Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Spirit of Lack

I watched him take what he could get,
And wondered why that was.
But somehow I understood the deep set need,
The ravenous spirit of Never Enough
Had always lived in me,
Or at least I had known that spirit
From as far back as I could go.
And tho I would never call it a friend,
It's something I sure do know—
That and the Spirit of Lack.

But when you can never feel wanted enough,
Is that someone else's fault?
When Nothin Is Good Enough slumbers
And morphs into Everything Is,
You may squirm,
Trying to find yourself
Somewhere in between.

-jenn long

The Battles That Love Has Won

The words he speaks are soft lights and music
Across a southern sky,
That cluster in mysterious constellations
Along a river of night.
And sometimes you see Orion,
Sometimes a little bear,
But always a sweet invincibility,
Always a hero in there.

The candles flicker in story,
As the faces of men round a fire,
To hear an old sailor’s legends
Of the epic warrior's tale.
For he's an unlikely winner,
An underdog in the fight,
That everyone hopes against hope
To cheer on,
To see him beat off the night.

And he has already done it.
And that's why his words shine clear.
That's why he can say nothing at all
And light up the Southern Hemisphere.
But one soft word for me,
And a chuckle?
Light this sweetheart's world!
Shine on me in my dark hour!
Move my heavy heart to the dance floor!

And dance with me for one hour
Til the battle cry is sung,
Then return to your calling
Til all your labors are done.
But you won't be an unsung hero,
For my darling, my heart will sing
Of the lovable side
Of the hero
And the battles that love has won.

-jenn long

Sunday, April 27, 2014

I Dreamed I Lived

I dreamed I lived,
And so I did the things that one must do—
I ate and slept and worked and went to school.
And when I woke,
I swam
Through deep cold water.
The clarity of it woke me even more.

And as the beauty teemed there all about me,
I found myself in the midst of poetry,
Swarmed by swallows and their swooping shadows,
Caught up in their mouths with the clay from a muddy sea,
Taken up high to the underside of a via dock,
Fashioned into a part of one of their homes,
And now, adopted into their lives,
I feel I truly belong.

So now I live.

-jenn long

Saturday, April 26, 2014


why dont you let me move in
just under the dermis of your skin
and then we won't even need to write or call
we won't need anything at all
just a whisper
of a thought
to realize 
the union and the merge
and all the ecstasy complete
what an intriguing blissful feat
of being
truly one


Thursday, April 10, 2014

Alma Mater

Oh Mother Earth,
Be kind to Moon,
Lest he age and tire of you,
For his eyes are set on Venus
And her greener orbit there.

And if he should wander
And pull her tides,
He could create an atmosphere
And terraform her barren landscape wild.

And what then of us,
Dear Mother,
Children of the clay and surf,
Left as orphans
In an age of ice?

And Mother turned
And walked away,
Muttering under her howling winds,
“She can have him for all I care.”

-jenn long

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

River Roll

I see the tan lines of the river—
Thin strips of cleavage to the bay
That has its tank top off its shoulder,
Smooth worn stumps expose themselves,
Drying in the sunny day.

The high water mark is falling, falling,
Dizzy and drunk on living love.
Death and parting both surrender
To the nymphy vows and shrug
And wink,
And seal it with a juicy kiss,
And dance in waves of cuddled bliss.

-jenn long

Saturday, April 5, 2014

Mound Builders and Mastadon Walkers

I live amongst the mound builders.
They labor to carry the stone.
They pile, and they pile, and they pile them,
One on top of the other.
I walk the trails of their progress,
But their same trials don't burden me.

And then I reach the mount
Of the ancient ones.
Covered by grass,
It's chiseled edges were
Rounded by time and rain and the henbit,
Til no one recognizes the work—
Not even the mound builder today.

But on this day,
I walked barefoot in the creek
By the tracks of the mastodon,
And maybe someday,
The post-post-modern creek walkers will see
My footprint fossilized right along with his.

-jenn long

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Last Prayer Meetin' at Her House

She asked me if I’d sold my house,
And I replied, “It was goin’ fine.”
And then she pressed me for more detail,
And so I told her a bit.
But right in the middle
Of my sentence
She jumped with both feet
In the men's discussion
Down at the end of her bar.
And after she’d straightened their asses out,
She turned back to mine
And asked again,
And so I began to tell her a little more,
When poof she disappeared again,
Transported herself right into the men’s bidness.
And I just got my coat
And headed out the door,
And ya know,
I think that was the last time
I went to a prayer meeting at her house.

-jenn long