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
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.
My newest interest is felting wool roving into landscapes… taken from my photographs of an enchanting New England.
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?
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!)
my son is so much
like his father
i want to jump
out the window
i can leave the man
but i cannot
being a mom
is so painful
that i catch myself
i’d made different
about a life …
This is equally tragic as 9/11. The voices of those dead in Chicago cry out for us to take action. How do we react? We dissect each tragedy and look for blame. Is there blame? On who or what? Scholars divide the problem into money, race and gender. But i say the problem is time, compassion and heart. We are too busy to listen to the kids in first grade who open up and tell about their life.
Once trust is earned, the problems surface. These children are calling out for help.
The little child tells me he will never make his momma sad and be like his older brother. He wants to read and learn. But then he enters sixth grade and they bully him into submission. Take his backpack and books and call him shame. “Shame on you for listening to whitey! They hate you. Dont you remember?” Those words echo in his head and dig into his heart. I scream in a whisper. “I care. I am white. So what? Can you not see my heart. It beats for every death you celebrate. Every life you snuff out.”
To the kids i knew at School on Wheels. I hope someday we hug in heaven. ❤️❤️❤️ Or even better we run into each other some where in this world!
Generations. To profess belief in simple faith and be left to wander the perilous gate… held ajar, wide open. The future bleak… shall the narrow door shut in time… before utter and complete destruction.
Ideally, we all could get along. Some stronger. Others weaker.
The problem is truth cannot be relative. Either murder is wrong or acceptable. If it is wrong, as widely perceived, it is grace which is required among the equation. This, for the person harmed and the harmer, to love and begin again. To pave a way forward with peace and hope and faith. Love is turmoil when we fail to comprehend personal actions that harm others. Love without grace is the worst transgression of all.