Sunday, July 29, 2012

Come, Sweet Valkyrie

The Sea is spitting them out lukewarm,
Fish-eyed corpses flopped on the shore.
Some barely breathe.
The rescuers hustle to save the ones they can.
The jeep bursts along the shore in fits
To stop and check
For a pulse, or a breath, or a sign.

I hear them muttering under their breath,
“This one is too far gone.”
They move to the next one without looking back.
They call for me to come,
“Valkyrie,” they shout as they walk.
“Valkyrie,” they say.
“Come with your swan wings
And penny his eyes.
Come, Sweet Valkyrie.”

-jenn long

The Girl in the Fishbowl

Where has she gone?
The girl in the fishbowl?
Everyone loved to see
Her swim so sadly,
A lonely mermaid,
A goddess among the other small fish.

The aquarium stands
Sparse now
Beyond the cluttered checkout
To the right of the exit at the Chinese café.
But I didn’t see her
When I stood in line there
After lunch, as I waited to pay.

And I noticed that others,
As they chatted casually,
Mentioned the fish girl’s abandon.
Her post is so vacant—
The big tank so boring—
Now, with the fish girl so gone.

Where has she gone?
The girl from the fish bowl?
No one seems to know.
I hope she’s found a real life somewhere,
Where none of these customers go.

-jenn long

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Finger in the Sand

I asked him how it had come to be
That humans had understood,
That the shape of the earth was a big round sphere
And also, if he would
Explain to me how the wisdom had come
That the sun doesn’t rise and set,
But that it is the earth’s rotation
On its axis that draws out the silhouettes
That grow dark in the evenings,
And brings back the morning shine,
And one other thing I wanted to know,
If he had but a little more time,
And that was how the ancients had garnered
That the moon is nearer than the sun.
For if one merely takes into account
Appearances of sense’s wisdom,
Sometimes the Great Ball of Fire
Seems more reachable.
It burns low in the hot noon sky.
Its energy offered is readily felt
While the moon sits cool and high.

And so he simply took his finger,
And diagrammed there in the sand,
Cosmological equations of simple dynamics
And differential derivative equations.
He told me as he drew them
All of these answers and more,
But, for the life of me
I can’t relate them,
So mesmerized, I, on that shore
Was, by his presence, and personality and
His knowledge of earth and of heaven.
He finished with, “Any more questions, Mom?”
For he was all of seven.

-jenn long

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Braille Body Language

Your lips speak a tongue
Of bon bon deception,
Whispering softly,
“Hard to get."
Lucky for me,
I’m blind and deaf,
And Braille the only brogue
My heart may yet forget.

My fingers are tracing
Your body’s language,
Reading so clearly
Between the lines.
My hands are interpreting
Your body’s posture,
Your turgid neck and shoulders,
Your stalky spine.

Yes, your body is telling me
A different story,
Quite unlike the thin façade
That quivers from your mind’s eye.
“Come and get me,” says your torso,
In a confident, low baritone.
“Start with me, right here,”
Begs your lonesome, sinewy thigh.

-jenn long

Saturday, July 21, 2012

Nightmare @ Noon

Terrified of the natives here,
They seem to want to eat me.
See them crouch around me, crowding me,
Poking me with their prods?
They don’t laugh at my jokes here,
Or understand my humor.
They don’t want to translate my lingo,
Just sacrifice me to their gods.

I cooked a brilliant pot roast,
And no one bothered to eat it.
I forgot to put it in cold lock
And will have to throw it away
Ruined. Another dream of mine begun,
And I made it as far as the prison fence.
Might’ve escaped, if I’d had the strength
To climb the thing today.

Lost my children, for decades.
Found them on the way to the swimming pool,
In the charge of a fickle goddess
Who turns man-eater at a drop
Of liquid. They jump in!
I’m chasing, ever chasing them!
Trying, ever trying to prevent
Things one can never stop.

-jenn long

Needed Capitulation

A phantom mist of grey stands near.
It wakes me from my slumber.
Surprised, my eyes try to form it
Into an image that I know.

It’s not manipulate-able.
It doesn’t respond to my bidding.
Un-swayed by my thoughts or wishes,
It remains in its nebulous haze.

Suspicious instincts rise in me.
I plot its assassination.
In the zero sum game, one must lose.
One of us must die.

A vast door creaks ajar a bit.
Crevice light floods me with understanding.
I, myself, am the evil one.
I must let it kill me.

