I chase blackbirds into the day.

They fly away, just ahead of me,

Sidetracking me, leading me astray,

Just as a mother killdeer would

So I can’t see her babies.

But I have seen the killdeer chicks.

So fluffy and fresh and full of life,

Their infant eyes seem extra large 

On their undeveloped heads.

I chase the raincrows into night,

For never have I caught sight of their offspring,

But if I could see one,

Even in a dream,

I feel I might know for once

Where I got these very large eyes from,

And this underdeveloped head.

Because it may be, for all that i know, 

That I might be a baby raincrow.

-jenn

He wrote me a story in ancient Latin.

Scrawled across my bathroom wall,

In a place I couldn’t miss it,

Like a cryptic forgotten missal,

Or the middle works of Verdi,

An opera, enigmatic lines,

Baroquely italicized manuscription,

It captures my rapt distrait attention.

If anything could speak to me,

If anything could touch my soul,

The door was opened by his hand,

And in moments of me not breathing,

And in moments of realizing that I should,

The heavy gauge of his guitar strings

Sustained a darker tone, 

So that I could see the velvet 

Stretch itself across the night.

Sometimes when the moon is almost full,

One has the opportunity to

Get out of bed in the middle of one’s sleeping,

Rise to the occasion, and hear

How slowly the moon crosses the Danube,

How rich and mellow the stars do shine.

My heart is beating now,

However arrhythmically

And out of time.

My heart... is beating now.

-jenn

 Lady Godiva had no pride

And said so to the magistrate,

Her husband, the earl.

“Oh no?” The magistrate rebuffed.

“Then strip off all your clothes 

And ride your horse to town naked,

And we will call it good enough,

And I’ll forgo the taxes I’ve imposed onto the peasants.”

Now I often wonder why

It has always been a desire of mine

To climb up on my horse and ride naked

The five furlongs into the heart of the city.

I do pity the tax burdened tenants.

I also long to demonstrate liberation 

To my brothers and sisters so condemned 

By the steeples that sit high atop the churches in this nation,

But most of all, I think it would be fun.

No cause to benefit, nor any charity, 

Nor anyone, per se,

But only to clothe myself in chastity,

As ancient lore and Alfred Lord Tennyson records that Lady Godiva did,

And ride my horse, naked through the streets of Coventry,

Or even a modern day~~~> Indiahoma.

Voila!

-jenn

 Whatever you want to do there is a school for that

Just know

That it may not work out as planned

If you have to go, then do it

I understand 

But please understand me if I say screw it

I can dance like no one is watching here

Or like everybody is

But I have now become 

The one they look to

When they want to see someone 

In this world who is happy

The old woman who smiles

And goes the extra mile with them

While they are young 

And guides them out of trouble 

And into love

By dancing

On and on and on

Even if it’s only in my heart ❤️ 

-jenn

The powers that be want you and me to line up for bread.

I don’t eat bread,

But they insist that I get in line and take my share.

I will go and cast my cares and my bread upon the waters, down at the lake.

I will dig the cattails and eat them instead,

Along with the taproots and early shoots of the wapato,

The crunchy grains of amaranth

And curly dock leaves,

And watch the otters.

They swim and play.

This will be my recreation, too,

And I will stay away from everything my formal education 

Has told me to do.

I will sing a hymn of praise to the stars above 

And how they seem to sparkle even from the depths of the lake

Up onto the surface of the water,

And I will pray that my original language returns to me 

Just as a mudpuddle clears in time,

And that all of the stories of my ancestors

Return to me in the rhythm of rhyme

And the form of twinkling stars dancing from deep music in my heart.

-jenn

 This is the sovereign medicine dance

For plenty peace 

And plenty water.

Happy Hunting Ground Dwellers say,

“The fountain within will never fail you.”

The ancient gates release their rusty hinge and open.

A fresh wind blows.

I feel the breeze.

The scent of green,

The Buffalo hope,

My nostril hairs quiver.

My horse stomps his front feet and glares.

He wants to run the dry river beds

Ahead of the storm.

Rain is coming.

-jenn

 Everyone around me is injured,

And I myself have a broken wing,

And the debris ~~~still falling from the air.

The apocalypse is still happening 

This has been going on for decades,

Like contractions that lead to pangs of birth.

Groan, Mother, let your groans be heard!

In labor for a new baby!

Who will also be a mama,

And will also someday give birth!

Is this a transient, conjoint event?

Is this a part of a grander scheme?

Which came first?

The love-making or the labor and delivery? 

Or is this all really one big thing?

If you ask me,

Love is still making the world go round,

And the apocalypse is still happening.

-jenn