Seaweed Surf

Yeah! she wore armor.

Arrested by fear, she loved, loving him, behind his lustrous mirror. A skate in his shoes, unfit to fly, she drowned in midnight tears.

As a romantic heart, she fell, headlong, into the midnight sky. Drained of control, she darned their love and silently waved goodbye.

A feminine lit, from the inside out, she forgot where flowers bloom. And so underneath, the ivy hides, the crystals of many moons.

Is writing only to publish a book?

some of my felted pieces

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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✌🏼❤️🎶🎶🎶

demonstration

the weather changes my mind
as many times before
i resigned the raincoat and boots

and even though i thought
i understood yesterday
my mind conspicuously changes.

all i know is vacancy
clueless about being me
spare change abandoned on the sidewalk.

should you find it
keep it and have some fun
this thresholds absent of shelter’s gun.

slightest cut lets in life

Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.

Like Dicken’s “Tale of Two Cities” I have lived a tale of polar opposites. I have known a dark night of the soul and the fresh morning dew of enlightenment.

No memories can ever be forgotten but they can be forgiven. And the forgiveness allows me to wake up and be grateful for everything. Even the memories that still cause sharp pains. Those are the memories that led me to despair and wrestle in a black, plastic garbage bag until I finally took the knife, I once used against myself, and started cutting open breathing holes.

Coming into my own.

My own space. Mostly in my head. Yet, I stretch my arms up and out.

Fear diminishes. Courage sets in and becomes comfortable. Silence.

An awakening. Your idea of me no longer digs into my heart.

The match you hold hangs over my head. I close my eyes. Pray instead.

In Desperation

In a desperate attempt to find myself, I appear a mess. And that mess includes a home full of rooms and a collections of things. Ideas endlessly scattered. Everywhere.

So where have I been? Trying to find me. Editing my physical, emotional and spiritual self. I still haven’t quite found what I was hoping to find. I am getting close.

And if you haven’t noticed, I started another blog. An attempt to organize my thoughts. Am I successful? I certainly cannot see myself clearly. I avoid mirrors out of fear I won’t like the response.

But always I make my way back to writing. Still scratching the dust on the road.