They said they wanted to study me,

And I smiled with pride,

And got myself ready in my best tweed

And heels and steeled myself

For how I might defend

A dissertation, if I’d ever written one,

But maybe someone liked my poetry there?

But at the university,

The shuttled me off

To the Zoology Department,

Where I was asked to strip down.

I looked around to make sure

I didn’t see any knives.

It wasn’t my poetry they wanted to dissect,

But guess again,

The story of my life?

-jenn

Your love poems

Taste pressed,

Like french coffee,

Fresh like lime.

Enjoy me now

For just this day,

This time,

While I am

Beautiful.

And we don’t 

Have to fall in love,

But we can.

We might.

We may.

-jenn 

When I came to

This foreign place

To visit him,

He gave me a fake name.

He told me what to call him,

And exactly how to say it.

It turned out to be

A dirty word

In his language.

Every time I called to him,

He snickered.

Every time I

Longed for him,

It was a joke on me.

But he told me

It was his name,

And I thought it was beautiful,

A foreign phrase

That had no meaning

Except what one was

Told that it should be.

But one day 

In a small cafe,

Where he and I sat eating,

He rose to go

And his wallet fell,

And when I called to him

To tell him,

The other patrons giggled.

His face got red,

And he glared at me.

He left me here,

Like a child,

A stranger

In a strange land

With strange customs.

The restaurant owners

Took me in,

And I began to work

At the cafe,

But I am wary of 

Who I trust to teach me

The language here,

And how I’m taught 

To say the words.

I listen to the customers,

To hear how

Regular people say them.

I am wary of everything,

And only hope

Someday 

I will find my way back home.

-jenn 

The melody of songbirds in the trees

The lonely whippoorwill 

The drill of the woodpecker 

It’s quiet here

To say the least

But in my mind

A sunny pine

And a deep place

Where the river widens

A big rock to jump off of

And lively splashes

Of laughter and cold clear water

My smile is an echo

Of this time

And place 

-jenn

The clamor and clang from the machine shop 

Drops and follows the men

Down the road to the pub.

The light shifts to pale

As the sun sets,

And a doe appears in the back yard

To nibble on the purple flowered mint.

I peek out my door

To watch the colors of the day

Slink away with the sun.

-jenn

I found wild berries on the mountain.

I pull my wheelbarrow up empty 

And follow it down the hillside full

And sell the berries at the market

And never have to sew.

I’ve never liked pins and needles,

Thread or cloth of any kind.

I don’t care to wield the scissors,

But I love the berries I find on the mountain.

I will leave the tailor shop behind

And hope I never have to sew again.

-jenn

I pile my hair up on my head

And pin it with a silver clasp,

And one tendril falls out sheepishly

And curls just at my jawline.

Who are you trying to seduce,

Oh wayward lock of mine?

There is no one here but me

Staring into a dusty mirror.

-jenn 

Have you seen the Milky Way tonight?

It is white as snow.

It pulls the light from my eyes 

Deep into itself.

And I am lost, here in the dark,

Like a night owl, flying

Somewhere between the airy heavens

And the hard winter earth.

-jenn

I lie awake and watch the flowers dancing on my wall

No one has told them they are “wall flowers.”

No one has labeled them, 

Or given them a name at all.

And so, not knowing how to behave,

They dance, as long as the moon is full

And shines through the roses

And honeysuckle vines on my porch,

Casting these lovely shadows to dance

On my curtain, and book shelf,

In my room.

-jenn

She collected a cauldron of sleigh bells

And stirred them with a wooden spoon,

And the most magical melodies 

Came floating up. Tunes of random measure,

A rhythm that spoke forth rhyme,

And lyrics formed spontaneously 

That sang the woes of Time’s 

Great feats upon mankind.

And something deep within me understood,

And something quiet flowed from in my soul,

And told me words of wisdom

That spread wholeness out

Into my limbs and torso.

And now, I am ok.

I’m lonely.

I sing a song of sleigh bells

To the pines.

I’m lonely, I sing,

But I’m ok.

-Jenn

If I walk out of my room

In a daze, without saying a word,

I’m only sleepwalking.

It’s best that you don’t wake me.

If I go down as far as the turn row,

Where the light of the moon

Shows me hazy and spectral,

Don’t shake me

Til long after I’ve made it

Down the aisle,

To the place where the hay shocks 

Stand like groomsmen

Awaiting me,

Long after I’ve made my sacred vows,

And the stringed quartet

Has taken its bows,

And the receptionists swoon.

Don’t force me to wake or to speak too soon,

Or ever, til long after the honeymoon is over.