The knowledge of needed capitulation
Is sure, but will I fully surrender?
Can I release my centered self?
My strain to self -preserve?

Something assures me that if I will,
A new level of Soul will speak through me,
An unknown strength, deep peace, sweet energy
Will heal me to a wholer whole.

-jenn long

Is the Daisy Judged?

Is the daisy judged
Because its seed
Fell into an arid ditch,
Where not enough rainfall
Moistened its root
To nourish its stems to grandest height,
Or its petals to fullest bloom?
It did the best it could.

I've done my best,
And this my prayer:
That when I fall,
And my seeds have blown,
That they will find more fertile fields
In which to sprout and grow,
And that the tiny part of my life
Which carries on in theirs,
And that which is changed
To that which shall be then,
Be hailed by the confirming echoes
Of enchanted creation,

-jenn long

Friday, July 20, 2012

Dialogue With a Strange Man, 7

Dialogue With A Strange Good-Looking Man Part 7

My vitamin-ometer tells me I need some D.
So, I collapse, past the cluttered flea markets,
Down and away from the littered shacks,
Onto a sandy little cove at the lake
clothing is optional.

Completely disrobed,
I spread my heavy quilt on the beach
And ease myself down,
Stretching out in the sun.

This is rare.
But I feel unabashedly unashamed.

I open myself to the healing warmth
And bask with the curtain of my soul wide open.

Suddenly a shadow comes between.
I rise up on both elbows
And open my eyes.

It is the strange good looking man
Smiling a balmy grin.

He falls on his knees at my feet—
His stare already curling my toenails.
Rubbing my body with both hands,
Kissing me everywhere,

He's pushing me,
Pulling me,
Probing me gently.

Completely uninhibited,
I try to speak,
To tell him how good it feels—
To be loved there!
How much I want him to know!

But all that comes from my throat
Are primal groans—
Moans of longing desperation,

And fulfillment,

And more desire.

My torso writhes in ecstatic pleasure,
Undulating waves of cosmic gush.

He works his way slowly to my face—
His lips on mine,
Our eyes locked intently.

He shakes his head
And says, “You are good medicine,
And SO
To watch.”

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Summer! Don't Go!

Summer! Don't go!
Don't leave me here.
No golden thread to pull you close!
No silver line to call your name,
To see your face, or hear those teeth
That quiver my chin and funny bone.

Winter's grey is bad enough!
Noses red and empty cough
Are horrible company!
The solitary stroll will hollow
My heart and bosom
Til spring will follow,
And Summer come again.

-jenn long

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Real Love Lives On

Shakespeare tells me my love is not my own,
How Time will come and rob me of my love,
That I should steal myself now and be quite done,
So lesser griefs arriving at my door
Will not seem grief at all compared to this:
Knowing the hour will be when no more kissed
By those lips I crave, held by those two hands,
That, both constrain in the throes of pathos,
And send me to orbits wide and cosmic lands.
And so I die to love, and in death find,
That love which alters not, here, all this time.

-jenn long

A Goat, and the Sympathetic Jury

A man was caught
In lewd behavior
With a goat.
He hired the best attorney
Funds could buy—
One known for compiling
Sympathetic juries.

As the trial commenced,
The scene was described,
How the goat stood still,
So patiently.
The bailiff heard
The jury foreman say,
“A good goat
Will do that, don’t ya know?”

-jenn long

Never Pick Up Hitchhikers

Never pick up hitchhikers.
They always say that, don’t they?
But there was just something about this guy
Sitting under the bridge.
He was staring very far off into the distance,
With one hand on his hip,
And the other resting on a jacket
That lay folded there beside him.

I had noticed him,
As I stared,
Very far off into the distance,
About a mile before that overpass.
Something clicked in my head
As I craned,
And by the time I reached him,
My gut had locked,
And my brain didn’t have a chance.
I hit the breaks and swerved sharp
Onto the shoulder,
Threw open the door,
And said, “Get in!”

He wrinkled his brow and said,
“I’m just waitin’ on my ride ma’am.
I’m the foreman for this construction site over here,
And our investors want to show
Me a potential property.
I told ‘em just meet me here,
And walked down a minute ago.

But the short time I been sittin’ here,
Been long enough to see
The baser side of humanity,
Long enough to know what it is to
To be ignored, shunned,
And dirty looks cast my way.
I have always felt lonely, even in a crowd,
But today, I felt invisible, and insignificant.

So I really appreciate you stopping.
On one hand,
You kind of redeemed my hope for the species.
But ma’am,” he said, looking at me real hard,
“You should never pick up hitchhikers,
You know that, right?”

