When we've come to owing and not owing,
Then we've clearly lost our place.
We would do well to go back a few pages,
To, at least, the start of the last chapter.
Maybe we should read aloud this time.
We could take turns.
You watch my lips as I read,
And I'll watch yours.
This way we could be sure
That even if we 're not on the same page,
We maybe in the same book.

-jenn

Stark beauty of a dark silhouette,
Winter tree, a bare naked lady
Against a pale, colorless, morning sky,
She sighs.
Many have tried to capture her longing in still-life,
But no medium of paint or photograph,
Watercolor, pencils, has been found
That can capture her boredom.
Tired of sleeping until spring,
She yearns with her branches out and up,
Her nipples erect and goosebumps on her bark,
And would that she could stay undressed all year long,
And yet be clothed with the sun and warmth and dignity
That is afforded to others
Who do not wish for things they cannot have.

-jenn

To you who live in Loftyville:
You don't understand and never will
How one can speak in rhyme,
How magic over time
Is handed down
To put two things in opposition in a verse
That brings to light the oneness in a diverse
Landscape of possibilities and Harmony,
A blissful song,
A oneness with all the things that are not two,
And yet are not the same.

Done in meter, the unchained melody
Can sing thee truth,
A reality you can understand
Without all the scholarly explanations,
But a simple and lovely knowing, just the same.

-jenn

In the wind,
Half mast I blow,
For someone has been lost at sea.
There used to be some color to me,
But it is long gone, too.
My reds, my blue, a golden star,
All surrendered to the winds,
And ocean sand that blew across me in the long dry days.
The sun that shone has faded me,
And now this white rag is
All that's left of me to flag the sailors
Back to me and home.

It reminds them that there is a time
To give up all the answers
To the questions asked,
Especially when they see me,
A white flag at half mast,
For someone is always lost at sea,
Somewhere.

-jenn

Sunday Tart

The King of Hearts has had his share of tarts and ham.
Parts of him would like to go away,
Fake his own death and live like an actor in a play,
Or troubadour around from town to
Towne
And sing of the lucky beggar and the woeful king,
And he could sing it from the heart,
And would go and do it all
Were it not for ----- the Sunday Tart!

The Sunday Tart is a sunny outer crust
Baked to perfection with just a light dusting
Of the best milled flour.
A delicate stem of wheat is scratched
Into the dough just as it cooks
So it will show when it is done
Like a cartouche of ancient grain
Perfectly baked in foreign sun,
And inside, there is such a heavenly jam
That even the King has dared not ask,
"What fruit?" Nor does he give a damn to know,
For it is magic, mystic, sacred!
And to utter the holy secret would profane.
And so he quietly gobbles her
And never asks her name.

-jenn

I look up to thee, Oh Moon!
You are out today, yea, verily,
This very afternoon,
And I with thee, this diurnal,
Walking and penning,
Indigo ink on sky blue journal,
But you are here!
A curious thing!
Does it mean I've become nocturnal,
Or rather, you have become a creature of the day?
Either way,
A miracle for us,
Antitheses to meet.
I greet thee with a kiss
And promise more where those come from
If you will but follow me home, Oh Moon?

-jenn

Social media is a waste paper menagerie,
A sewer with collections of toilet paper
That have reformed in the gray water
And resemble strange animals
Mutated by nuclear waste.
One can almost make them out,
But they ebb and surge in the water treatment pool
With every posted flush.

I'm pulling the plug on mine
Before I become an origami'ed caricature of myself,
And find myself floating out to sea
With all the other named, and unnamed garbage.

- jenn

Mad Genius has to go away
To hear the birds sing
And play along the dry creek bed,
To watch them mate and dance up dust,
To watch them bathe in the gulchy bend
Of washed up silt and river sand.

They flutter their feathers while they stand
Where the water ran so deep,
But drought has made the river sleep
In someone else's home.
And the geese have gone away,
But these desert dove
Love a dry creek bed,
And so they've come to stay.

And Mad Genius, too,
Is used to something else,
Too used to it to say
Just what it is that drives him so away,
Out here, unto this desolate place,
Where quiet speaks like runes,
And these ancient tunes these ancient desert dove sing,
Of love and hope in every living thing
Brings streams back to his desert heart
And makes him start to bloom again,
And makes him think of his great art
And work.

-jenn

When wind blows in the jungle,
Only the tops of the trees are moved.
In the gray morning,
High in the green tree,
I see a flash of golden sun,
But this one comes with her own shadows.
The golden jaguar is resting,
Watching, dreaming high above it all.

I am not afraid of her
Because I know that she is me.
She and I share visions with one another.
Together, we see the whole picture of this plane, and others.
We strategize and connect the dots.
We encourage one another.
"Don't ever try to change your spots," she says as I walk by.

