Posted in Photography, Poetry

Spirit of Place

Evensong June 3, 2022
in a search 
that brought me here
upon a helm
of transformation
to cleanse my thoughts
of introspection
and focus on people’s healing

the task is naught
i often fear
then hope arrives upon the clouds
to shelter us from sudden doom
and resume our fervent cry
in hopes the heavens hear
the daily drumbeat we supply
All sorts of lovely June 3, 2022

Last night i took the time to acknowledge how grateful i am for all this beauty surrounding my senses. Peace resides here. And within my body.

There will always be turmoil in the world. We must search for the presence of the Creator in whatever place we call home.

Posted in Poetry

Walking into Fog

Being either
too much
or not enough

Buried in the Noise

i dream
but nothing can be as i want it to be. Oh well?
Not sure i am painting the truth

or if i am,
i don’t understand the sights 
and truly lost is where i can be found.

February 2018 Buried in the Noise was a chapbook I had intended to publish before my mind changed. I never found the fortitude to proceed with the project. Today, I look at my poetry website and cringe, growl, weep, and wish i could organize my thoughts. They are scattered seeds that occasionally sprout.

Posted in Photography, Poetry

Escape

Escape
I never felt so lost
as all the seas are twisting
the souls forever daunting
amongst the tangled weeds
perceived to be my bed.
Instead,
I find my feet dangling
atop a sailor’s head
and all because I have
no love left to pretend.

The seas had been emptied
to drown the crowded sorrows
and all the earth has dried
to crumbling bone. Crushed!
That is the sentiment
heard
around the world
amongst cries of starving hands.
Sand sifting through fingers
atop the mountain peak.

Beware! A man comes from the east
to tempt you with her feast
of golden hues and noxious smells
of burnt sugar.
Their evil plan
dispels the glamour of romance.

Take me now! Let it be done!

The minutes are literally ticking away second by second. I am not lost in a satisfying romantic dream. Rather I am locked up in a reality that steals every comforting thought. To escape this would mean freedom. Imprisoned in my mind is a small child being forced to eat man’s stale bread.

Reader, If nothing makes sense it is simply because I am half awake and writing this as it appears in my mind. Hopefully a deep slumber overtakes me soon. An escape to some other moon. The pink one is expired.

Posted in Art, Musings, Poetry

Is writing only to publish a book?

some of my felted pieces

—–

So I abandoned my writing here on WP in order to pursue other creative expressions. Guess I was kinda bored with words. But not entirely restless. I dabbled for a bit in paint, wool felt, collage and learning the piano. None and all pursuits satisfied.

I also took shelter under a published poet, during this time, to gain feedback on my words. He addressed nine of what I consider some of my better poems and he suggested one was ready to publish. But where?

Yet, before I publish in a journal, I wondered, do I wait, sit longer with the other poems until they are publishable in the greater sense, by a jury of peers? Until the realization of the time problem and my ability to fix them. Or would the object lesson of editing render me helpless? Why should I consider putting twenty to thirty poems together in a chapbook? Then I think out loud “Why even allow the renegade poems to take my mind and heart hostage?

Friends and readers, I am still no further along this journey. I am unsure what to pursue full force. Do I saturate myself in pursuing publishing perfection or give up the destination? Do I stay with the map and follow the stars? Or abandon ship and set off on a new course? What should be my priority? All avenues would be ideal.

One thing is for certain, I look forward to indulging my creative expressions and see where I end up and sharing them here for awhile. My Instagram account has now been neglected. Cheers!

Happy creating, J✌🏼❤️🎶🎶🎶

Posted in Poetry

premeditated murder

you will speak
when spoken to

hollow tin cans
washed and stored
for emergency calls

the sacred wonder
to be visible
behind the jellyfish spine

i spoke
you heard no sound

soap scum
lines the rim
of my mind

careless words
left caressing sores
better left behind

lies
all of them

left you
before i was stolen
my soul ebbs

flows on
toward the echo
wedged inside

Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry, Random

Interior Designer

And automatically, the words became sentences, with stems and petals. Forced from the fertile soil, stories grew arms and legs. They not only held her dreams but they carried her to lands far away.

People have no idea what’s going on in my head. Most days i wish i didn’t either.