Frida Sage or Fenny Hope? 
The first egg 
First season’s snow 20/21 
My first snowshoe walk 
Fruitlands 
Narnia 
Bare Hill Pond
Tag: poetic living
Art Night
this jagged heart line
avoid the cracks midst the stones
criss cross hope to die
Sacred Rhythm
My View in the Evening
Morning overture
trek shore of eternal soul
don the evening’s shawl
Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul. John Muir
People. We are complicated and simple. We are shy and rowdy. We are there in the city and here in the country. We are seen and invisible. We exist and then die.
We are, in the quiet pause, an eruption. And will always be the star.
Painting with Scissors Matisse Style
Life is a dress rehearsal. Every day reminds me of yesterday’s failures, today’s possibilities, and tomorrow’s reminders. Today, my biggest question to myself centers around my faith that someone greater (for me God) exists beyond my imagination.
What exists in my view is awfully short of some angelic heaven.
Are we creating a heaven on earth? Who is out of bounds with creating such a horrific world? Why do we go from bad to worse with every new year? Who is winning this never-ending battle of wits?
Politics is no answer. The spirit of love must overcome the drought of not seeking others or understanding them. Forgiveness is more necessary than ever. Anger and bitterness, when allowed to take root, pave the way to destruction. Hate drains the blood and leaves us tired of life. The consequence of despair is a hopeless dance.
Are you doing your part to create a beautiful world? Are you spreading cheer? Loving your neighbor or finding fault? Blaming race or religion, using both as an excuse to further harm life on earth? Hiding your love under a bushel?
There can be peace and goodwill. And we do not have to cancel God to achieve those ends. We must cancel our fleshly desires and embrace our neighbors as ourselves.
Month in Review: B&W Style
Autumn Diary
Weekly is too often
while apple blossoms ripen
and words choke the heart.
Above, geese rise skyward
putting behind the folly
of man’s aimless trails.
I ride my bike for the first time
since spring
with November winds trailing
the spokes cutting through falling leaves
and smile-crowned pumpkin patches pass me by.
Sacred Rhythm
Earlier today I was thinking of intellectual honesty. A concept that keeps tugging at me. We can either labor a short time and build a sand castle or we can drink our time slowly, and build a shelter of many rooms to harbor lost souls.
The book I intend, to finally set sail, shall be such a vessel. A book that wanders through corridors and opens windows. As well as shut doors that once secretly invited in desperation, futility, and deceit. I realize I fight not against a fleshly foe but a spirit of confusion. The deadliest condition of man.
Note: I noticed I was missing this space. Yet find a greater need to go away. A push and pull. A tug and tightening encapsulates my heart. If anyone is feeling the same Id be grateful to connect and explore this dynamic.
Thank you for the earlier well wishes. I hope you all are doing well. Shalom. Jeanne
Solitude, isolation, are painful things and beyond human endurance. Jules Verne
It’s an interesting combination: Having a great fear of being alone, and having a desperate need for solitude and the solitary experience. That’s always been a tug of war for me. Jodie Foster
Week in Review: Voice Gone Dark
My blog is on hiatus. For a long time? For a short time? For an unspecified time.
I need a break from my head. I need to sail away from life.
There are plenty of questions with no answers. I wish I could say differently.
I already miss you lovely people. Stay well and take care.
If you need me, you probably know how to reach me. Peace.
Always Happy Writing with you, Jeanne ✍🏼
And please don’t forget about Crow Gifts, my first collaborative chapbook. Submit your 1-3 poems, short bio, and links to soulcollective67@gmail.com. Thank you to those who have already done so. 😘❤️
Walking into Fog
Being either too much or not enough Buried in the Noise i dream but nothing can be as i want it to be. Oh well? Not sure i am painting the truth or if i am, i don’t understand the sights and truly lost is where i can be found.
February 2018 Buried in the Noise was a chapbook I had intended to publish before my mind changed. I never found the fortitude to proceed with the project. Today, I look at my poetry website and cringe, growl, weep, and wish i could organize my thoughts. They are scattered seeds that occasionally sprout.
The Last Hurrah
My life lived in thirds. The missed chances, no longer regrets. The regrets never molded by my hands. The mannequin standing naked in the window was never meant to be dressed.
I started filling out Proust’s Questionnaire December 2019. I finished it today. The dream finally clear and in focus.
