Friday, December 22, 2017

The McDonald's drive-thru is aligned
So that, at. 9:16 am,
As I wait in line to order,
The sun and I are face to face.
It's cloudy today,
And like a smoked lens,
The weather allows me look at the sun
And in this veiled way,
To see it as the star it truly is
On this, the solstice morning.

I remember one of the only best friends I ever had
Brought me a Christmas present.
Her whole family came to my house
And watched me open it.
It was in a big cowboy boot box,
Unwrapped, and I thought it might be boots,
But as I lifted off the lid,
I smelled oranges.

They all watched my face expectantly,
And I smiled, and thanked them for the oranges.
I was five. My best friend was six.

And the oranges were delicious,
They may have been all the way from California,
But all my life, I've gotten strange gifts,
And mostly what they've always taught me is:
You can't have what you want.

Until you.

Because,
You are what I want,
And I'm thankful for you,
And you give me such beautiful gifts.
You are the meaning of Christmas to me.
You've shown me
I CAN have what I want,
And that is the most powerful liberation
I've ever received.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.

-jenn



Thursday, December 21, 2017

Everybody just wants to go home,
Especially when you're sick.
Sometimes it's a long way,
The roads aren't paved,
And to get to the road, there are lots of gates.

There's a difference between country  mice
And their city cousins.
Country mice know some gates are hard for women to open,
And that you've got to shut it back
So the cows don't get out,
And the horses.

They want out baaaaaaad.
I've had to face a charging horse
And hit it just right with my jutsu,
Knock it to the ground
And wallow with it down in the dust
While some fool fumbled with the gate.

I should have shut the gate,
And let him fumble with the horse.

But like I say,
Everybody just wants to go home,
Whatever that is.

-jenn

Tuesday, December 19, 2017

In this abhang, everything is part of the poem.
Even the unpoetic parts, even the nights
When no one sleeps,
That too, is part of the
Communitarian journey.

Fear is the only thing that stops Love.
Hate is not its opposite.
Ennui is never part of it,
But only fear creates a push that blocks Love's flow.

Love doesn't push well.
Love doesn't pull.
It plays nice with others
In a team sport, like
Unsynchronized swimming, or
Free-style dancing in the park,
Not tit for tat,
But I'll scratch your back,
And you can scratch mine, too,
If you want to.

I see you do.
Now that's sooooooo sweeeet.
That's Love.

-jenn

Sunday, December 17, 2017

When the sky is Flatley grey,
So much so that the streetlamps have to stay
On all morning and into the afternoon,
And the trees have lost their leaves
So that all you see of them
Is dull gray brown bark and branches,
Black and wispy and thin against the blank.
Then don't forget your coat and hat,
And wrap your neck up nice and tight,
And after that, remember
To don your smile,
And let your eyes shine for a while on me,
For theirs is the only hue that moves me
Thru the holler days,
And the cold drear of December.

-jenn

Eight oaken magi attend my birth.
They stand silently and observe
Something born again in me today.
They bring their gifts:
Attentive eyes,
Adoring coos, grateful sighs,
That I am healthy and complete.
They bring frankincense and myrrh
And gold and leave them at my feet,
And new fire is kindled deep inside of me.
My cells regenerate again today,
And I am alive and here to stay
For a bit longer.
I celebrate all this in me,
All this in you,
Divine life coursing through us.
We rejoice in laughs and smiles,
Offer each other Peace,
Goodwill, and Love, and Happiness,
Beautifully aware of Incarnation renewed in us Today.

-jenn
When that shiny black Kia Sorrento passes by
At 9:35 on a Sunday morning,
And without warning, I see Ken and Barbie
Ensconced within,
So perfectly coiffed and arranged,
And even the whoosh of their vehicle by
Gives me a whiff of the latest millennial version of Aqua Velva.

I see the beady eye of that Kia
Menacing, promising me that it will take me to church too,
Someday, just a little while longer.

But I've just walked a mile and a half with you, God,
And I wouldn't trade that for anything.

