Day 286, Maybe in May

The irony of the poem is that this is the last day of May and as my brain was trying to understand things I just can understand, like child abuse, a little girl dying, or the way we tell ourselves things that aren't true I just sort of checked out, like a hopeless math student. An emotional dislexic.

Maybe in May
I'll understand.
The easy math of
addition and subtraction
Elude my left brained heart.
So now in this
forever April
I stare at sums
Boggled by their
Lack of compassion.
The mess of odd numbers, remainders
And minute fractions
Seem ruthless.
Maybe in May
It will all add up.
Maybe then these
Negative and positive
Conclusions will
Equal up to understanding
But it doesn't today.
Maybe in May...

Darn little bug

Darn little bug
You pesky pest
Why must you invade at bedtime
Leaving me wondering
Where will you be at two
In the morning? How
Brazen is your boneless soul?
Darn little bug
Why do I let you get to me?
Why does your tiny self
Shrink me to a squeaky little girl
Every single time?

The theft of urgency

He is the thief of urgency
A lasidasical criminal
Never quite at the ready
Lazy fingers carouse, finger
And pilfer, favoring consistencies
Chiseled heft, pocketing only
Our best laid plans, casually
Sweeping good intentions into his front pocket.

The outdoor wedding

There's an Imaginary bridal march
Proceeding in their minds
Flowers covered in hot red dust
Sweaty hands shaking
Beads of perspiration
Dotting solid grins
A stringed quartet warms up
Their evening line up
A warm opening act
For the symphony of crickets
And frogs that will prevail at dusk

As wheat brushed the farmers ankles
He stood still and listened
A far away sound
Began to haunt him.
His weather beaten skin tingled
The wind dancing to the rhythm of this distant
Haunting, threshing of souls.
The sound of his scythe
brushing back and forth
a futile effort to overcome
An inhabiting weight.
His chest heaved
As if something sat on top of him
He felt the pressure of this new day
The distant thundering pulse of
A far away god moving in
A landowner turned sharecropper
By the cries of joy and mourning

I'm in the middle of moving. All poetry is being done on my iPhone. No proper punctuation, font choice or pics :(

You could hear the cry
For such a distance and you knew
Or you thought you knew
One person could hear mourning
One persons heard the exhaultation
Of victory, joy, celebration
As wheat brushed the farmers ankles
He stood still, this far away sound
Began to haunt him. His weather beaten skin tingled
The wind dancing to the rhythm of this distant
Celebration. The sound of his scythe brushing back and forth a futile effort to overcome
An inhabiting weight. His chest heaved
As if something sat on top of him
He felt the pressure of this new day
The distant thundering pulse of
A far away god moving near.

Out of time today, I want to make this a two parter and finish tomorrow.

Failure to launch

It was close
But no tomatoe
Got a good start
But did not finish
It just did not
Work out like I planned
And points for trying are like
Zero calorie coke
placebo for the ego

Dat 279, shut up and listen

Stop thinking
Stop talking
And listen
Why do we fill
God's ear with
Every infinite detail
Then not stop to
Hear His response?
Stop thinking
Stop talking
And listen
He is the one true
God. The beginning
And the end.
He has so much to say
But He whispers
Stop thinking
Stop talking
Just listen
loudly.

Why I can't hate you

My heart just will not let me
Hate you. I won't glorify
My own forgiveness, it's simply
A divine gift from someone
Who loves you better than I do
And the funny thing is
You treat that gift like a
Christmas fruitcake
Abandoned.

