do you not want me
writing, hoping
-trying to understand? it is
all there. I see it.
you cannot make it
happen, but sometimes
you do.

trying, flopping
-calming the storm, but
the flames spark
wildfires.  it does not
matter who I am,
just know it is chaos
and your never found.

10/7/2017 jems

(Social service workers, therapists and group counselors encounter broken people everyday.  One particular concern in the United States is dating violence where 1 in 4 teenagers encounters an abusive relationship.  Here is one girl’s story.)

Let me wrap
my arms around you
your cracked soul
leaks salty tears
burns your fettered wounds.

a world named “love”
is obsolete
hell is nicer
this being our witness
our names changed
to “battle”.

I will let him know
scars mark you
with shame
but I am power
and will name his name.

The flowers are ugly
a painted neck and chest
where love landed
his inhuman disregard
for everything beautiful
burns as lightening.

Drowning in the tide
unable to recede
the planets shine no more.
I stand behind you
the salvation of your heart.


I see and feel and sometimes I rather not witness what lies behind the eyes. Yours appear calloused. Impenetrable. I call you a hero. You save me from the pain. In a weird way your sorrow blesses me and you suffer alone. 

Toby contemplating life

a tent
men reside
her stride
peer inside
the rubble
left behind.

(*my intention is never to bash mankind or any particular belief unless and only if it is detrimental to personhood.  And even if a belief harms another it does not mean the philosophy, psychology or religion is at fault.  Deep inside we all are flawed.  End up harming another in some way.  We can be versatile, possess world views similar in outcome and remain miles apart.  Many have felt a belief to be true but have witnessed the belief perverted for personal gain.  Even that thought, perverted and true, will rumble together and result in individual outcomes.  The world is simply love but exists in never-ending controversy.  We are complicated poets.  All of us.)

Every time

Every time I think of shuttering the door and pulling the curtains closed (on my blog) I cry.  Not because of the quiet, still keyboard or the hush, hush sound of decay.  No some days computer keys wears me out and I feel the bones crumbling and desire numbness towards it all.  Why I stay is for the friendship of many of you who leave kind thoughts on posts or the daily cheering of my attempts to write. The pursuit of reading your blogs knowing you are miles and hours away immersed in a culture I know very little brings me joy.

I know, you think another self-absorbed, wanna-be writer who thinks only of her self.  Ha ha ha I do laugh at that because I know in order to be anything creative there is an inner life to cultivate that the world will and can never understand.  Think a moment, could Van Gogh paint without emotion or Carl Jung delve into another mind without knowing themselves first, inspecting the daisy in the blades of grass while the rain falls from a darkened cloud eagerly waiting for the sun to appear?  And was it wrong for them to slip away into themselves with a pursuit to brighten a small part of their (our) world?  As the story in Aladdin explains, it is a whole new world.  We should love being part of it.  My attitude today is different from the days I wished for death.  And the days I know death will wish for me.  And the day I succumb to the inevitable.  Along with me, my blog.

Saying good bye is never easy.  No, I am not going to shut the window (on my blog), stop the air flow in my face because my heart would break.  But I do think of it often.  Quitting.  Mainly because I am tired.  Tired of seeing the brokenness, trying to repair what seems unfix-able.  I am worn from the worn out world.  I mean how much longer can we bear the unbearable.  Jesus cried out before His execution “Why have you forsaken me?” and I do think we have forsaken ourselves, abandoned to the worst in us.  I ask “If God had forsaken us would we still be here?”  So perhaps the condition of the world is our fault and the blood does lay at our feet.

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

This blog has been my world for a long time.  There were absent years where the earth lay dormant, the garden grew weeds fed by catatonia.  I sat beleaguered by anxiety and depression.   The past 1 1/2 years I have written regularly with a loss of a few random days.   I am living again.  I hope with good intentions to banish shadows.  The courage to be met by a few followers who I treasure immensely.  If you are reading this know you mean so much even though I know very little of you.  My heart beats life as Joan of Arc confessed her loyalty, with eagerness to make the days count, you as my witnesses.

In fear and trembling, destiny’s road perishes.
With courage, horizons come to light.

I live in the borderlines.  The margins released so I can fly.  I soar in the words of my heart and share them eagerly with you.  Thank you for letting me be part of your world.


Happy writing, J

In all things may there be wellness.

The absence of sound is the beginning of wisdom.

Wondering about the rising bubbles and taking care not to pop them, my mind turns to the hidden breath that resides within, trapped in time.

The Innocence we begin as, is what we return to. A return to purposeful thought and discernment. Yet I recall nothing of the first light and the resounding answers in the dark.

The fear I felt as child may have been real but is lost to time and the fear remains, traveling toward the end.  Where is the end?  This birthday or the next?  Turning 50 is not as bad as the world reveals.  I feel I have just begun.  A new life.  Adventure awaits.  All the things I have not or could not do for various reasons, mostly at my own fault and reasoning.  I certainly fear the rising phoenix in the room.  Although this time I will rise to conquer myself.

Who brands me the quiet one when I feel the urge to speak?
They have real courage and I am left to find strength to overcome.
So speak.

And so the mind rambles through and over and never ends because once my feet have hardened on a particular road, another pair of feet are born. Another way to travel.

In fear and trembling, destiny’s road perishes.
With courage, horizons come to light.

I begin my Sundays with this thought and why I led them towards the end of today’s ramblings, well I begin a fresh note and leave last week’s musings alone, for awhile.  Pick them up, again, when the time seems right.