-jenn

Saturday, December 16, 2017

The sling was invented by a man
Who put his hand in his pocket
While his arm was out of socket
And noted the relief.
And when the man got home he found
The underdrawers that he had on
Beneath his outer britches
Had no pocket, but some slits with stitches
That allowed him better to pee.
But with his outer britches off,
He found his pocket also doffed,
And his arm hung limp and he screamed in pain
Until he pulled his underbreeks
Up to his chin and slang his sore arm tnru.
And this all worked fine
Until his wife came in from the butcher shack
And found him in this matter-of-fact way,
And in her alacrity and pragmatic sense
Of his calamity and her defense
Of such a sight in her kitchen,
She took up a bodkin and sliced off a piece of her own petticoat
And fashioned him a proper sling
That he could wear with anything
Whether pocketed or not,
Until his arm healed up right and righteously.

-jenn

Friday, December 15, 2017

Sometimes Karma is delayed,
And just when you think you've done something good,
Like rescue a baby cat
From the jaws of a pembroke corgi,
And you lay your head down on a pillow,
And someone jerks said pillow
Right out from under your melon head,
And your head takes a one inch bloop
Down onto your mattress,
And you hear someone say,
"THAT'S MY PILLOW!"

Then you know you will have to wait
A little while longer for what goes around
To come around,
Or..... Do you?
That is YOUR pillow, afterall!

-jenn
Energy is the ability to do work.
"Shirk" is the ability to slide your work
Up off of you and onto some other fool.
And work is good.
And shirk is too,
When you feel your soul getting slack,
And you see that last straw
Heading for your camel's back.

Tis better to shirk and run away
For a day,
Than to break in half
And be laid up
And outta work the rest of yore natural born life.

-jenn

Last night, while I waited outside your house
For your wife to go to sleep,
I got sleepy,
And to stay awake,
I went through your mail.
I had taken it with me, like a monkey,
Up into the branches of a sycamore,
But your mail was as boring as mine is.
When I finally saw all your lights go off in your house,
I climbed down,
But a limb snagged my vest,
And hung me out to dry,
A package stuck in a fork of the tree.
The rest of your mail went fluttering down
Like falling leaves.

That's when your neighbors across the street
Heard the clatter and turned their porch lights on.
Just about then the branch I was snagged on snapped,
And I fell, flat on my back on the ground.

I lay there smiling, happy to be alive,
Staring up through the sycamore
At the bright stars shining down,
While your neighbor man yelled into the night
At "You damn kids!" And a few other vagrant unnamed miscreants.

He went back in and turned off his lights
And I stood up, dusted myself off,
Picked up all your scattered mail,
And then I noticed that one package
That had stuck up in the tree out of my reach.

I jumped up and grabbed a branch
And tried to swing up and knock it down.
The branch cracked and made a rather loud pop,
And your neighbor's lights came back on.
I swung my feet up just as the branch broke
And stood up in the fork of the tree
Like a possum.
I watched your neighbor storm
Out his front door and down his front steps
And across the street
And right over to where I was.

I jumped down out of the tree
And landed at his feet.
He began to lecture me and I proceeded to give him a cussing.
I told him I was only trying to help you get your mail.
He was tall, and so he simply reached up
And took the package down for me.
He must've thought all my dirty talk was talkin' dirty,
For quietly now, and like a knight,
He bent at the waist to bow to me,
And then, went to one knee
As if to propose,
And said, "At your service, Ma'am."

And then he asked if he could take me to IHOP.

Well I tell you all this to say,
That if your mail looked a bit disheveled,
It may or may not have been through a lot last night.

-jenn

Thursday, December 14, 2017

You delight me in person
You draw me from afar
You dazzle me in the company of others

Your love dawns on me
And warms my heart
Makes me shine

You do it all
And did I mention,
You delight me in person...

-jenn

I'm a lover.
It's what I do.
And if I fight,
I only fight for love.
I fight for you.
I love for you, too,
From way over here
On the shores of my soul,
Where love laps up
High on the sand,
Like the socks I pull up
High on my thighs, and the boots I zip.
I stand and move against
The things that oppose you.
I dance and twirl and hurl mighty stones
Into the sea of love and grace
For you.
I pace the shoal til my high hopes for you
Come low enough for me to take down,
And then I wrestle them to the ground
And have them fully,
For you.....
And for me.

-jenn


There's a heart of sand
On an asphalt road
In a subdivision in Oklahoma City.
It just appeared
Like the stigmata
On the palms of a saint.
It's here to say that right in the middle
Of all this hate
And hairsplitting and division in this country,
Love still reigns.
And will if anyone will take the time to tip our hats,
Or remove them,
Or bow our knees,
Not as a show of what we believe
Or don't believe,
But as strength of will,
To prove what we would do
To woo true love,
And brotherhood and sisterhood
Back into our everyday lives.

