Being superstitious comes naturally as hopes are dashed when plans are spoken out loud. But I am hoping this opportunity, that remains open until April 5th, might become a real possibility!!

For the next month I will be putting together my proposal to submit for a writer-in-residence position. That’s all i will tell. I do not want to jinx this opportunity. I don’t feel i have a good chance but i still need to try. I will never know if I do not try.

My proposal is based on writing poetry for young adults who struggle with mental health issues and especially suicidal thoughts. The topic of depression, anxiety, psychosis, along with facing an unknown future, will be the collection of poetry i propose to publish.

I am feeling quite good about this. My ability to relate to these young adults will bring memories flooding back. If i can help just one person i will be happy!

So, if you do not see me around… posting or reading, you will know what i am up to. Knowing myself so well, i wont stay away too long. But i must focus on this project.

The proposal is due April 5 and i will know my fate by June 30. Here goes nothing….


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

Today I want to give up trying to stay focused. I never know what thoughts will travel through this mind. The path is never straight nor narrow these days. I live in a chaotic existence.

Besides, it seems no use to focus at this stage of the game. Time wise, i am at life’s climax. I hear people say its all down hill from here. But then i remember my deliberate intentions to go after life in 2018. There is a desperate need to walk off the mental weight of grief. Banish the suffocating lost dreams that mock me.

I spent last weekend at Lutheran Hills as a farewell to girlfriends i had met there 14 years earlier. A fall hike was being advertised at church that summer 2004. I picked up the brochure which sparked a burning desire to discover myself. I intuitively knew i needed this necessary journey and was ready to explore.

I packed my weekend bag that October evening and told my husband my plans the following morning. He was stunned but happy for me. He took our three kids for the weekend.

I had never ventured anywhere alone and showed up at Shedron Lodge knowing everyone was a stranger. This was my very first time away from family and i was 37.

At 37, years were passing me and i was lost. I had no handle on any of my emotions, my body or my heart. I was floundering. Drowning. I had a biting urge to change the trajectory of my steps and it was a blur. I was desperate still in suicidal ideation. Death seemed the answer.

This post is hindsight which clarifies the memories. The voices. I left Lutheran Hills this past Sunday feeling determined. Even if i am focused just a moment, that is one moment more to paint.

I have finished quite a bit in the last 6 years. I have my Bachelor’s degree. My children are accomplished adults, thriving and growing into their best selves. I will be moving to Boston this summer and starting the best years of my life. I will walk the 18- mile trek for AFSP in Philadelphia and then hope to hike parts of the Appalachian Trail. As well as work with the people who have not found their voice yet.


The reasons i write are many. I never had words to express it until conversing with Ray. I know what sells. I write (and now paint) to stay sane and that is priceless.

I drag my heart through sand and launch my soul on eagle’s wings for a purpose. To finalize this life and leave this earth finished with no missing pieces. With no regrets.

Happy writing, J💙🕊🎶🎶

Waking Up

I believe inside each of us resides a broken heart that never received the love needed. Our job is to heal those wounds, as revealed, and to search for those yet uncovered.

It came to me -a dream
And so my friend,
he has a name -Goy Peppo.

My constant companion on this writing adventure, Goy “Penguin” Peppo. He hardly believes I have shoved out all these words, nonstop, since 2008. Its akin to puking… i slowly loose the burden, strung around my neck, threatening to hang me.

Certainly there are people who would loved to have seen me dead. Growing up, there were kids in school who harbored ill desires toward me. At home, my sisters regulated me to a corner of the room, size of a cardboard box, and threw my clothes on top. I was invisible to my parents who walked right past and never noticed the tears.

Nights. I remember being in the dark, listening to the laughter coming from the living room. My parents and sisters would make pizza and popcorn and watch tv. It didn’t matter. I held my breath, covered my face with a pillow, in hopes the world would disappear. I would wake to silence, thinking I was dead. Imagine the disappointment when my wishes had not come true.

So, Goy searches for Words of Wisdom, in hopes, with time, I can be as loved as him.

Wharton “It was easy enough to despise the world, but decidedly difficult to find any other habitable region.”

Woolf “I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.”

“I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!”

Alcott “I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil my copybooks; and I make so many beginnings there never will be an end.” (Jo March)

Frost “Poetry is what gets lost in translation.”

Plath “Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.

If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.

I feel my words are changing as I am healing. Becoming one heart. Whole. I hope I am growing as a writer, expressing the deep caverns, still not lit well enough to explore.

Writing is a discipline as any other creative endeavor. What we give of ourselves, to both the process and the outcome, is what eventually is criticized. What remains unsaid, at the end of the day, will wait for tomorrow.

Let’s Talk About It

Anything that’s human is mentionable, and anything that is mentionable can be more manageable. When we can talk about our feelings, they become less overwhelming, less upsetting, and less scary. The people we trust with that important talk can help us know that we are not alone.

— Fred Rogers

The call came from Germany on Christmas Eve 1990. “Thanks for the cookies.” He was lying in the hospital having been bit by a poison spider. Weak from his excursion in the desert.

I had forgotten the sound of his voice for a moment. Only I didn’t really forget his voice. It had changed to a young man, grown.

Not fully understanding then, our conversation ensued and he finally broke down a tad. “They made us sit in gas chambers. Like during the holocaust.”