I’m only sleep walking,

So please don’t wake me

Til June, or July or 

Maybe the following May,

Or if that’s too far gone,

Give me at least til tomorrow night.

-jenn

n my little office,

I have three bottles of various colognes,

Half full, half empty.

I spray some on my hair in case

Someone comes to see me.

It’s fine for The Poet to smell 

Like oily scales and mothballs,

But, The Poetess,

She is held to an entirely 

Different standard.

-jenn

It’s a sappy sweet affair

When trees are standing tall,

And pollen blows on the wind

Through the air from the male to the female.

In the leaves that rustle, a whisper

Asks her, “Do you want it here? 

Or there?” 

And the Pecan Tree whispers back,

“Everywhere! I really don’t care.

I just want you as deliriously happy as I am.”

Because at the first tingling pollen,

That touched one place and then another,

A swarmy dither overtook her.

She’s not worried if he’s the Protandrous or Protogynous type,

Just that whatever he has shed

Is starting to effect her xylem.

Will she mate for life, or just a decade

Or a day?

Will she wait while life goes passing by?

Will she take it on the chin,

And make a million pecans by then,

While she enjoys the scintillating pollen 

Every time it blows through her blue sky?

She is a Pecan Tree, and a beauty, too,

So she will do whatever she wants to,

And some years will be lean,

But her green is new every spring,

And her roots are deep, and her dreams

Continue to flow through her sapwood

And all the way out through her crown.

And I am taking my cue from her,

For staying power and longevity,

For love and beauty and sex

And making seeds of everlasting life.

Here’s to shining in the sun and having fun

And enjoying my beloved ones, every day,

One day at a time.

-jenn 

I dip into an inky well

Of darkest night,

To write upon the backdrop 

Of the day,

As if I could but say to you

The things my heart thinks.

I sink into the well again, 

The dark cold waters on my skin

Baptize my thoughts away.

In crystal clear i try to write 

My words upon a clear blue sky,

But invisible unfelt feelings

Can’t be read,

And so instead, I attempt

Once more, to simply dream,

And wish that things were different.

But maybe I should wish for them to be

The very same,

The very same way they are

Between you and me.

-jenn

How do you fix an angel

With broken wings?

You can’t.

Just let her sing while she walks along the ground,

And if you can catch her,

Is it lucky?

Like a leprechaun?

No.

It’s terrible to catch an angel

With broken wings.

It’s terrible.

So never try.

Angels are made to fly and be free,

And sing from the sky,

But they cry on the ground,

And the sound they make

When they can’t fly

Is terrible.

So terrible.

-jenn 

Bird Lectures

“I wonder what kind of bird that is?” I asked.

“That is a sparrow,” the young doctoral candidate said.

“Oh look!” I said. “That one looks like a female blue-jay!”

“No, that is just a pigeon! There are only

Two types of birds,” he insisted,

“Sparrows and pigeons.”

“Well what is a cardinal?” I asked.

“That is just a pigeon.”

“What about the finches?”

“Sparrows,” he concluded.

“What about a hummingbird?”

“That’s actually a form of bee.”

He rolled his eyes at me,

As if my brain were dead.

“There are only two types of birds,” he slowly said,

Snapping his fingers and stamping his foot down

So hard on the floor that the windows rattled.

“Sparrows, and pigeons!” he re-insisted,

“Oh, and woodpeckers....”

I can’t wait to read his dissertation.

——

My son and I were watching the birds

Eat the seed that he had put out

On a snowy day, and he overheard

Their breakfast conversation,

And told me what they were saying

As I ate mine.

“It’s a good thing they fed us today,” said the mother blue jay,

“For where exactly would we ever have found any worms?”

“In a dog’s butt,” my son heard 

The daddy blue jay grunt matter-of-factly.

“Yummmm!” I groaned. “I’ll never hear 

The birds sing the same way again.”

———

When a bird walks on the snow,

It doesn’t sink down into it,

Because there’s really nothing to a bird.

Just some fluff, with feathers on it,

A layer of black to form an eye,

And hollow bones, so they can fly.

We might not even believe they’re real,

If we didn’t see bird-seed disappear,

And the mess they leave behind.

But the birds don’t think

There’s much to us,

Just some tufts of hair

We fuss over, and the solid bones

We’re founded on,

We grounded ones, who cannot even fly.

-jenn 

Metamorphing 

I’m walking in an idyllic place.

The sky is a perfect shade of gray.

Many diverse kinds of birds

Chirp and call and sing their lovely tunes.

The morning is cool,

And the soft light diffused by the clouds

Provides the consummate hue to start the day.

And then I see a cigarette 

Lying by the curb in the street.