“Yes,” I said, staring very far off into the distance.

-jenn long

Let's Make a Twisted Deal

Consolation Prize lies
Behind Door Number Two.
She’s beautiful, intelligent,
And she loves you.

So why is she The Consolation
And not The Grand?
Because she wants you.

The Grand Prize doesn’t,
And, to you, that’s smart.
For you don’t want
Your own broken heart.

But, to The Consolation Prize,
You’re The Grand.
Because you don’t want her.

-jenn long

Last Year's Model, Half Off

She always seemed to have last year’s haircut,
The worst of the previous “Best Consumer’s Guide,”
Yesterday’s news, dollar late, day short—
A lamenting bride’s maid, and never the bride.

But she viewed her life from the rear view mirror,
Always pining for what had been,
Telling me about the slings and arrows
Of her latest ex, or the former best friend.

And I suppose when I give up, too,
And go on about my fro-ward way,
She’ll be telling someone how wonderful I was,
Which, would actually be nice to hear, today.

-jenn long

Monday, July 9, 2012

Pretty Girls

Pretty girls gotta be twice as nice.
Otherwise, they're dismissed, as bitches,
Disregarded, as mere sex objects,
Overlooked, because of their looks,
Mis-categorized and filed away.

And if they're smart, they gotta be
Twice as smart, or folks will say
It's all 'cause they're pretty,
That they get the job, or the deal,
Or the nod, or the stay.

But there is a human beating under that skin,
With a unique mind, and a soul that needs love.
She has insecurities, desires, and dreams just like you,
So be kind to a pretty girl today.

Recon Failure

In search of food, we marched out single file
To bring back what the scouts told us was there.
Dutifully pious, facing every fear,
We scaled assaulting heights and lined a shaky bridge.
By night's fall, we reached the gated vault.
The promise, this time, was not overstated.
We could see the bounty more than enough
To fill our coffers, and to keep us sated.
And so we worked to labor and to carry,
With thoughts and fears of winter pushing hard,
Until a light shone bright, and we did scurry,
To flee the presence we felt in our bones.

Too big to see, we sensed the evil menace.
Forboding doom, we smelled a ghastly smell.
Then chemical showers fell from heaven's plenty,
Frying alive, and wilting our exo-skel.
I watched my friends perish in one second.
Then smelled a new whiff, chloride green,
Rain down, as a white rag swift descended
To wipe the dead right up together with the living.

And now, I'm wrapped, alive, but barely squirming,
Discarded in a maze-like catacomb,
Strangling in this gauze sarcophagus,
Entangled with the dead here in this shroud.
"Leave the dead to bury the dead," I hear,
But struggle to free myself from the deception.
The rotting stench of wounds that never heal,
And prison residue stings my feet as well.
I wonder if I did break free, what my reception
Would be to those where I return, who only like to eat?
They won't like me brining this poison back upon my feet.

Sunday, July 1, 2012

The Turn On

No one really recognized her.
She was lit up like a Christmas Tree.
We’d always seen her as mousy,
And kind of serious.
But that smile      
Opened the door to us,
Showed us the warm fire of joy blazing in there!

It was him.
We’d never seen her with him.
But he had the ends of her hair in his hands,
The strands shone as he twirled them around his fingertips.
He would lean over and whisper to her,
And she would throw her head back and laugh
Right out loud.

Her eyes, gleamed,
Sparkling like champagne bubbles.
Never seen them so wide awake!
We all shook our heads.
Such abundance slept dormant,
And none of us knew it.
He brought forth life,
Effervescing throughout her entire personality.
This man had found the good stuff in her china closet
And wasn’t afraid to help her bring it out.

-jenn long


If a child falls in the desert,
And no one is there to hear,
Will dark matter shift
In the Hadron Collider?
Will the DogStar shed a tear?

What is the sound
Of one eye crying?
Divide the sum by zero,
Then multiply by negative one
To find the quotient’s hero.

Someday, Love,
Your heart will heal,
In a world where
Even bumblebees are told
They cannot fly.

You can’t see that now,
But someday,
You’ll even be happy.
Someday you’ll see
The DogStar did cry for you.
Her tears moistened the ancient hinges
So even the mighty gates could lift their heads
To let your newness through.

Til then, laugh louder
Than the paradox weeps.
Overpower, overthrow them,
By admitting pure helplessness
Over the weak-forced conundrums.

-jenn long