High heels

I wear high heels
To feel so tall
Five foot four, though
Is not tall at all
Just less short
Than I was before

Like sawdust

Burnt sawdust
smells like
kettlecorn

I don't know why and don't care today

I couldn't tell you why
And today I do not care
I am here on the other side
Of the wizards curtain
All the scary voices,
All of the intensity
Melted down like Oz's witches
I don't know why I traveled here
And I do not care today
All I can see in this moment
I'll miss you tin man, brave lion
Sweet scarecrow but I must go

I want to go home
I want to go home
I want to go home

the slowdown, Day 274

For the next few days don't expect to read anything but me hitting the writing gym for short brief spurts. I have no intention of any type of good poetry coming out of this. I am moving into my. own. home!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Bump

like when the car hits a pothole
you don't slow down, you just think,
"Crap! Fix the road!"

like when you put on new heels
and a pretty dress and more make up
and perfume than you've worn in a year
then you trip and slightly sprain your ankle
you just keep strutting and look to see who saw

like the bank account going negative
for twelve hours because the next day
is payday, you eat at home
and wake up rich and full again

that kind of bump
bad shocks
but the steady revolving axis
of life keeping you propelled
towards the future
a clumsy race of almost there

The first thing that came to my mind

I just said, "Self, what's the first word you can think of?" and out popped buttercup... No clue why I'm sitting in a skating rink!

Buttercup

Summers kiss.
your velvet skin
The softest green
Wraps your stem
And there you stand
Ethereal.

Frumpy Soul

No worries, had a frumpy day. I fear writing something like this and people feeling the need to cheer me up. I'm totally okay, just down and overtired. All is well but it had me thinking about how we all find ourselves in this spot, frumpy, wrinkled soul...

Frumpy Soul

Don't try to iron out
the divine. Leave it be, let it
rest. So I can't conjure up
my dreams, so what?

I'm wide awake and
fast asleep at the same time.
I've never felt more and seen less.
Or maybe I've never seen more and felt less...

In some great and good divinity lies
my purpose, some plan but I just
chase the cheese, that's all I know today. 

My ecclesiastical ego is deflated.

I don't have it down you see.
I don't "get it" at all. Some days I do
feel quite divine but that's not this day.
Oh for a good nights rest and a fresh sunrise
that would sustain me, that would refresh
the frumpy soul that lingers unwelcome.

hurry. wait Day 271

OY! Vey!

Positively too much
to do. No time.
No time. I'm like
Alice's rabbit chanting.
There is not enough time
or entirely too much to do.
OY! Vey!

Now I'm speaking Yiddish
or some such thing.
No time. No time.

silly putty you, Day 270

Nope, no one in particular in mind. Promise I'm not picking on anyone, just everyone :)

Silly Putty You

You have a silly putty heart
squishy soft, giving. stretching
conforming. mimicking.

You are hard to read and
never the same. One minute
your a firm ball of goodness
the next your a slavering
string of goo dangling long

You are silly putty love
everything and nothing
all at once and I love you
in that stretchy way we
silly putty people do.

Exactly what I'm feeling Day 269

Its a type of potpourri
This blended, fragrant feeling
Part open wound
Part divine healing
Sitting in a chair that rocked
Littles fast to sleep
Ready to part but needing to keep
Resentment adds that spicy undernote
That heightens the pungency
Of gratitude overload
Home, this is home
Inhale this deeply
Smell the perfume
Of a little lost
On Blessings bloom

the tricky sticky feel of almost

We are ALMOST back in our home. It's the best and worst feeling.

Almost

almost feels like fly paper
stuck to my shoe
resistant, tacky, sticky
impossible to remove
a pergatorial stance
one foot in, one foot out
almost. almost. almost!

Day 267, shattered dreams

Little wishes worn away
Biggest dreams faded, frayed
Tattered heart, holes to patch
Precious things hard to grasp
Weary soul wizened, weakened
Threadbare faith,then we seek Him
Bringing that which needs repair
Blessings quilted from despair
Patchwork certainty our treasure
It's length and width carefully measured.

.

Day 266, 99 days left on this blog!

Yep, only 99 more days to complete my year long challenge of a poem a day! What on earth will I do then? I'm feeling escited and bereft for a new challenge. Challenges have turned out to be a very good thing for me! Got ideas? I'll take them! Now, what on earth will I write about today? No clue!

Reading about the dedication of the temple, that is inspiring... let's try it!


