Posted in Art, Musings, Poetry

A dream project

It really hurts to pack my books away. I dream of August or September when I hope to be in a new house. Make it my home. And put all these books back on a shelf.

And then I hope, a new scene (maybe Boston, hope I have not jinxed my future by saying it out loud) means a new thought process and all these hidden projects sitting on my shelves will come to life.  I have wanted to write children’s books for quite some time.  My favorite children’s illustrator/author is Lois Ehlert.  I love her folk art style and the color that embellishes her pages.  The simple stories she writes captures a child’s imagination.  And mine. (Some day I hope I can organize my collections as she has done below.)


That really could be me pictured in her book.  I spent every summer riding my bike to the library.  I would come home with a pile of books, weighing more than I did, and would sit in my tent in the backyard, reading and dreaming of the world.  To this day, I still have no clue what life means, other than love is precious and relationships are what keeps us from falling too deep into despair.  Oh! if I only practiced my wisdom.  I often find myself sheltering from the world still…. hidden in my writing room dreaming of possibilities.

img_3213-1The above illustration is quite helpful to me.  To plan the whole book at once… ah! makes so much sense!   This will take a whole lot of discipline on my part, as I often write everything without planning.  My learning to become more intentional in creative habits, will be a positive step in my growth as an artist.  (I said it! Am i?)

Although, I do need a sense of mindless space to generate ideas but then will utilize her method to organize my chaos.  🙂

If you have children in your life, I recommend this book highly.  She had an exhibit at the Milwaukee Museum of Art a while back and I was able to purchase it there.  I am sure it is available on Amazon if you are interested.

Happy writing, Jeanne

Posted in Poetry

going through this frenzy

purchasing books

every title imaginable about

suicide and why, these voices reside

build a home, hoping to rest -a while.

A while later, it all starts again,

depression, anxiety, r.d. laing…

this divided self reads jung and admires van Gogh

the Plath’s and Woolf’s of this world

we meet-up, browse universal thoughts, written in black

being ghosts of past

haunting our minds today.

Posted in Poetry

Putting me aside, again


Expressing my desire to find rhythm in my words, Rita Dove was recommended reading for a poet who dances on paper.  Early this year, when I finally got around to seriously read her work, I preordered a new publication, a recent compilation of her 30 years of writing and dove in, head first.

Ars Poetica

Thirty miles to the only decent restaurant
was nothing, a blink
in the long dull stare of Wyoming.
Halfway there the unknown but terribly
important essayist yelled Stop!
I wanna be in this; and walked
fifteen yards onto the land
before sky bore down and he came running,
crying Jesus — there’s nothing out there!

I once met an Australian novelist
who told me he never learned to cook
because it robbed creative energy.
What he wanted most was
to be mute; he stacked up pages;
he entered each day with an ax.

What I want is this poem to be small,
a ghost town
on the larger map of wills.
Then you can pencil me in as a hawk:
a traveling x-marks-the-spot.

I actually needed to be resuscitated after I read that.  I got lost on a lonely road and was found by Rita Dove.  I suppose now, only now will I never look back.  Again.  Praying I never veer too far away, again.


Claude Wilkinsen, in his own right, dances, and taught us to dance, during a poetry workshop in Santa Fe, at The Glen. This was my first, get down and dirty, learn the craft of poetry and get stuck in the mud, fall in love, and let the words become your destination, workshop.


The rain stops. It’s dusk
and the sky is a foreign tangerine;
the only music is huddled doves,
frogs wanting more rain. Mimosas
and roses regain their composure.

Steam rises like a herd
of souls. And just over
the electric next ridge,
a raven-haired gypsy
sends her charms for me.


Will I ever put myself aside, long enough to not be known, but be read, and the only thing seen is your dream?  Happy writing, J

Posted in Poetry

This time

I tread lightly,
carefully pack my bags
with the essentials.

And where might I go?

I find refuge
among the stacked
volumes of time

on page 356
war breaks,
though -peace finally comes!

So why?
Why so long to answer my poem?

Patience -a virtue
when understanding
is dim.

Who sees all
Knows all
Hears all?

I wait…
nd where might I go?

Room stripped of color.
To my room. To read.
And write.

Posted in Musings

Just ignore me

Sometimes, well most of the time, I have projects filtering through my mind.  And most of the time, well some of the time, I write them out and post them on my blog. Should I? If I think long about that question, I hesitate and decide not to post. This is a good thing. I have long been impulsive. Anxious. Dreading myself. Second guessing if I am worth the ink I spill. And spill and spill and spill.

Yes. I become too introspective, too over-the-top dramatic. This post is a prime example of why I am sure others find me contagious. If the sun is shining, most the time you will find me crying in my coffee. My cup neither empty or full. Fate in life, for me, is a cup in my hand waiting to spill. With paper stained, I dread the peering eyes. I really never like the words I have written. My foot tapping. I just want to dance.

Posted in Poetry

There is no fear

In freedom, courage boldly goes.

I am confused

for the rest of today.

In my confusion I am paralyzed.

I feel the world too deeply.

Posted in Poetry

shuffle the books
sifting sand
consider the last demand

he graciously asks,
she sits in his chair
“What is left to know?”

Posted in Musings, Poetry

All these words, time spent, leaving me lonely, with no book to hold? -Jeff

Its amazing to look back and read how much we change. Recently, I dreamt to publish, whereas a kid, writing was more a necessity. An infatuation with my thoughts that had me inwardly seeking peace with the world.

Letters written to grandmothers,
hoping to find connection.
Journals filled, unfolding.
Children named and prayers rose.

I subsequently burned my teenage journals. It was freeing. Today’s memories are worth studying. I am not afraid of the mirror, as I once was. Growing older is wiser. Certainly more bold.