Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry

Unbridled Hope

Linger longer, your storm is stronger. Cast your spell and wear it well. Smile a little wider and breathe the air.

I was digging in the sand with an old metal child’s toy. A shiny new, red-handled, plastic shovel just wouldn’t do. I intended to find treasure and wanted nothing less than rare gems.

The first scoop was fine sieved rock that had been beaten down. Once shell homes, they lay waste to unscrupulous waves. The second scoop was nothing more.

As the sun beat down upon my neck, I could not give up. I grabbed the metal shovel, scooped another bucket full, and behold a pearl appeared.

As I sat on the ocean’s edge, the shovel’s rust mixed with the salty tears and orange ran down the castle moat. And in my hand was the world’s irritants made new. A testament to belief and faith that troubles weary you in the search. At the end, fortitude rewards the heart.

Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry, prose

The road arrived.

Life is lived on levels and arrived at in stages. —Edwin Louis Cole

Good morning. As the turning of days and as the grass sprouted from winter slumber, I found myself at a point where I realize I can tarry no longer. I must be courageous and serious. I must be willing and full of hope. I must grasp every word that spills from my heart and wring them dry, until I no longer see the darkness inside. What then should I do when the light allows too much room for curiosity? The despair I roam within ebbs and throws me into oblivion. I must be willing to try and write what I set out to create. Even if I fail. I must no longer tarry as if my days are endless. Grey is as good of a place as any to either brighten the world with hope or darken it with tragedy. I hope my efforts will lift us to hear the galloping of freedom drawing ever near. That heaven’s promises of long ago will not cease to keep heads from drowning under the growing storm. I sense the road has arrived. I cannot deny my calling any longer. I cannot be a child of milk and cookies. I must be willing to learn and sift knowledge. To discern the day’s signs and the evenings quandaries. To be, is my last attempt at fulfilling my heart’s rhythm. The beating lasts but a few days more. I am ready to accept my fate. Let it be so.

If we fail
fail to see the wind
coming at the break neck speed
of a metal horse
on tracks,

If we fail
fail in our comfort
food, shelter and clothing
scraped together with goodwill
given as scraps to wild dogs,

If we fail
fail as foreign spies
on fellow citizens
drumming up grievances and rounding up heads
rolling in wooden bowls
we ravish our own hands.



We fail.
We won’t change history any more than armies before us.
We drip in mother’s blood
and scour our bodies of father’s filth.
We bury bones in rags
doused with our enemies vapors. And cheer.
Cheer our own demise as we beg for freedom from our own ills.
Posted in Art, Poetry

Did you come?

Flicker 4/20/2020

Can anyone hear the lark sing
I wonder. The rain knows
the words that twirl
to form the song
inside this vacant heart. You
removed all the furniture

placed into another room
wallpapered with old paintings. Never
knowing which was your color
i painted the reds of maple blooms
spring leaves only a few days old

they held no shape for us to know
how these days would go. And
now they bleed into years
of birthdays spent walled between plexiglass.
Yesterday’s reflection lied

as eyes peered to watch a head linger
a long pause …
the window hurts from all the noise
it rattles from my fist
poised to strike against me.

Posted in Photography, Poetry

MsInterpretation

Disclaimer: This post is from three weeks ago. Whether i agree or disagree with these thoughts today or tomorrow… well, they happened. And i write them down, for good or bad. My words and I, we belong to each other, united in this marriage for the long haul. Good luck to me… right?

I know i am nothing to you. I am nothing and nobody… simply a body with breath that speaks timidly.

And i wonder, in my mind, why. Why i dont turn… run.

Run from this insanity. You could never know how pained it is to write, when writing pains me so. My mom insisted “Be a writer.” I can’t write. I object. Writing is a prison and my heart desires freedom. To dance.

I am a dancer. As i swim deeper, the ink sashays across the paper. A pirouette for me!

A vision of a knife carving in ice, the motions of my mind, drawn. Images to blind.

I Bleed. I retreat. I refuse.

I kick and scream… demand the cage door open.

Is death the only way out?

Death to potent dreams has already strangled this blood from flowing to the ocean floor… where darkness, lit by sun, is a home for all i cant speak. Or write. Or be.