The indigo linen laid like ocean waves
across the amber colored bronze
in the air was the smell of blood
death, a ghostly bleeting in their ears
a heady incense burned and wafted
a merciful respite from their remembered sins
quiet. do you hear their breathing?
the heaving and swelling of chest crowded
one next to another, hands out like beggars
Mercy please! A sudden brassy blast
of trumpets. Not the sharp, sudden burst of
today's but the long bellowing of a far away
God coming near to hear, see and inhabit His home.

Solomon raises his hands and bows
the nation does the same, waves of people kneeling
hungry for hope. Smell the cedar freshly hewn,
its soft ambiguos splinters shrouded in a golden veil
A young, wise voice is heard. He beseeches their God
humbly reminding the Lord, "My father was David!"
Begging for the mercy his people craved, Solomon
cries out, hands raised, "Listen to us in this place."

Listen He does, and with a grateful fury decending
the fire that will not die consumes the flesh of sacrifice
leaving a feast of celebration behind, an aroma that promises
a ceasing of their hunger. The Lord is here!
The Lord is here! they dance. He has heard our prayers!
they rejoice in gladness, days of gladness.
Feasting on a meal prepared by the hand of God
they eat and are satisfied. A herd of sheep
much happier to devour the Lamb than follow him.

Day 265, things I didn't have time for, before

I did not have time to contemplate
Nor motivate myself to run
Or write or love more than I was
There was no time to negotiate
More into well packed days
Enough! My only self would say
Enough!, I have enough I'd say.
I was all wrong. I turned it all on end
And here I sit writing, ready to run
And ready to love more.
I bought the magic beans
I've seen the golden eggs
I will not wake the giant time
But rather take from him what's mine

Day 264, as honest as I will be

Words are tools
used to express
and emote that which we want
others to know. "I love you."
not, I wish you loved me too...

"You're beautiful." We don't say
I wish someone thought I was beautiful.

We turn it all around.

"Thank you."
I'm so tired, I wish I did not need the help

"Your welcome."
Why do you need so much help?

The real things and the true things
are particles floating in the air
between the words that muffle
the sound of their impact.

"He wants you to be His."
You need Him badly.

"Just trust Him."
quit doubting!

"I am praying for you."
I've no other way to help
no other thing to offer
I hope He answers prayers

"I believe in Him."
I've no other place to go.
Nothing else makes sense.

"Jesus loves you."
You are loved, I feel that love for you
sometimes, so He must love you,
that has to be the source of my affection.

"I know they are in heaven."
There isn't another way. I won't accept
another way, I long for heaven and where did
that longing, that love come from?
If he didn't cause me to love why can't dead be dead?
Death must be conquered or I can not live.

The true things and the real things
more like dust fallen softly on a windows ledge
than a weighty fact. Rub your finger on it
see if it lifts off, see if it falls again.
Look between the pillars we call words
find the truth intended, seek the verity of their meaning
do not consume the dialogue but the
things that it's revealing.

Day 263, mother's day

I'm thankful to have a really good mom, one who as far as I remember never told me I annoyed her or that I was too much work, even when I was. She was always there, without complaint and I can't imagine life without her :)

Mother.

What a many sided word
Mother.

It can fill to brim when there
and leave a gaping hole all
things flow through when not.
It's a birdsong of needs
momma, momma, momma

It's spilled from tiny tongues
like a carefully placed treasure
Mom-my.

It will evoke emotion
in any language

J'adore ma mère

Ever connected to her in

faithfulness or longing

she is, and will be

a starting place for our

centre selves, the bearer

of what's to come.

Day 262, the finish line

Too busy little bee!

You go, run, race
busy little bee
farmer at the harvest
arent' we?

Stopping not an option
must complete task
go, run, race
not slow but fast, fast, fast!

Weary hands toil
feet trollop ground
work, work, work
and not another sound

You will not hear
the quiet Sunday
whispering to you
you'll only dream of Monday
and all you have to do.

