Standing thigh high in a field of tall blue bonnets,

At the foot of a rocky hill covered in liveoak trees,

Twirling around in my gingham frock,

With my skirt blowing out in a perfect circle,

This is my happy place. 

This is where I am the lord of the mandala of my existence.

Through a paper veil

Worn and thin and yellowed with time,

Like onion skin,

A frame appears of wood mahogany,

Dark in contrast to my grandmother’s ivory apron.

There is a look upon her face in that photo

That i only saw once, or maybe twice,

A look of bliss,

A look of peaceful loving joy.

A smile in the midst of the Great Depression, 

On a day when she had enough to feed everyone,

A plate on the counter piled high she was making

Of chicken salad sandwiches to feed the guests 

Who’d come to her eldest daughter’s wedding.

I hear the Bridal March begins! 

In my head I sing happily, “Here comes the bride!”

But I am still here,

Thigh high in bluebonnets,

Missing the wedding,

Missing the mayonnaise,

(Maybe, by now, I’m missing the cake!)

Twirling round, all about in the flowers,

Shining as the lord of my own mandala!

This is my happy place.

-jenn

 Today I rode the bus with the children of Pecos, Texas.

So packed in like sardines were we,

That several children  found themselves sitting 

Cross legged on the floor, in the middle of the aisle between the seats.

One such child was an eight year old Hispanic, 

And I want to call him a man instead of a boy,

Because I remember his face, his old soul eyes.

I remember how he took an old coke can 

That had rolled up beside him from the back of the bus somewhere,

And he pulled a pair of tin snips out of his pocket

And began singing in Spanish,

With the voice of a thousand ancient warriors.

I felt the bus swerve and looked up to see,

We had avoided running over a big dead dog in the road

That someone else had hit earlier with their car.

I could see up ahead several more animal carcasses 

Dotting the highway.

But the artist’s song kept me spellbound.

I would glance up at the road ahead, occasionally,

Always returning my gaze quickly to watch the sharp cuts he made on the metal.

And as I listened to his melody, I discovered

That his song told of his day at school.

He sang was about how the teacher had asked the children 

To write a page about what they were going to be when they grew up and why,

And he had gotten a zero because 

He couldn’t write.

But now he sang,

About the plight of all the children,

Yet how everything was going to be alright anyway,

A beautiful heartfelt spontaneous hymn.

He sang about how “what he was going to be when he grew up,”

Was exactly the same thing he was now:

A person who sits cross legged on the floor

And makes art out of trash.

He was going to specialize in tiny decorative saddles

That he would make out of old coke cans. 

And it was exactly when I heard that lyric in his verse,

It hit me that

That is exactly what he was making.

The last few snips on the can,

A few critical bends and folds,

And miraculously, 

The most bejeweled looking tiny decorative saddle I ever saw

Appeared out of the crumpled aluminum.

The bus swerved.

I looked to see.

We had just avoided another dead dog

Lying on the highway.

-jenn

 Things I want to do today:

Remember things from my past lives

Not the mundane things

Like what my name was

Or where I lived

But the deep insight my spirit drew

From the well of pure spring

That is: the timeless knowledge of love that never fails 

It starts with phi 

Then the golden ratio

Takes me through Van Gogh 

To Debussy’s melodies

The music 

The poetry

The urge to know the Greek letters 

And all the things they mean

These are my runes 

These the tunes that escape to me in dreams

This it seems is my life’s work

To find the meaning of love

And to love love’s leaning

Love’s learning 

The yearning in me

The desires of my heart

To become this love in every way

And how does one begin?

Let us open the book of love

And practice our abecedaries…

-jenn

 I am chasing butterflies,

Prayers that got away from me and flew.

How embarrassing that you would see them!

How nude I feel to see my naked dreams!

Unclothed they are,

And unheralded!

How directionless they seem,

Without a single goal,

And yet, they fly from Canada to Muscle Shoals.

Has anyone ever seen a sensible butterfly? 

A logical prayer?

But so wholesome are these loving entreaties,

Without makeup,

Without hairstyle.

The pentecost, 

The fiery tongues,

The gorgeous flames whose embers rise,

My heart has sent these hopes for love on them,

And packed on the backs of butterflies.

-jenn

 (Luckily) There are no shortcuts on your path or mine

Your path is yours

And mine is mine

And no one can walk yours for you

Nor mine for me

We will all probably get muddy

But to tiptoe around it will be the long way

The wrong way for you

And the wrong way for me

But tho our earthy trails will get us dirty

They will heal us

If we let them

Our true paths will deepen our stillness 

And our humility

Our gentleness 

And our correctness 

And in this innocent accepting state

May we all find ourselves detached from our troubles

And awash with joy 

-jenn

 Do the Sun and moon rise because of the pure desires

That the people all over the earth have?

Together we secretly long for the good of the universe and this planet where we reside?

And yet do the illusions we wear that veil

The true desires of our hearts,

Illusions woven together with webs of confusion,

Keep us apart,

And make it seem

That we as a people, as human beings, have separate dreams and goals?

Or can we hide

The glory that burns unveiled in our hearts of hearts?

-jenn