"I won't," I reply with resolution,
And nod to her silently.
She understands that I have said,
 "You, too."

-jenn

He quoted the ancient mariner,
Translated a Nordic rune,
Pulled a sword out of the stone,
Sung a tune...in Gaelic.

And then he disappeared again
Behind the shower curtain.

And when his hair,
In ringlets wet,
Clusters round his fabled head,
And joy and freedom course through the blood in his veins ,
Then all his cells shout out with glee!
They are all in love with me!
And I disappear behind the shower curtain with him.

-jenn

He got fat so I could see
How pitiful it looked on me.
But when I saw, and he saw, too,
There was nothing more
That we could do but laugh
And trot right down to the candy store
Together.

-jenn

Engagement Shoes

The Wives of Charity came by
And gave me shoes, for I had none.
They looked down at me and smiled
As I sat on the floor and tried them on
Until I found a pair that they said fit.

I put them on this morning
And began my hike up the mountain trail
To look for ginseng root.
But I sat on a rock about halfway up
And  took those shoes off and left them there.
They hurt my feet,
And besides, I missed the feel of the mountain between my toes.

-jenn

The Place That Even England Will Not Go

Hebrides, I've not forgot
Your gale force winds
And sea green salt grass
The hammer of the ships abuilt
Upon your worthy shores.

How the eyes of those who come
Will go as soon as the travel is ready!
How the eyes always look away
Toward some other unknown land.

Will there ever be a home?
Will west ever go as far as east?
Will anyone ever truly settle
For you, dear Hebrides?

-jenn

I heard a woman in the store
Chide her squirming little boy.
She told him
That it wasn't nice
"To wiggle."

She told him o'er and o'er and o'er
How it wasn't nice
"To wiggle."

I got so tired of hearing her speak,
So pained and so controlling!
"Such a whining sniveling beak face!"
I thought to myself,
And had the urge "to wiggle"
Right in front of her,
Or slap her in the face and say,
"Let him go, so he can wiggle in peace!"

And how did she think that it's not nice
To wiggle when you dance or swim,
And how did she think that she made him,
That wiggling little boy,
Without a little wiggling joy?
But maybe that's the problem.
No joy in Muddville!
No wiggling on the top or bottom.
Not a pro, and not creative,
Just a job to do
To provide America with your 2.2 children
And be on your pragmatic way.
No fun, smiling or wiggling allowed!

-jenn

I hear a lot about proper self-talk these days,
And how we can change all our circumstances just by changing the way we talk to ourselves.
So, I say I don't need self-talk.
I don't need anything.
I don't even need air.
I declare myself anaerobic.
I could be buried alive.
The thought of it doesn't scare me a bit
Because I could lay there for 2000 years and still be alive
And still be not breathing air.

See there, I feel better now
After my rant,
And all my self-talk and all my declarations,

Although a part of me wonders if
There may be a fine line between
Healthy self-talk and denial.

-jenn

When you're low person on the totem pole,
Trickle down theories only apply
As communicated, more by the world of plumbing,
Than of economics.
 You can watch the world go by,
Or you can strip naked
And join the parade of other fools,
But either way, it won't make
A hell of a lot of difference
To any one but you.
So you might as well do whatever you want to do,
And enjoy every minute of it you can.

-jenn

I like being at the right place at the right time and knowing it.
It gives me the feeling of ownership of myself.
It frees me to trust my instincts and my actions,
And every time it happens,
I feel the magic
Of blowing the candles out
On my very own birthday cake.
I feel the poof resonate out into the universe.
I smell the smell of waxy wicks smoking.
I feel even the wrongs vindicated
And the bad times all explained,
And I am happy to be on this perfect path for myself,
Into the eternal honest sunrise and the great of potential days.

-jenn

I'd like to shed my skin right here,
Even though it's cold,
Even though it doesn't seem to
Be the time of year
When one should trade their old
Outer shell for a new one, but
It brings me cheer this urge
To rip my wrap, throw my hat
Up into this nice person's
Manicured terrace.
I could leave a long trail of clothes
Before I got down to my actual scales,
And once I slither out of that,
Who knows but what I might have a tail,
And fur, and milk glands.
I might be a mammal after all!
I might shiver and squat
And take a poo in some other neighbor's yard
Before I make it home.

Or maybe I'd just wander off,
Following the scent of mink or musk
Of some other fine hound like me,
And pray I didn't see a skunk or squirrel
That would lead me off
Down a goose-chase trail
From which I might never return.

