Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry

Petaled Heart

He loves me
He loves me
What becomes of a broken heart
the forgiving of others
the turning away?

Where to begin my story? The ending is quite clear. The present state of affairs is wiped clean and a kinder, gentler, loving world appears. A fairy tale or truth?

If my heart were petaled, once upon a time, one petal was despair, another pain. Then to equalize my experience, a random lock of love would please my mind. This may sound reasonable. But it remains unbearable. Life becomes a game.

My petaled heart cries “He loves me. He loves me.” It can be no other way.

Posted in Poetry

Stones

I never carved a word
into anything permanent
because “What is truth?” anyway

studying love
i discovered my blank mind
was dangerously close to hypocrisy

i smoked every flavor
sank my teeth into sugar
rubbed my ailments with alcohol

i brushed bugs off flowers
held the leash too tight
fought against God

and other people’s entities
draped as silver chains
and golden idols of mediocrity.

I once made a pile
stones stacked as fences
stretching for miles

met people who stopped to wonder
what energy provoked such nonsense
whether we agree or disagree
someone will come by and pick up a stone
laid gently to stop
only to be thrown

Just wonder how you write? This came to me in the past ten minutes. Is it any good? Make any sense? I throw my life into the poetic mix and wonder do my thoughts matter. Why matter anyway? Just drink my coffee and run. As always, comments are acceptable forms of relating here. Cannot say we wont misunderstand each other. But I will try my hardest to be available. Shalom, Jeanne

Posted in Poetry

Abandoned Voices

Friend,

Everything around us
looks different in your brush strokes
wide swaths of funny

high-rises among rubble
the unspoken razor-sharp bleeds
internal combustion

my dirtied gauze
stops nothing from seeping
puss and white cells and bacteria

festered wounds i picked
until you filled with booze
tempered fury spilt over

until the silent spring
dead upon arrival
we finally met eye-to-eye

voiceless in song
two toddlers in tantrum
with war wounds gone

was anything as necessary
after years of turmoil brewed
than to stand and be alone

Posted in Photography, Poetry

Abandoned Voices

a silent heart weeps
that has plenty to say
why bother though
when the distance distorts the sound

without facial contortions or sight
our love blindly believes lies
when our mind feeds our prejudices
on both sides of this fence
Posted in Poetry

Contagion

I keep recycling these magical thoughts in hopes mushrooms sprout where all can watch and wonder how love works.

What does this even mean? I suffer alone under my floppy summer hat. Hold a candle to my eyes and you will find invisible tears streaming inside where evaporation cannot happen.

I will spare you the grey clouds. Maybe there never were silver linings in my mind. The hypothetical me exists alone.

(I hope DeAnthony will always remember I cared. And he makes his momma happy forever.)

Posted in Photography, Poetry

Send in the Clowns

Nuts Larry, we are on! 5/2020
Who can breathe
with words lodged between
ugly and uglier?

Send in the clowns
the skies are grey
laughter the medicine
a crying world deserves.

Someone trampled my flowers
stole honey from the jar
left bees buzzing around
a crown
I no longer desire to wear.

Spirits descend from tree branches
ready to spread fear
with mushroom poofs to hide a view
already hampered by night terrors.

Send in the clowns
the skies are grey
laughter the medicine
a crying world deserves.

Their voices rage
no longer bridled by JFK
or MLK
we face assassination
we waited too long to remedy
injustice for generations.

Greed
and disconnect
the snowy television screen
hides no tempered noise.

Send in the clowns
the skies are grey
laughter the medicine
a crying world deserves.






Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry

FOTD—Planting Seeds

A few days back, these grape hyacinths were at their peak. As they stood attention, bees collected pollen while the days faded. All holding a promise, that tomorrow, faith rests on fate.

I believe in today. And see the grand scheme rise up before me. I put my hand to the soil and till the earth. Spread my pocketful of seeds with a smile. And water the dirt with tears knowing this too will pass.

fading memories
grandma at the kitchen stove
stirring her pickles

hidden kittens purr
i feeding the baby calf
bowl full of cow’s milk

My Promise Garden arose from my grandfather’s suicide. The vision grows wherever I land. I have held this dream in my heart for 32 years. It only vanishes with my last breath.

Cee’s FOTD

(I have written about My Promise Garden, my brother, and my personal struggles before. They reside, buried in this ever evolving blog’s pages. Maybe those words will bud and blossom too. If I ever find the energy, I may edit my raw words into something more elegant. Until then, I rest in my meager efforts to get across how precious time is. Thank you friends.)

Posted in Poetry

Arrangements

If i were to talk 
because i held a certain trust
that words left on ledges
wouldn’t be pushed
shoved or trampled

what would your answer be?



The flowers carefully cut
each slice affords another view
each decidedly new
to the possibility of desert juice

so let’s drink up under the star’s canopy.



And if the end starts
another conversation
would you stay past midnight
under the blanket tent

I pitched while cleaning house?



Dressed in bleak
we stand and speak
of autumn nights that ramble
while holding hands

and rehearse our final vows.