should be able to go outside but find myself sleeping, not able to move.” He didn’t have an answer.

“I think ill be okay. Thought maybe if i came to talk every 2 months…” She continued the conversation but never realized he was closed off to her after too many years of stagnation.

The escape. A shadow dances, from out the corner of her eye. Her mind unable to override the dark sky.

——–

Stopping my thoughts today? Good luck. I finish my papers but when i stop writing it all floods in, mocking me. “Why are you bothering? Your not going to make it?”

After a while, trying to write, i just couldnt write. Couldnt concentrate on anything but this. My chest is tight and hurts. I tried relaxing, taking lorazapam. Nothing works.

Its all front and center reminding me its not over no matter how much i wish and want to be free. I have no answers or know what im doing wrong.

All i did was stop and something took advantage of the weak wall.

The old broke through.

Posted in Photography, Poetry, prose

Morning Musings

Plum Island, MA

In our irresponsibility, we rather blame others for personal shortcomings, than face our own darkness. A true person of integrity would seek truth, regardless the cost to ego. There is sound historical record, although often coerced to fit modern agendas, we embark research in areas of psychological interest. We easily blame religion as reasoning for bloodshed. Perhaps the taste of others misery helps us weather our own storms.

Another turned against humanity.

Crossing over to a twilight zone kaleidoscope eyes feast on dreams and circumstance. Do we fail to see what is happening? The world is not going to end tomorrow, as far as i know. But equally frightening is that it could. And not frightening in the sense that life becomes non-existent, but that while we possessed breath, we missed the purpose of earth.

Sometimes death frees more than the person gone. Other times it chains hearts to dreams and wishes. And then there is death that haunts forever.
I think our Creator is wrong… love will not save the world. Unless love is no longer required to discipline. Unless love is no longer required to forgive. Unless love is allowed to hate the enemy.

Posted in Art, Poetry, prose

The Poet’s House -Summer

Gleeful sands of mischief
lighten oppressed time.
The celestial sphere pulls
laughter from the land.

And they laid their languished heads down upon the driftwood. Waves lapping the naked feet.

To sleep. To sleep. Under the noon day sun, Souls yearn to caress the rising moon.

To feel. To feel. Wrapped in fallen petals, swept up in leafed-out branches, and grazed by fiery skies, Summer races past their heads.

Pedals anchored to wheels
the goose waves goodbye.

Posted in Art, Photography, Poetry, prose

The Path (a pilgrim’s meditation)

Art has a way of confusing me. My mind never relaxes as I struggle to make meaning. And to make matters worse, the formation of ideas triggers my perfection.

Most of my work on my blogs is far less about perfect poetry or admirable photographs or attracting followers, then it is about releasing unspoken and buried pain and loss. Of making meaning while never knowing why.

The glitter of diamonds is rarely found without first removing the heartache and wiping the tears. —me

I am struggling at the moment. Life has become one long movie cut that keeps getting axed. Nothing feels right. There is no long term goal forming and my energy to pursue an advanced degree is waning. I look at my blogs with a desire to simplify. The blogs are as messy as my life. And still I pursue collecting and creating and coagulating the runny substances that create sticky problems.

Looking at it from a distant, maybe my artist fingerprint mirrors the uneasiness of my stumbling in the dark. I am not a prepared scout on this journey. I am a scrap-carrying, scribbler-eating, thought-crunching gypsy who is more comfortable exploring than settling into a home.

I carry my home in my heart. Even a cracked shell has some ability to keep dreams from fraying into oblivion. I may still arrive at my destination. The long and winding version of finding myself.

Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry, prose

The road arrived.

Life is lived on levels and arrived at in stages. —Edwin Louis Cole

Good morning. As the turning of days and as the grass sprouted from winter slumber, I found myself at a point where I realize I can tarry no longer. I must be courageous and serious. I must be willing and full of hope. I must grasp every word that spills from my heart and wring them dry, until I no longer see the darkness inside. What then should I do when the light allows too much room for curiosity? The despair I roam within ebbs and throws me into oblivion. I must be willing to try and write what I set out to create. Even if I fail. I must no longer tarry as if my days are endless. Grey is as good of a place as any to either brighten the world with hope or darken it with tragedy. I hope my efforts will lift us to hear the galloping of freedom drawing ever near. That heaven’s promises of long ago will not cease to keep heads from drowning under the growing storm. I sense the road has arrived. I cannot deny my calling any longer. I cannot be a child of milk and cookies. I must be willing to learn and sift knowledge. To discern the day’s signs and the evenings quandaries. To be, is my last attempt at fulfilling my heart’s rhythm. The beating lasts but a few days more. I am ready to accept my fate. Let it be so.

If we fail
fail to see the wind
coming at the break neck speed
of a metal horse
on tracks,

If we fail
fail in our comfort
food, shelter and clothing
scraped together with goodwill
given as scraps to wild dogs,

If we fail
fail as foreign spies
on fellow citizens
drumming up grievances and rounding up heads
rolling in wooden bowls
we ravish our own hands.



We fail.
We won’t change history any more than armies before us.
We drip in mother’s blood
and scour our bodies of father’s filth.
We bury bones in rags
doused with our enemies vapors. And cheer.
Cheer our own demise as we beg for freedom from our own ills.
Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry, prose

To my own drum

lay ears upon me
the steady beat of fever
the silent wings fly

I miss handwritten notes, long talks, music, and prayers. I miss Indiana friends.

I feel a victim of the present instant gratification culture. Unwittingly, I have been swallowed whole by a mob mentality of shoving and pushing our way to the top. The guise of morality when we know we are sinners. The breach of sacred life has been cheapened with money.

I know myself. But how well? And how well do I know you? Are we all numbers and votes and popularity slogans? Will I be diminished if the politicians and I disagree?

Perhaps I best live and let it all go. Release the slogans and messages, the poetry and art. Let my world be still. To then be reborn, so when I write or paint or dance it means I am living free. To not feed the monsters we all have become.