My Feathered Heart

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My Feathered Heart (original poem)

My review of The Feathered Heart by Mark Turcotte.

I once found a teeny-tiny downy woodpecker feather. At most, the feather measured one inch (2.54 cm) in length. My guess as to the year found would be 2010. I had since lost the treasure to find it again while packing up our house to move. Today’s date 3/11/2018.

The feather, seen above in the bookmark constructed, is grey/black with five incomplete white spots. The spots are not complete circles as the white color lies on the fringe. As such, it mimics my teetering heart, lying on the edge of an invisible border erected by thoughts. It is my feathered heart that led me to find Mark Turcotte and his book of poems, The Feathered Heart.His book will be returned to as often as needed. To remedy my soul with feeling words erected as fences. (I found a used copy, to be delivered just in time for my birthday, through Amazon 😁.)

My wayward feet travel searching for answers. The silences weave protection. The war i battle is not within but from outside the curtained window. I learn to dress in velvet’s hope.

Still Life

Still Life (Fish with Red Bowl) 1923-24 Salvador Dali

I’m quiet. Sorry
sitting here
the mass of mail -stacked

knee-high and wearing wader boots
slipping off -the rainbow trout
loves the May fly
and a rocky river bottom

you blossom. I promise
to tie loose ends -taut
paint beginnings
bought a pair of boots

scaled back on the email
let’s cast this line out -together
rock the rafters


and forth.

Teeth. Dig In.

Those who do not want to imitate anything, produce nothing. Dali

Plans change. We say one thing and do another. Does that make us hypocrites? Liars? We strive and fail. Damned fools? Or simply tired?

Today, there are no planned adventures until after 2pm (US Eastern Time), where upon we will venture out to St. Petersburg to visit the largest collection of Salvador Dali’s art, outside of Spain.

I don’t do drugs. I am drugs. Dali

Yesterday was a visit to see my Aunt Jeani, Uncle Don, and first, second and now third cousins, in Venice FL. We have not seen each other in 43 years. Last time we visited my cousin Stevie was 12, Tammi 6. My aunt and uncle struck oil in the 1960’s, on their farm in Illinois, and the family took off for California, finally settling in Florida, where they set-up a halfway house for homeless and drug abusers. My aunt and uncle have saved countless people from themselves. And now Tammi is ordained and carries on the halfway home. Some of the patients end back on the street, but those who are determined, find new life, and a reason to live. We had lots to celebrate over a wonderful meal.

What is our life calling? To save ourselves or find life’s oft hidden truths saving others?

Visiting often means reminiscing. My cousin Tammy told us as kids her and Stevie and Sherry would fill buckets full of shark teeth at Venice’s beaches. With hugs and kisses goodbye, after a too short of a visit, our family headed to Caspersan Beach to search for shark teeth.

Our arrival greeted us with a painted shoreline lined with eager seekers. Not a gold rush but a rush to unearth something that is now rarer to find. A storied shark tooth. Every one with me gave up rather quickly, except my oldest daughter.

There was no guarantee her or I would find a tooth. In all those grains of sand, time passes, and often hope of fulfillment. The picture above is my determination paying off.

I wrestled with my husband, son and youngest daughter wanting to leave. But i stuck it out, digging my feet in deeper. It was the turning over that brought up the tooth.

Each of us is worn ragged. Thoughts lodged in crags. The rocks jutting into and between the lines of our existence. Who wins out in the end?

I have no scars to prove yesterday happened. I possess a tooth and a prayer to survive.

Happy writing, J🦈Still Life Fish with Red Bowl Dali<<<<


“The more I write, the more the silence seems to be eating away at me.”  — Anne Sexton

Quiet rambles on
a stupor follows me -around
the corner grocer
stands tall -ready
to pack the anger
in a box to store,
a book of sorts.

Those men
standing there,
talking of wrinkles
my car windows rolled down,
i could have hollered -instead
the quiet wind rushing in
cleansing my head of dollars spent.

Stuck at a train crossing to nowhere and I have somewhere to be. Good time to write. 2.8.2017

Happy Birthday Mr. King

January 15, 1929

Martin Luther King was born in Atlanta, Georgia during an era of mistrust between brothers and sisters, each holding long-standing beliefs of there being more difference than similarities among us. As I understand, tears are tears and smiles are smiles.

Everyone questions their purpose when they know their worth. Mr. King fought for his fellow pilgrims facing injustice. He accomplished first steps toward unity yet today some emphasize differences more than reality. 

To accomplish justice we can first focus on the simple things of life then tackle world views. We may never agree in ideology but we can come together and I believe and share Mr. King’s dream.

August 28, 1963

So, Lincoln and King
fought the same thing
rule and will,
power’s thrill
to watch blood spill in vain.

April 15, 1865

Lincoln was assassinated fighting for and enjoying life. He faced adversity with courage and might. So too King.

April 4, 1968. 

History remembered never repeats out of respect for the noble fight. We can join these heroes by learning to understand what humanity means and uphold all men and women as created equal. There is someone in everyone’s life who needs a helping hand.