-jenn

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

It's not the brightest light in the heavens
But it's always there
A known associate of the big dipper
Line it up
And then you can align yourself to the North Star.
Would you aid and abet Polaris?
If it decided to run?

Get a feel for how it looks,
And feel yourself facing north.
Right face from here is east,
Left face, west.
About face will turn you directly south
Down towards Mexico.
You can decide which way you need to go
When you decide to run.

But remember this, my fugitive star,
When you gaze into the sky at night,
You are a part of every constellation
No matter where you go.
The universe has a way of knowing,
And you can never really hide from anyone or anything,
Except yourself.

So maybe tonight, I'll just align myself with northern true,
And then I'll stay right here with you,
And be true to myself alone.
And when I'm done,
Maybe I can be true to you,
If it matters.

-jenn

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Do you think cotton grows on trees
Like money? Asked the farmer
To a man whose sack had ripped
And cotton fell and flew off in the wind.

And the man stooped to gather the few bolls he could catch,
And patched his sack with a bit or burlap twine.
The cold wind blew right through his soul,
And his fingers blistered,
But in his heart he sang a cotton pickin' song.

"The best things in life are the hidden things
That nobody dares to share,
Love between a certain pair of turtledoves,
Words the ear will never hear,
Songs that never get sung out loud
In the light of day.

The best lives are the hidden lives
The secret smiles
That no one else can see.
Only a few knowing souls can guess
The happiness of silent eyes,
The dress in the closet that never gets worn,
The love that blooms amidst the thorns
So quietly and so profuse,
And the most beautiful cotton
That never gets picked,
And money that never gets paid."

"Naw, you don't know what I'm talking about,"
I heard the old man sing.
"A mystery, a secret place, a very beautiful thing,
A hidden life, where love grows stronger,
Every single day."

-jenn



Friday, December 8, 2017

"Now explain to me just one more time," she said,
"About the Mexican polka."
He began to tell, and fidgeted with his drink.
It gave her time to think of another question to ask him.
She smiled and played with the end of a wisp of her hair,
And as he wound down with his lengthy explanation,
She was ready for him
With another great question
For him to answer.

He didn't know that she was a dancer.
Her legs were growing tired,
But maybe his tenure at the University would provide
Her some security,
And so she danced with him tonight,
Not only in her heels,
But in her great conversation skills,
And he was never sorry twice.

-jenn

Texas snow.
Take those pictures while you can!
Cactus flowers frozen,
A patch of sand, just beyond,
Already showing through.
By noon it will be 45°
And every snowflake,
No matter how unique,
Has a common melting point of 32.1.
So seize them in still-life while you may,
And while you're at it,
Seize the day, too, why don't ya?

-jenn

Thursday, December 7, 2017

Cats pretend.
A candy wrapper found,
A crackly sound,
The paper's come to life.
The little gray one catches it,
Runs away with it in her mouth.
It is almost a mouse,
But it is fully a little gift
To lay at the feet of her boy.

Some humans can only see
The concrete dry.
Others find an opportune moment
To sculpt their children's hands
And write a date.
Abstract pretensions
Show our close evolutionary connection
With house cats,
At least with those of us
That can pretend.
-jenn
A fire breaks out in a creek bed
In Dallas,Texas.
A green- eyed Mexican National
Burned alive.
He wouldn't give his PIN number
To some thugs that wanted to rob him.
He didn't even have any money in that account.
He'd been in an argument with his boss that day
Who said he wasn't going to pay him,
And, as an illegal, there was nothing he could do about it.

They say crime doesn't pay.
Being a marginalized person doesn't, either.

-jenn

Fresh peaches are for sunny days
When heat sweats all your time away,
And the juicy nectar fills your soul.
It rolls unbidden down your chin,
Embarrasses you as you drool
And wipe your grin away,
And you can't help yourself.

Peach jam is for a winter morn
Before the anxieties are born for the day.
The sugar added to the pulp
Feeds your brain a much needed shot
Of glucose,
So you can remember,
The earth still turns,
The revolution around the burning sun
Is still going on,
Even in December,
And soon, the sunny days will return,
And fresh peaches,
And you can't help yourself.

