Any thing that begins can end,

And anything that grows

Can quit growing,

Become stale and moot,

Die at the roots and be done,

And so, too, Love.

But the fun thing about Bonsai

Is the constant state

Of miniature,

Pruning roots and cutting branches,

Not for food or medicine,

But for beauty and discipline.

And sometimes Love

Is like a Bonsai Tree,

Only there by the devotion

Of its gardeners.

-jenn

When you lose your baby teeth,

And you have to watch your food,

And you look so cute,

Like a snaggle-tooth coyote,

And then, your big teeth grow in,

And they’re too big for you at first,

And stick out like a squirrel’s in front,

But you can know that you are growing,

Changing like the wind.

But when you’re old

And you start to lose your teeth,

You’re still cute, like Snaggle-Tooth.

You’re next real teeth, though, 

Are not the ones the white doctor gives you.

Those are fake.

Your next real teeth will be ghost teeth,

And you can’t see them,

But they are teeth of fire,

Preparing you to go to a feast-dance

In the happy hunting ground.

There the Great and Holy Spirit

Will share with you

Spirit-food that only fire consumes.

Your fire teeth will be too big at first, 

But just as beautiful as the squirrel’s,

And you can know that you are growing,

Changing like the wind.

-jenn

I always want to talk to you

A lot more than I ever get to.

Tell me, do you have any spare time?

My time’s gone flat,

And I don’t have a spare.

Maybe just a little air would help me?

Do you think we could share some air?

We won’t bother with a jack

Or take the lug nuts off

On a dare.

But I would love to talk to you.

Do you have any time to spare?

I would like to change

And be the kind of someone

You could see on a regular basis.

My change is flat and very rare.

Do you have any change to spare?

I don’t want much, do I?

Just your heart and soul and fire,

Your spare time, spare change,

Oh, and.. I do truly have a flat tire,

And it’s taken me this entire poem

To ask you, if you have a spare, 

And some time to help me change it?

-jenn

I always wanted

That someday 

I’d have a big book of poetry 

That my grandmother

Would want to read

And keep in her library.

She had these dark, mahogany

Bookcases that went from the floor

Up to the ceiling in her dining room ,

And they were filled with books 

On philosophy and foreign languages 

And poetry, big,  thick , collections

Of yellow paged editions of poetry.

I read A.A. Milne, and Emily Dickinson ,

T.O. Daly and Shakespeare snd Emerson

And Robert Burns snd Chaucer’s Tales,

And anything I could get my hands on, really.

And one day, I will have a big book of Poetry 

That my Grandmother would love 

To have in her library, and she would read it, too,

If she were still around, for she’d read all

Those books and more, that I found

In her library, and she knew

Just where to go to find the quote 

She might be looking for.

And maybe she would even quote me.

It would be easy for her to do,

For, in truth, I  quote her a lot, too,

In what I call, my poetry.

-jenn

I’ve been with my sons all day,

And nothing makes me smile

Like they do, their mischievous chuckles

And grins, their punching bags

And bruised up shins, their deep

Soulful brown eyes.

And nothing makes me cry

Like they do.

Sometimes I think this world is out

To crush our souls and spirits.

Tears come from our eyes

When our souls are crushed,

And many of us become soul crushers

Ourselves, in self-defense.

But right now, I watch proudly

As my two boys stand true

To who they are, and what they do,

And they laugh at the world 

And the would-be ruiners,

As they do it all with a smile.

And so for now, I’ll smile, too, with them.

-jenn

If I write to you at night,

It’s white letters on a black sky,

Just like the stars that spell my heart.

And if I say that I am vile

And you are virtuous,

It’s just the all-or-nothing think

I get from being Cherokee,

The only way I know 

To be comparative.

My linguistic battle to say

That you are better than I am 

At so many things.

But if I write to you in day,

My letters will be blue,

Drops of rain that fall into clouds

From somewhere even higher up.

They fill the clouds with dripping dew

Until the clouds must rain down, too,

And fall on you first, for you are high,

And I am low, and I will love you, always,

And never break your heart.

-jenn

My highest regards  are saved for you,

And if you ever want them ,

Highest regards do tend to grow

Into things that you might want someday .

There’s a special place in the yard.

Knowledgeable gardeners know

What grasses grow in the shade,

And when I stand here and look out,

I see the berries of blue hang down

From the trees and want to share them

Here with you, and there are other things

For you, that my high regards grew into.

-jenn