Have a great week. Happy writing, J 🙂

Careers, naivete and growing up

I cannot pinpoint what brought up a past memory this morning but it is there all the same. When a memory is wedged between all the other thoughts, my only recourse is to write about it and so the story goes:

Out of high school, instead of my parents sending me to college, I took a job as a criminal law secretary, then as a bookkeeper in a marketing firm for McDonald’s and then ended up as a do-it-all in a rental department, with a prominent builder in Wisconsin. I owned a car, drove to work Monday through Friday and I was a mere 20 years old. I rented apartments, did the bookkeeping, had to evict a tenant (luckily they were not home) and inspected move-ins and move-outs. I was not fairly compensated, making $5.25 an hour, minimum wage at the time. Inwardly, I felt I was being cheated, but never made a fuss. Today, I have to admit I was a great employee and they certainly took advantage of me.

One particular man stands out from all the other tenants. The image of chicken bones strewn throughout his apartment is one to never forget. He was blind and had no idea of the mess he had made and certainly unaware of the cockroaches he had attracted. They do say oblivion is next to happiness. For me, the sight was more than I could understand. It was absolutely astonishing. One that he had no one to help him and two, to not feel the suffocating mess he existed within. What became of his story is a guess, but I do hope  he is happy somewhere.

I find this quote haunting. I wonder if this is what the blind man felt.

Had he lost hope,
free in a world of walls?
Had he suffocated
from his blindness?
I will never completely understand.
I see vistas and curtained windows,
opened doors and shuttered hearts.

Then there was the family who lived a completely opposite lifestyle. The wife suffered from OCD, and whenever I scheduled to show their home, she would lay out plastic everywhere so as not to contaminate her possessions. She washed her hands over and over, so the gossip in the office went. I would have wanted to let her be but there was no other town house to show at the time. I can feel for her today as I see more people like this in my field of counseling, as I further my studying. It truly was and is a terrible suffering.

I am unsure which scenario saddens me more. An existence where you cannot be satisfied, always worrying, or not caring about anything at all. I think we need to find a balance between the two. All of life is a balance. Is it not?

Anhedonia part2

Warning, dark. Proceed with caution. Faint hearts retreat.

If you have never experienced depression or anxiety, I will try and explain it, but there is no description to adequately portray the devil it is. One reason it remains difficult to expound on, is if I had you muffle the surrounding sounds, you would realize that feat is impossible, cognizant of the fact you are trying to get lost, so you would never feel depressed. Perhaps a better way to describe depression is to have you imagine a happy person’s feeling of a wave as cleansing, welcoming and refreshing. Now experience those same waves as enemies, suddenly you are crippled with debilitating pain. Those once friendly waves exasperate the hidden hurt, exponentially.

Anxiety is another beast. To experience anxiety, try this. Look out the window and realize the monsters you once were told are fictive, suddenly come alive and whisper your name. Realizing they are coming for you, the house becomes a dungeon. A safe place to be but full of spooks. You are unable to enjoy the view or fear leaving the house.

The relief comes in sleep or plotting ways to stop the noise. Perhaps walk into the middle of the street and wait for a semi-truck to run you over or picture the rope in the basement sing your name, telling you “problem solved”. We all know the point of pills is to make you well and how much better you will feel swallowing the whole vial. The call of the ocean another plot, serene and swift, peaceful and private. All these thoughts enter a very sick person’s mind.

For me, these were ideations. For others they become lethal means of opportunity. Read the linked article, you well may save a life.

The Fray, How to Save a Life

My point? I do not imagine negative,
I remember.
Memories ingrained as etchings that can never be removed.

i absolutely abhor her thoughts,
my daughter trapped in the same hell.
what i welcome in me,
i tear in grief from her hands.

if i knew i would tell,
the idea or word that seeks my soul.
a whisper to the deep,
i wait to finally know.

My daughters depression and anxiety are biological. I am there for her daily, we struggle together. She has approached me on occasions wanting to die. That is my world. I understand her as I have walked this road for 40 years.


Infinite Jest

A literary challenge of 1,000+ pages and endnotes in a novel, Infinite Jest is not for the faint of heart. Readers say it is as entertaining as it is complex.

Elegant Complexity: A study of David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest

Language of David Wallace Foster

“I do things like get in a taxi and say, “The library, and step on it.” –David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

I found David Foster Wallace on accident. Walked right into him, excused myself and there, I saw his mind, as if I were speaking his words. Tackling his book will be a feat, as climbing the highest mountain or perhaps exploring the deepest ocean floor. Either way, I imagine it will exist to be a long, hard look in a mirror. I am guessing, gleaning from quotes of his, referenced on the internet.

Seems funny I have only just heard of him and his words. I read he committed suicide. No surprise there as to why he may have ventured my way. Like a magnet, I find myself attracted to similarity.

“It is unimaginably hard to do this, to stay conscious and alive, day in and day out.”

“Every love story is a ghost story.”–David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

I apologize for my bleak pen. It is a healing pen for me. Talking out loud instead of harboring thoughts inward. This is a long climb out of myself. So far, I am still here.

I sincerely hope you are well. J

Talking Cure 

Am i seriously having this conversation alone?

Two days later,
talking, gaining volume,
a thought pops into my mind,
sometimes as soon as i leave the office.

these voices,
invisible in my head,
they sound so much like you.
I hear spirit advice “hang on”.

Each word enters the sanctuary,
prepared to wash this stone.
He asks “Can you hear me?”


These bare bones
outline a complicated life
of hide-n-seek and give-n-take.
These wandering thoughts
transfixed by an immobile feast,
memories deprive my soul.

I crave to be known, still
I am frightened
of showing my heart.
I hidden in you,
you hidden in me,
together is where we ought to be.