-jenn
I heard an ad on the radio,
"Do youuuuu want a new job?"
My mind raced during the pregnant pause,
Maybe I could change my profession?
"You could work for DoIt Construction!"
Oh hell no! I'm good!
Maybe this ad was paid for by
The Employers Who Want You Not To Change Jobs,
Reminding you, you could have to work for a living.

-jenn

A powerful secret:
When men sing love songs,
They will turn around
And sing them to somebody new,
If it doesn't work out with you.

But when a woman writes lyrics of love,
She will sing them to you,
And you alone,

Because women know
When a love song has been written for them,
And when it hasn't.

Men don't.
So women could sing
The same dern thing
Over and over and men wouldn't care.
They're just picturing the women
In their underwear, anyway.

But women don't have the power or desire
To see through men's outer, or under, attire.
They see through lyrics instead,
And read between the lines.

So you men would do well to take some time
And write something new
For your new true love,
If you want to keep her stringing along,
For she, like the Lord, prefers a new song
Sung, if any at all.

-jenn

Forty blackbirds line a wire
Facing the police headquarters.
They watch the black suspect walk inside in cuffs.
He tells the black detective that he's never seen the black man in the photo,
The black vic who got capped.
He denies shooting the vic in his car.
He denies being on the scene.
But there is video evidence,
And so the officers take him
Still in cuffs, back to the black and white car
And put him in the back seat,
And just as the door clicks solidly shut,
The blackbirds fly away.

And on the other side of town,
The same exact thing is happening,
Except with a white detective, a white perpetrator, and a white victim.
But the birds in the wire are not white, but gray.

Separate, and almost equal.

-jenn

Wednesday, December 6, 2017

There were signs in the heavens that night,
Seven stars for Krishna,
Seven for Christ,
Eight for the tomb of the unknown soldiers who fell.

One star fell, too, in their honor,
Leaving the number at 21,
A gun salute,
And a baby star questions,
"Are they going to shoot us now, too?"

-jenn

Monday, December 4, 2017

If you have the money to build a ship,
You could be a pirate,
And furnish it with professional thieves.
They could steal for you,
In your name, and fill your coffers
With baubles of blame, and trophies of shame,
And booty,
Lots of booty.

But if you don't already have the means
To build a ship, the next best way
To christen yourself as a pirate
Is to steal one yourself
And take to the seas,
And rescue a few lost sailors
Who will feel
Indebted to you.
Make them steal
For you.

And of course there are others ways.
These are just two,
If you want to
Be a pirate
And you want to have a crew,
And booty,
Lots of booty.

-jenn
I'm afraid to try your pants on.
I'm afraid they just might fit.
They say if the shoe fits, wear it,
And is tempting as it is
To wear the pants in any situation,
I might find I have to admit
That I'm as big a fat ass as
I've always thought you were.

I know you'd walk a mile in my moccasins
If you only could.
But I find I am unwilling
To wear your pants.

-jenn

In case you notice a more sanitary rot
In your private dump site,
Please be advised,
I've started using something
To make my rot
Cleaner and brighter,
Aromatic and whiter.
Lord knows what's in it,
But it's working as far as I can tell.

-jenn

Don't watch me wrestle both cans at once
Back up from the curb on garbage day.
You'll see me yelling in the wind,
Barking my orders like a marine
And dragging my wayward boys home
By their ears and calling them
Sons of motherless goats.

I'm sure proper ladies drag
One can up at a time
In perfect submission and silence.
Or maybe they have some decent neighbor man
To make an honest woman of them
And deal with the trashcans on their behalf.

But some of us gals don't take well to charity,
And at least a few of us have better things to do.
And me, I use it as a chance
To face the bitter realities
Of garbage, and my true place in the world,
And the total sum of the foul situation bids me curse it!

-jenn
Row your boat gently
Into the night.
Row it gently
Down the stream.
Whatever may be,
Will be alright,
No matter how bad it seems.

Row your boat gently
Into the day,
The new day waiting
Around the bend.
The dream may change
And seem bad, or good,
But it will never end.

Row your boat gently,
Gently, gently,
Merrily, merrrily,
Down the stream.
And take time to not row.
Float a bit,
And try to enjoy the dream.

-jenn

Sunday, December 3, 2017

I don't have to travel to China
To encounter philosophy
Foreign to my own,
I can talk 80's music with my  teenage son.

I don't have to travel to remote areas of the globe
To sample some exotic unrecognizable food,
I can burn things beyond recognition
Right here, in my own kitchen.