It was night here, before this peerless morning.

Someone completely out of his wits

Took a piss in the alley.

Someone stumbled in at his door

To “I don’t love you, anymore.”

I remember when I was five.

I smile when I think of how early I’d rise.

I had a lot of work to do.

I’d stand on the top of the commode

And pull the mirrored door around

So I could see how white my teeth were,

So I could show the world on the television commercial

I was about to make there in my bathroom.

I’d put a dab of my mother’s cold cream

On my hair so it would shine.

Then, at first light, I’d go outside,

Get right to work making mud pies.

The sun would come up on me,

Up to my elbows in dirt,

But I had to work.

First I had to see 

The inventory left from yesterday.

Who had eaten up all the donuts?

Cakes were gone from my mud bakery,

And pies, and just as the sun would shine too bright,

My mother would appear at the door,

Bleary-eyed and furious, and tell me 

I would have to come in and bathe again before school.

And there would be a cigarette,

Lying soggy in the road in a puddle 

Right beside the bus stop.

I don’t know how I learned to read,

But I already knew in first grade,

And read all the books

In the elementary school library.

Then they brought me more to devour,

And I would get to sit quietly 

Away from the rest of the class

In a sunny window seat,

And from there I could see where our teacher went

When she left the room.

She’d appear for just a minute’s break

On the west side porch,

And take a cigarette and light it,

Hold it between her fingers,

Middle and index, and put it to her lips

Like the sexy movie stars on tv.

She would breathe it,

And I would see a side of her

The other children never knew.

Then she’d crush the cigarette butt

And carefully put it in her purse

And disappear,

And soon return through the classroom door

With her lipstick newly reapplied

And resume her teacherly duties with a proper,

“Now, children, we will learn...”

—-

I like to think about the future with a little f,

Since you said we couldn’t have a future with a big F.

I laugh because I don’t have a future with myself, much less with you.

I think the future is over-rated,

Or maybe it’s just f’d up.

But while you told me all about it,

I just stared at that cigarette you threw

Down on the ground,

Because I knew you already had a girlfriend .

——-

Everyone else can be themselves.

He or she can walk into a room

And do whatever he or she 

Would naturally do.

I, alone must be aware

Of my self-presence.

I must be extra polite,

Walk just right,

Speak delicately.

Everyone else can be themselves.

I have to travel light,

And lightly, because 

I’m ballsy as hell.

So I’ll keep quiet

Til someone needs someone to yell,

And then, you better let me do it,

Because there might not be

A second chance

To get this right.

Sometimes it’s true, one needs

To speak softly and carry a big stick,

And sometimes.... one needs a great screamer

To be on his or her team, 

To show the world the defense means business.

And sometimes all one really needs

Is a cigarette.

——-

But not me!

I’m not allowed 

To smoke or drink

Or need anything.

A constant stream of things to do

Keeps me out of trouble,

And yet I wonder if it prevents me

From thinking about tomorrow .

Thinking of what I might truly need 

Or want in the immediate future,

The future with the little f,

The Future with the Big One.

—-

“Do you smoke after sex?”

“I don’t know, I never checked!”

I hear the canned laughter 

Of the variety show on TV, 

And the quick cut to commercial.

I can’t find my babydoll .

I can’t find my joke book.

I wanted to go on the boat tonight 

With my parents, but they wouldn’t let me.

I’m so tired. I brush my teeth and go to bed,

And no one had to tell me to do that.

I open the window in my room

That I share with my two brothers,

To let in the cat with sea-green eyes.

I hug it up to me and sigh.

It stretches out right beside me

On my pillow, and we both sleep.

But I know in the morning when I wake

To open the window to let it out,

There will be cigarette butts on the ground

Just outside my window pane.

And I will realize that I 

Have smelled cigarette smoke

All through the night.

———

But today is another day.

-jenn 

Dark Star

I want to be your dark star.

I want you to sing to me

The way I sing to you,

In an ultra-sonic binaural beat.

I don’t want to be the one you see,

As if you’re seeing someone,

But the one you feel

All during the day,

As well as the night.

I want to be your dark star,

The dark horse of your novel

Who comes to take you away 

From the man in the white hat,

Who’s come to take you away from yourself.

I want to take you back 

To the heart of the matter,

The dark matter of the beginning,

If that’s where you want to go.

I want to be your dark star.

And if you do not want to go,

You can come to me,

And in the deep space anti-shine,

Feel me pulling the light out of your eyes.

Feel me absorbing your twinkling smile

And your warm life into my very reversal of time,

Into my starving, insatiable heart,

The heart and soul of this dark star.

-jenn