He would return to the states broken of his spirit. All of my love couldn’t fill those spaces hollowed out by war. The places of his mind were altered to pain and terror. He was a walking shell, emptied of John. Color had left his voice.

I was helpless on the other end of the phone line. My cookies such a weak gesture. I should have flown to see him. That was impossible! I was a new mom. Emily was six months old. None of which we talked about. Would a quilt have been more comforting? A gentle reminder of my care for him when he was a babe.

John remained a confused soul. We became estranged. He believed I was living in a perfect world and he wanted no reminder of his past. But haunts filled his days ever more. And chased him down each path.


As March 1 draws near, emotions bubble to the top. Mostly anger. Then guilt. I rotate through the grief process every year. Denial passed over. The event all too familiar and real.

I think. I thought.

Shouldn’t i be well
by now

the pain of missing you
not seeing your smile
hearing the loving words
from your mouth -voices

ridicule my rest from the tragedy
climbing down the mountain
i scream, it should have been me!

What a mistake
to be happy
back up the mountain
year after year. Again and again.
Realizing in a year
the steep decline,
a familiar path,
has no net.

But you felt better,
decided to join society,
well meaning people chime. Again and again.
Who can understand this pain?

living on the edge

not quite anorexic

not quite dead

years followed like yellow-fin tuna

migrating with dolphin

caught in the same trap

i looked for the silver-lining

the glimmer in someone’s eye

all the same false talking points

“hang on, it will be better -tomorrow

all these tears will dry…”

while you swim against the tide

swallowed by depression

followed by ghosts of pride

Out of the Darkness

Today is Suicide Awareness Day.
Im memory of my brother, John Matthew, April 28, 1971-March 1, 2008.

Seattle, WA, Summer 2014.

walk 6 hours
18 miles through
darker still he grew,
grief, a funny animal
drowning in the sea.

feathered whispers breathe,
the air unreal
as passing days fade
ushering in broken silence.

fly away friend in peace, jeanne


Resources: International Survivors Day


Seek knowledge of multiple aspects in life; relationships are complicated.
Capsized. Off coast of Monhegan Island, ME May 2016

I feel a need
explain myself, hoping misconceptions
do not blur the mirror between our faces.
Our breath fogging up the air.

Waves are what you believe.
Rowing towards another
smooth sailing desired
frantically head towards the shore.

Prepare for the storm
learn navigation, obstacles overcome
hide in the corner, drowning all senses
to trust or mistrust.

Cheating ourselves of courage
of what could be
love atop a mountain view
or mourning under sea.

Ocean rowing is very much what you make it. Rowing technique is pretty irrelevant on the ocean. It’s the psychology that’s important.   –Roz Savage

A child capsized before they realize they have wings, a poor prognosis to rise above. Faulty  attachment leads to mistrust. See the hollow eyes looking back at you? What to do?

There are approximately 500,000 children in the United States in foster care. How else could a heart be broken? Children sinking in a great fissure of happiness and despair. There is hope. A nugget of faith to embrace. A chance to grasp what knowledge gives a person to soar above the noise and reach a point of need. A life purpose I sail towards, navigating bumps and bruises, of my own, as I witness sadness beyond the horizons. Yet I keep believing.  One child saved is worth my life. One smile worth more than gold and gems.

In a sense I travel the confines of another mind. That can freak people out. Who dare look within? I blame no one. I avoided it but now I am grateful to that person who listened. No matter how pathetic I sounded, he rode the waves out. I imagine I put fear into his mind. The multiple thoughts of suicide; knives, ropes and pills. It would cause anyone panic. Towards the end, I thanked him profusely. The mending of multiple people inside that realized only the one who could mentally handle what happened. Essentially sparing others the need to fathom the horror.
I know this all sounds crazy. I feel crazy some days. Especially when I become so open to others I barely know. In a sense hiding behind this screen. Fleeing when I have had enough. I know that as long as the words remain within and I have yet to let them go I will continue to post (warning some posts will be dark and understand if you unfollow) and read and chug along this funny thing called “life”. Ahhhh, then to understand death. Not sure I have enough time to go that far. Be well.

Thanks for reading. Happy to be a Word Press blogger. Enjoying  my time. And all that.  –Jeanne


a man named suicide

i was pulled into a world of suicide.

i often woke, in a peaceful wish, to pass from whatever i felt. it stung. i did not know it had a name. a blank stare at a world passing by that never seemed to stop and say hi.

i did not appreciate the genius of creation. the sparks i saw when i closed my eyes or the beat of a heart, misshapen. not the perfect lines aliens drew. their hearts were desirous and mine turned blue, even with oxygen, i could barely breath. no one bothered to check the air exiting or entering, they assumed all was well.

a man named suicide

a dapper gentleman, suicide
quietly enters a life to steal a life.
he does not want to die
so he drives souls to the edge
keep his moment alive.
(what if i fought back, would he fight harder still?)
i feared and loved him all the same
time passing, he changed.
his long-faced demeanor approached, larger than life.
a dug grave, so deep, i knew he could entomb me
the white flower i held,
grasped tight.
had someone told me to throw it in
i would have gone along for the fall.

*God knew i was hurting, turning His back. Knowing I was slipping from His hands.
Like Job He tested my faith. Like Job I surrendered my soul to Him. God won.

suicideFor me this means Jesus. For others it may be a friend.