But whatever it is that I'll become,
I feel myself, one day closer to it.
If today is not the day,
Then maybe the prayers that the neighbors pray
Are still working,
And they'll have to wait to gather to discuss
The strange undergarments and fecal matter
They found in their yards
For one more day, at least.

-jenn

Don't bother ruining all my fun.
Save yourself at least one thing
To ruin tomorrow,
Lest you have nothing better to do
Than ruin two things today.
A bird in the hand, they say,
And, never put off for tomorrow what you can do today, they say.
But hey!
A girl can use a fargin break!
So take it easy for a change!
And quit taking such great pains
And giving them to others.

-jenn

He knows words are all I need to hear.
He whispers sweet smiles into my ear,
Which then, emerge from my wide eyed face
As I dream of the place we're going to.
And how did he know to touch my hair,
And kiss my lips,
And tell me,
"We're almost there,"
Just as I was about to say,
"Are we there yet?"

-jenn

I find myself driving
On a rainy night in Paris.
The lights from the oncoming traffic blind.
The windshield wipers aren't the best.
They smear the rest of the rain around,
But more is coming down
To the tune of "I Can't See
Whatever's Right In Front of Me."

I hear a looming clock strike out the hour,
And I know the Eiffel Tower
Has got to be in plain sight, somewhere,
But all I can see are the lights
Of the oncoming cars and an oncoming train,
And the rain.

And the sun is coming up
Or going down,
Or is it that the world is simply
So round these days
And spins like a rubber ball?
And it's fall here,
Or winter or summer or spring,
And I can't see anything but you
And this beautiful blue
That falls from your eyes
And these cloudy, partly sunny skies.

And now,the cathedral is striking out
A belled refrain,
And I've never seen anything
More beautiful
Than you
In the lights here in Paris,
And the rain of joy, here in the department of Ile-de-France.

-jenn

If you have the money to build a ship,
You could be a pirate,
And furnish it with professional thieves.
They could steal for you,
In your name, and fill your coffers
With baubles of blame, and trophies of shame,
And booty,
Lots of booty.

But if you don't already have the means
To build a ship, the next best way
To christen yourself as a pirate
Is to steal one yourself
And take to the seas,
And rescue a few lost sailors
Who will feel
Indebted to you.
Make them steal
For you.

And of course there are others ways.
These are just two,
If you want to
Be a pirate
And you want to have a crew,
And booty,
Lots of booty.

-jenn

Without thoughts,
You would be
A mindless SeaMonster.
Thankfully,
You're a mindful one.

-jenn

I would rather see a picture
Of a sculpture---
Zeus, disguised as a swan
Loving Leda,
In an embrace that will foster Helen,
The face that will launch a thousand ships,
Than to hear the thousand words again---
You defending your dissertation
Of how the gods were never real,
But only myths which the great and twisted
Complex minds the AncientGreeks composed
In perfect meter.

-jenn

It's dark here in Newgrange,
Especially on cloudy days,
Especially here, in the drear of Winter.

Only on certain holy days that mark the passage of the season,
Only by reason of a little doubt,
The courtroom clout clears away,
But for only a tiny portion of the day
While the sun shines in.

But the sea wind blows every day
And takes away a part of me,
And I can only wait and see
If the card my heart has played
Is the guilty part,
Or the guilty party.

The sun will shine in my room again
After the passing of a little more time,
And I can see what bones remain
Here, in. Newgrange.
And it is right that 360 days are for gloom,
And only four, and never any more,
Are made to shine in,
For Newgrange is a tomb, afterall.

-jenn

He didn't want her anymore
Now that she had stretch marks
After she'd had their children.

So he set her aside to look for someone perfect
Like himself.

But after searching for a long while,
The only one he found that would have him
Was a dowdy woman from work
Whose very stretch marks had stretch marks.

So, very well,
Fait accompli!

-jenn

If we have a liberated society
Where women are separate but equal to men,
Where the glass ceiling's been shattered,
And all the opportunities afforded to "them"
Are afforded to us,
Why am I self conscious of my bust?
And why do I still to this very day
Have the urge to stuff my bra?

-jenn

A sleepwalker will seem intelligent to you.
For though his eyes are open,
There is an aura of calm about him
And his mouth his closed.

But one who talks in his sleep will baffle you.
He mumbles away like a babbling fool,
And the only difference is
His mouth is open.

The only one who can look the part
And still put his money where is mouth is,
Is a sleep kisser,
And only then, if he never does kiss and tell.

-jenn

I merely raised my eyebrows at her
And she told me she was looking for a glove.
She felt the need to explain herself to me.
I saw myself in her.
A complete stranger helped me see
That a meme I saw online is true.
Those that mind don't matter,
And those that matter don't mind.

-jenn