In the beauty pageants of our minds,

The ones we’re drug to,

And forced to compete in,

We grudgingly prepare.

But when we get a glimmer of ourselves 

Just as we reach some personal best,

And some critic pops in to say

That we’ve ended our sentence with a preposition,

Then must we know

We are getting close.

Raise your hands In victory!

Speak using the language of light!

Even your dna is unwinding,

And you will be alright, Grasshoppah.

Anything IS possible 

We CAN become an ant, or BETTER!

We can flip any script and see

A new way to enhance every fiber of our being:

Our bodies,

Our minds, 

Our energy.

We can even learn to unlearn,

And learn that it’s ok

To misspell things that don’t exist 

Except upon white pages,

Like words,

And maybe someday when we’re strong,

We can even be brave enough to end our sentences a preposition with!

But what will happen in the talent round?

How will we fare in Congeniality,

If we do not get ourselves sifted in the first rounds

Of the beauty pageant,

Especially the ones that only exist in the white pages of our own minds?

-jenn

 This was my graduating class if 1984

We did not look too far ahead 

For nothing seemed to be for us

The way it had been for our predecessors 

But we did not dare look back

Because the past had been a pain

We were semi-buddhists 3ven th3n

We wanted to live in the now

But our now sucked

And so we dissociated ourselves from all of that

And lived in an imagined place

Called Getting By

We regained reality

Only when we wanted to buy a candy bar or a coke

Where we visited our old chum

Who’d quit our class, and also quit school 

And by now, had worked so long at the convenience store

He had seniority and made good money at only age 16

He went on to buy the store

He still owns it to this day

He’s bought a few more

And occasionally he gets a good hard worker

Who has quit school like he did 

He watches them to see if they might make a good manager

And maybe someday buy into his franchise

We had twenty in our class

Nineteen graduated

Not too bad of a percentage they say

But that One out of One

Who knew already what was going on at twelve years old

He’s batting a thousand as far as I can tell

-jenn

 On my birthday I went and sat on a rock In the White Man’s cemetery.

I watched over my father’ grave for one hour. 

Like the Thinker, I sat

With my fist underneath my chin

And pondered life.

I was 21 years old.

Then I rose,

And, like a teenage boy, I ran,

As hard as I could toward the boundary of the graveyard,

And as I approached the fence,

I jumped.

I bounded over the chain link and the top pole,

And I landed on my feet on the other side. 

And suddenly I knew,

My father had done the very same thing,

And he was somewhere 

On his feet

On some great unknown other side.

And today,

Again,

It is my birthday.

And today, again, I will remember these things,

And hold them in my heart still healing.

But today,

I will find something else to do for my birthday.

-jenn 

 Everything is just a dance

Do you hear the music

Cross the street hang out your clothes 

Hear the song how it goes

And keep your heart light

By dancing to the music of the spheres

Pirouette arabesque 

Now it’s time to build your nest

Quarter horse and jumping deer

There is nothing left to fear

Pirouette arabesque 

Now it’s time to fly 

You are dancing now you know

Maybe fast maybe slow

Maybe clumsily maybe sad

But with awareness 

Even that can become joyful 

And help us get in line with all there is

Abundant life forever 

Dance dance children dance

Tell the people not to cry

Tell the people to be happy 

Tell the people all to dance

And raise their weary hands up to the sky 

And reconnect with all the glory 

The joy of the cosmos

-jenn

 I smelled money suddenly as I walked,

And looked down about a block and saw a bank.

It made me wonder what kind of trees they’re making money from these days.

Now I know they say money doesn’t grow on trees,

But I’m not sure.

This fresh aroma that I smelled

Was deep verdure

Of aspen tree or cottonwood,

Mossy oak or the spoken word of a willow.

But as I grew closer I could see

A maintenance man was just ahead of me

Trimming a holly hedge,

And what I’d detected was the bittersweet 

Life force of the fruit and stems

From being trimmed,

And the sweat of the working man’s brow,

His duties pruning him, as well.

There is a peace that passes understanding.

There is a knowing seated deep

Within our DNA.

Nothing is ever destroyed or created.

Nothing is ever lost or gained.

It’s only light and sound and smell and feelings

Bouncing off a mystic screen.

Nothing is ever saved or spent,

Except our sacred energy,

And we would do well to know when to say when,

And store our treasure by some other means,

If we can only find out how.

-jenn

 Jayna Pancake was born, they say,

 On a reservation in the sky,

And everyone marveled at her beauty,

And many people urged her to go to Hollywood ,

That she could make it as a movie star,

But Jayna Pancake knew that she

Could never die,

And therefore she lived a different kind of life.

Many have a mystic hope,

But it is like a rope of sand,

But Jayna Pancake had a silent power.

Hours passed and nothing changed,

But when the target came in range,

Jayna would rise without a word,

Put an arrow on her bow and shoot,

And she could’ve taken down the entire herd

With the magical strength she had,

But she only ever did

What was needed.

Jayna heeded a sacred way

That none of the rest of us could even see,

Much less understand.

But her kindness and ability

To change a situation for the better

Inspired us,

That we might, too,

Become the hand of the divine

And shine on others as the sun,

Just as Jayna Pancake had done

For us.

Jayna Pancake was a friend of mine.

No one else was ever truer.

Yet hardly any of us really knew her.

She was quiet and reserved.

Her actions spoke without words

The mystery of Life.

And now she is a ripe old age,

Still with the power of a Sage or a young tree,

Still a beautiful soul,

An unspeakable friend to me,

Yet still I barely know her.

They say the mother goddess spells

The words of life up on the sky,

And if you show her deep respect,

And gratitude for the letters she writes,

She will string the letters out to make good words,

And things will go better for you.

And Jayna Pancake still looks up,

But she seems to fills her cup from the mother goddess herself.

She keeps her bare feet on the ground,

And let’s only the sounds

Of rocks and plants come out of her mouth,

And lives a different kind of life,

Because she knows that she can never die,

So she does what she wants,

And lucky for us,

What she wants is to be peaceful, loving, and joyful.

-jenn