Day 261, confirmation

The Making of a King

Samuel raised his hand
ceremonially dripping golden oil
on top of hair dusted by sunlight
there were shivers and certainty
the anointing of a king
and then he returned to the pasture
his young muscles acting like taught rubberbands
his brave heart a warrior in the making
when all was quiet, when the smoke of the fire
began to lull the sun to sleep
he would compose his thanks into song
when no one was looking he would sing
loud praises to a God who called him king
he owned nothing but a shepards crook,
a slingshot and a promise so sacred, so frightening
he didn't dare believe it, he didn't dare imagine
but the songs in his heart lulled and comforted a
leader, calmed the wicked rising from his soul
thus began his rising and falling
the ups and downs of promise unrealized
years would pass, he became a man
valor, honor, dignity, strength his armor
the word of the Lord his God his armor bearer

Day 260, deep waters

Deep Waters

Deep waters cause us to wade
through the sediment of time
sifting through it, seeking baubles
of meaning left awash in the onslaught
of a river's rage. These waters will
not ebb with stern words nor will
turning your head keep them from
rising. It is a certainty this liquid reprimand.
Sandbags will not hold up to
its persistent swell for long, the river's
depth a testimony to our ability to deny
just how wet our feet really are.

Day 259, a selfish selflessness

Uncle Toohey was right, I fear...

oh, the ways we conjure
up, wicked ways we call healing
neediness diguised as love
prejudice scantily clad in kindness
attempting this goodness as if
drawing water from a well, it is
simply intended to quench our own thirst
Uncle Toohey was as correct as I feared
satisfied thirst our measure for philanthropy
our hands are leaky vessels when put
to our own mouths

Day 258, girl interrupted

I am interuppted at every
turn a ring, beep, buzz
mommy!
Mrs. Gregory
dear valued customer
Hey Jen, can you...
I try diligently to be lost
in thought and wind up
interuppted by cherub cheeks
and blue eyes reflecting
in the rear view mirror
my time is not my own
I do not own my time
but everything happens
in its own time, I'd write
better, love better, know more
think more, change the world
perhaps if I weren't so interrupted
but that would not be the being
of me and mine, I fancy the interruptedness
protects me from my own inventions.

Day 257, sitting and thinking

Some days I sit down and want to check of my to-do-list. I go to write and have no clue what I am going to say...Today is a day like that. I think about what is going on with me, the world around me and my children... I look for inspiration. 9 times out of 10 the things that pop into my head are the things that aggrivate me, not good things to write a poem about. I don't like negativity but I kind of want to vent so here goes...

Venting

random, pointless phonecalls
from random, and pointless solicitors
more junk mail than actual mail
children who smile while they disobey
dishonesty in any form unless
your complementing me
beggars can't be choosers
journalism that is not journalistic
politically driven facebook post
no matter how hard I've tried over
ten years, stub my toe, I curse...
thoughtless words. from.
my own mouth...
Sid the Science Kid, Barney and Mickey Mouse
they make me growl and snarl but I leave them
on because my kid is quiet
my fingernalis, paint that won't wash out of my hair
let's be honest, chain mail and "post this if you love Jesus"
stuff. more toys than places to put them,
more clothes than hangars to hang them and still
nothing. to. wear?
anything on my body that doesn't work or
look like it did when it was twenty
asking for help, needing help
migraines and soupy weather
there. done. peace and love, ya'll.

Day 256, the wind

Tuscaloosa

don't watch it from a distance
feel the wrath of wind
the way debris flies up and stings
the way your hair would flail
listen to the piercing call of sirens
the pop and sizzle of electricity
feel the dry wind turn to wet lashes
of driving rain, feel helpless
as if the feet of heaven's host
run towards battle and you are
in the path of the stampede
underfoot of a racing fury
feel mercy and grace swept up
into the funnel of an irreconcilable justice
the silence of a storm's center a
holding place for your future
and feel the sudden yanking up of everything
you knew, a sudden flinging off of your own truths
feel the nakedness and shame of devestation
no walls to hide behind and ask yourself
when everything is swept away, what will be left?