The students look old these days,

About my age,

Except they cough on their sleeves.

They've been taught to cover their mouths,

Not with their hands that they'll be using 

To touch things later,

But with their forearms

Or the insides of their elbows.

They have been taught,

And they have learned 

About germs,

And this is progress.

I guess.

But what will the generation succeeding them do 

When they cough?

They will scoff at the ones who sneeze

Into their sleeves?

Yes.

For this is what the younger generations do

To the proceeding ones.

They've been taught to.

They've learned.

-jenn

First World Woes

I prepare myself for the reality of dryer lint.

I steel myself against what I perceive 

Will be unnecessary steps

To deliver it to the trash can.

My old house had a space

For rubbish to go right beside the dryer,

But now, so many things I miss.

I fight the urge of remembered complacency,

The thought patterns that suggest

That yesterday was better.

But what about yesterday's yesterday?

Yesteryear?

I cannot help but sigh 

And roll my eyes,

And wonder if I have room outside

For a clothesline.

-jenn

After the library at Alexandria burned,

A man walking by found the charred remains

Of a book that described the Philosopher's Stone and where to find it.

And so he sold everything he had

And moved up to the coast of Spain

And set up camp on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea.

The book described a smooth black pebble,

That might appear as any other 

That you could see on that shore.

But the book explained the mystery 

Of how one would know the Philosopher's Stone

By the fact that it would feel cool to the touch

Instead of warm, as one would expect 

A normal pebble to be from lying there on the sun.

And the story goes that the man

Contrived a plan so that he wouldn't continue 

To try the same pebbles over and over.

He would pick one up and feel it,

And if it were warm, he would

Hurl it into the sea.

And so he did this day after day,

Until one occasion when he reached down 

And grabbed a pebble 

And felt that it was cool,

And he stood up,

And hurled it into the sea!

Immediately he recoiled 

In grief and pain.

He had thrown the Philosopher's Stone away,

And would surely never find it again,

And why?

Because he was in such a rut of habit,

That before he could think 

That something was different here,

He had acted out of rote.

So I hope I don't go on

Doing the same old same old things,

And miss some spontaneous magic

That might happen to me.

I hope I can be aware

Of a lovely chance 

To stare into some extraordinary thing

(Like your eyes)

And understand what a chance that I've been given.

-jenn

I've been seeing them carry things

In and out of the house all day,

A total remodel.

They gutted the place,

Carried in wood and plaster and paint,

Sheet rock and brand new window panes.

But this time all I could see over the hedge

Was how carefully they were moving.

"It looks like they're carrying a baby," I thought,

And I was right.

When they emerged from behind the hedge,

I saw the fair-haired head

Of an infant in his arms.

There are somethings a mother knows,

How lightly one can walk with a baby in tow,

Almost as if on air,

And now I see the reason 

For the sudden nesting season.

-jenn

Clouds on clouds,

The day adjourns.

Any misgivings can be returned 

By the jury, like socks

That do not fit.

But some return gifts that fit just right,

Preferring to select their own society.

Piety comes in many forms,

And in the norms of jury duty,

I find no solace,

Just a grimace from sitting all day

In Blind Justice's gray courtroom,

Feeling such great pity

For all involved.

It seems a simple situation devolved,

And As I stand, I wonder if Love 

Really could have been the answer?

Love is on trial.

It's on the witness stand.

It's my court appointed counsel.

It has a fool for a client.

It's done everything but judge,

Everything but fail.

Yet I feel it's lovely leg irons, now.

They keep me from running.

I'm standing.

I'm standing,

Awaiting for the verdict.

-jenn

I stand amidst bees that will not sting me.

They are busy with the lavender flowers

That blush high atop the rosemary bush.

I have stood for hours here,

Patiently learning how to bloom.

I try not to be distracted by the buzz,

The translucent wings.

A bird sings, while hairy legs churn

Over fluffy clumps of petals,

And little bits of pollen stick,

Like metal shavings to a magnet.

I see the movement of the breeze,

The bees, but what is the flower doing?

The question taunts me into the night.

My internal flowers haunt the tufts of folded buds inside my core.

I lie awake, dressed in vernal gossamer,

Secretly blossoming.

Window open, breeze is blowing,

I am waiting for my bee to alight.

I'm waiting to be smelled.

-jenn

Black sheep always take up with other black sheep.

Their children are not only sheepish,

But ever so blackishly so.

I have wandered from my fold,

For they are day, and I am night.

My dark eyes of understanding show

The old souls who came before me

In my clan,

And I can see the black sheep DNA

A mile away, and secretly hope

To replicate it,

To fill the world with artists, beggars and poets

Who will soothe the world and heal it 

From its pain

Of trying to be too perfect

In the perfect light of day.

I am looking.

I am looking.

I am loving the dark parts of your heart

That have long, long gone astray.

-jenn