I like for people to tell me I’m getting taller.

I like ridiculous things

Like wings on cats

And lips on birds

And synthetic filament horsehair strings.

I like to pull the bow across a fiddle full of them

With a rattle snake rattle on the end of the bow,

And listen to the prale and prattle

As the violin gossips and threatens its jaunts.

“Oh where are you going, and where have you been?” I sing.

“And what ridiculous things have you seen?”

And the sea shanty comes, with its finely spun tale,

And only the spirit can interpret the tongues

So that I can behold them with glee,

And my mind’s greedy eye can feed me,

And I can grow taller.

Promise you’ll never stunt my growth!

Rather, verily, speak this oath to me!

That you will never, ever withhold

The stories and songs and poems

From times of old and the prophecies 

Of things to come,

Ridiculous things to come.

-jenn

 Black Bird Ode

A large gathering of black birds

In the still bare trees of almost spring,

I heard them from several blocks away.

And as I rounded the bend, I saw them,

All dressed very sharply in black,

Swaying with the branches, 

In the raucous March wind.

It wasn’t a funeral, for it wasn’t a dirge they sang.

More like an ode, praising the glory

Of metallurgy.

And occasionally, they’d utter a screech

That might curdle ones blood,

Like someone pulling someone else’s fingernails 

Down a chalkboard.

But I just shook my head

And kept on my way.

I had the urge to say

That after the winter the world’s had so far,

Even the singing of crows sounds good today.

-jenn

 While We Were Sleeping 

A nap is just a mini-death.

I welcome it.

I lie down willingly 

And give my life away.

And if my dreams are filled with desert sunrises

And rattlesnakes,

I’ll hold onto your hand as if 

I’m not the only person there,

That lives in that strange world.

And if I wake

And see the world has gone to hell

While I have slept,

I’ll hold your hand

And look around and wonder 

In awe of the things

That people make out of life,

When everything else was a possibility, too.

-jenn

 A great painter set out to paint a collection of insects,

And wanted to start with a ladybug,

The Coccinellidae, in great detail,

And so he took his brush and dipped

Into the red, with a dot of yellow,

And a dance began,

The speed, the rhythm, and the flight

Upon the canvas, eggshell white.

But as he immersed himself in the dance, 

With the devil in the details,

He found an almost unending degree

Of composition he could see,

And he was intelligent enough to know

How many elements he couldn’t see,

And so, his discernment carried him away.

He had fallen many times

Into pits that did have bottoms,

And he had always only hurt himself when he had finally hit,

But this time he had found a bottomless pit,

And so he plunged harmlessly through the nothingness,

And swarms of Coccinellidae came to him

And declared their endless love to him,

And only then, did he begin 

To understand the complexity of their color 

And the immensity of their design.

-jenn

 I’m acquainted with fun

And its many names,

And I know everyone likes to play

Their own version 

Of the same old games 

Over and over.

And his line was, “Actions speak louder than words.”

Then without letting me say my next one,

He blurted another: “I want you to be sweet and nice!”

“Well, want in one hand 

And put turds in the other,

And see which hand fills up faster,” 

Was the next line

Some improvisational creator 

Had suddenly scribbled in for me to say.

But I stayed quiet, as if I’d forgotten my line.

I’m going to ruin this play

By walking off stage,

And let my actions speak 

A louder theme from a greater scene this time.

For most actions are really just acts that people put on,

And people, just actors

With masks for the ball.

And words are just gossip

That actors say, usually 

In very poorly written plays.

And I have my pre-canned lines, too,

Usually something trite

That some cowboy poet 

From West Texas might write,

Like, “If you want the game to be fun

And nice, ya might try not pissin’

In your own Post Toasties.”

But sometimes, someone does something 

Sooooooooooooo meaningful and true

In the weird limbo behind the curtains.

And I guess I’m a little more into that scene right now,

So I’ll just say, “How now, Brown Cow?”

And exit stage left.

-jenn

 Tai Chi

I roll around in my bed at night 

And do tai chi while it snows

I do tai chi beneath my covers

Out of sight

And in the morning 

Everything is white 

Everything’s white in the morning

At midnight I’m up again 

I can’t sleep 

I counted sheep to a thousand 

So I rise and do tai chi in the dark

I close my eyes and feel 

The mountain of thought

That I’ve gathered and compiled

Slowly it’s fading

Slowly the land slide 

I’m riding it down 

While it snows all around me

And everything’s white in the morning 

-jenn

 She Was Beautiful 

She was beautiful 

And she was so sweet 

Then she got pregnant 

When she was 16

They still voted her prom queen 

She worked to get her teaching degree

And then her baby died

In a car wreck when he was twenty-three

She was so beautiful 

And she was so sweet

I rarely see her smile anymore 

I rarely see her

Sometimes shopping with her sister

Who leads her along

Putting items in the cart

Trying to lead her heart to a beat

She was so beautiful 

She was so sweet

-jenn