And I don't have to travel the land or sea
To make one convert, or to divert my attention away from you.
I can know you inside out
From right here,
For I can dream.

-jenn

Once you
Open the pickle jar,
You've either got to eat
Alllllllllll those pickles,
Or you've got to put the lid back on,
And the pickles in the fridge.

But once you
Open me,
You got a fresh can
On your hands,
And there ain't no
Puttin' me up.

-jenn
On the first day of Christmas, Sprout's gave to me
A long line in th'express lane

On the second day of Christmas, Sprout's gave to me
Two checkers checking, and a long line in th'express lane.

On the third day of Christmas, Sprout's gave to me
Three Cornish hens, Two checkers checking, and a long line in th'express lane.

On the fourth day of Christmas, Sprout's gave to me
Four organic punkins, Three Cornish hens, Two checkers checking, and a long line in th'express lane.

On the fifth day of Christmas, Sprout's gave to me
Five Wholesome Things!
Four organic punkins, Three Cornish hens, Two checkers checking, and a long line in th'express lane.

On the sixth day of Christmas, Sprout's gave to me
Six gluten free muffins
Five Wholesome Things!
Four organic punkins, Three Cornish hens, Two checkers checking, and a long line in th'express lane.


On the seventh day of Christmas, Sprout's gave to me
Seven probiotics, Six gluten free muffins
Five Wholesome Things!
Four organic punkins, Three Cornish hens, Two checkers checking, and a long line in th'express lane.


On the eighth day of Christmas, Sprout's gave to me
Eight SeaSalt Crackers, Seven probiotics, Six gluten free muffins
Five Wholesome Things!
Four organic punkins, Three Cornish hens, Two checkers checking, and a long line in th'express lane.


On the ninth day of Christmas, Sprout's gave to me
Nine soy free chocklits, Eight SeaSalt Crackers, Seven probiotics, Six gluten free muffins
Five Wholesome Things!
Four organic punkins, Three Cornish hens, Two checkers checking, and a long line in th'express lane.

On the tenth day of Christmas, Sprout's gave to me
Ten Essential Oils, Nine soy free chocklits, Eight SeaSalt Crackers, Seven probiotics, Six gluten free muffins
Five Wholesome Things!
Four organic punkins, Three Cornish hens, Two checkers checking, and a long line in th'express lane.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, Sprout's gave to me
Eleven rice milk puddings, Ten Essential Oils, Nine soy free chocklits, Eight SeaSalt Crackers, Seven probiotics, Six gluten free muffins
Five Wholesome Things!
Four organic punkins, Three Cornish hens, Two checkers checking, and a long line in th'express lane.

On the twelth day of Christmas, Sprout's gave to me
Twelve free range drumsticks, Eleven rice milk puddings, Ten Essential Oils, Nine soy free chocklits, Eight SeaSalt Crackers, Seven probiotics, Six gluten free muffins
Five Wholesome Things!
Four organic punkins, Three Cornish hens, Two checkers checking, and a long line in th'express lane.

-jenn




I named my cat after you,
And you can't stop me.
You don't know how many times a day
I call your name.
Sometimes sweetly, so demurely,
Sometimes with a shade of chagrin,
"Hello there Trouble," I roll my eyes,
And scratch his little chinny chin chin.

-jenn

Saturday, December 2, 2017

I am unlearned,
Brusque and brout.
I wear my pannies inside out
For all the world to see--
A silent rebellion
To all hypocrisy.
I'm not fit
For human consumption,
But, please,
Take me into your program,
Whittle me down to size,
Into something you consider useful,
So I can be used,
But you may find,
I whittle too,
And you may be changed.
You may be more you
When I'm through.
Maybe you'll grin
When you see my pannies right side in,
But maybe your smile will turn to a pout
When you look down at your own drawers,
So inside out.

-jenn

Friday, December 1, 2017

In this strange society, a conveyor belt brings
A never-ending supply of things you don't need.
It dumps them into your life.

You never have time to miss anything.
Something newer and more improved
Is right there to fill your every need
And promises to move you
Into a higher plane of a more satisfying existence.

I have sat for days, trying to go through
All this junk the assembly line dumped
Just inside my front door.
I don't want any of it any more,
And I don't want to spend one more second
Of my time, or an erg of my energy
Processing it all.

I'm turning tail on this strange society,
Walking straight down the hall
And right out the back door.
I don't need it.
I don't want it.
Leave me alone.

-jenn