So why tell you? I know i cant and so it soothes. Id run if you obliged.

And this, all a dream. A dream that stares from every corner. Mocks me religiously. And maybe

i shouldnt spill so freely…

splatter the whiteness of your eyes.

Posted in Art, letters, Musings, Photography, Poetry, Soul Journal

Goals for 2019 and other musings…

Jeanne Elizabeth

Popping on to WP… to say HI! And to give everyone who follows my blog an update as to what I HOPE happens in 2019.

First, and foremost, I have missed all of you lovely poets, artists and dreamers… HOPE you are well and busy as my world has been quite busy too. Beyond moving to a new town and making friendships, selling and buying a new house and making it my home, and living on the East Coast and acquiring a love of my new lifestyle, I am embarking on quite a creative 2019.

‘Night Blooms’

My newest interest is felting wool roving into landscapes… taken from my photographs of an enchanting New England.

‘Forest’, ‘Mount Wachusett’, ‘Yellow Wood’

The ‘Yellow Wood’ piece is not quite complete as i am awaiting Highlighter Yellow wool roving. These pieces are smaller… generally 4×6.

My piano lessons are going well. I am tapping away and happy to announce i will be able to play simple versions of ‘White Christmas’ and ‘Jingle Bells’ at holiday celebrations. My Christmas cards are written and mailed. I enjoy the daily stroll to our post office in historic Still River. The building is not manned but does house mailing supplies and is a convenient drop-off point for stamped parcels. It is a beautiful landscape and well preserved for generations and those to come.

We had one snow fall in November, which unfortunately has melted. I was able to capture the beauty for memories and inspiration.

I bought an Underwood office typewriter in HOPES i could produce unique and one-of-kind poetry chapbooks for my favorite poets. The typewriter, turns out, is in need of extensive repairs and i am waiting to hear the prognosis. I HOPE to hear good news soon. It was my intention, after all, to create beautiful chapbooks for the poetic souls who capture my imagination daily. If all goes as originally planned… i will be setting up a section on this blog to sell those books, along with my felted landscapes, and perhaps expand to sell mine and other people’s paintings. Stay tuned!!!

And, if you have read to this point, without losing interest… i am most excited to announce i have embarked on a six-month writing adventure with a published poet who is quite extraordinary in his writing: Nicolas Samaras.

I am equally intimidated by his word prowess. My goal is not necessarily to be published … i am much too shy to have the world seeing my thoughts on paper. But i took the bullet that has been wanting to pierce my skin and watch me bleed… i take hold my stained paper and profess to be ready! The funny thing is i have been plugging away at this blog for eons… most of what is on here is complete gibberish… I believe it is time to shine the apple.

Get ready for an all new Jeanne on WP in 2019. And you? What are your goals for 2019?

Posted in Poetry

en route

changing again
i feel the swelling…
the release

leaving you
behind

lost
been searching
found a fragment

where did this love come from
and when did it arrive

i turned
it lay waiting
pristine and all aglow

when this love finds home
will it ever go

it is all too beautiful
my hands heavy
with your tainted blood

how this new love forgives
and breathes life

Posted in Musings, Poetry

Piano lessons (first thoughts)

A piano came with the house. And I sat down with wonder. How does one play a song? Through arched fingers i pound, as elegantly as possible. Or as angrily as appropriate. The sound reverberates around. Or did it begin, start within, to flow through my veins? And perch a tune on fingertips?

Yes! piano lessons, teach me. Release me from this body. As a critic, shed my skin. Please, come bow with me in the end.

(Lessons are going well. Six lessons in and I can play simplified versions of Camptown Races, Yankee Doodle and Row, Row, Row Your Boat. I will spare you the torture. I am enjoying this experience though!)

Posted in Poetry

dreams so wrong

never thought
of wishes
bad memories is all

when
words
carved of wood
petrified stone
perched
on oak branches
stop
the dangling swing

push
her legs, pumping
of sprouted wing
the sun made
all the difference
in a light rest
lying in a dark tomb
of books

she turned the pages
gently, torn
worn of ages ago

remembering
the sewn sleeve
of a dress
was it hot?
cold?
most mothers know
the weatherman’s secret
so predictable
to forecast the future

her plaster-of-paris
dreams
some how, gone wrong