Day 1 In the Wilderness 

I feel fine

Now I greet people with the phrase,

“So what,” or “And....”

And my new way to say “goodbye,” is:

“May you Rest In Peace.”

Already now, I cackle a crazy crow laugh,

To think how that will be received 

I paint my face and shoulders and torso

With the red and blue clay I find 

On the banks of the ——— River

I don’t know its name yet

But it will reveal itself to me

When it knows that I am ready 

Here is some black earth

Rich with composted humectants

The stench has left it

The water purified it through 

And now it smells like an ancient fertile valley 

That lies waiting for seeds to come to rest 

And burrow themselves in naturally 

And grow

I take two fingers and dip them

Into this black creamy loam

And put two streaks of it beneath both eyes

And one from the crown of my forehead 

Down along the center of my nose

My fingers jump over my mouth

And then land to dot the middle of my chin with it

In this way, I continue my journey

Considering the many ways

One may be blessed 

To rest in peace 

While we still live.

—-

I turn like a shadow on a sundial 

Telling Time

I croon my neck 

Like a Sunflower after the Sun all day

At night I watch the darkness move

Across the deep

Like a Lover

Who expectantly waits

On the steps of my porch 

Come for me, Night

Cool my parched lips 

And give me rest

Nourish me, refresh my hunger pangs 

With the great fasting 

Prepare my hands for Tomorrow 

I have healed the sick with my great Love for them

I have cast out demons and cancers when I prayed

Now it’sTime to raise the dead

And walk where Angels fear to tread 

—-

My left shoulder hurts and the back of my right knee

But underneath my war paint melts

The face I hate

The one I saw in the white man’s mirror 

The same one I saw my mother wore

When her mask would fall

When my father shocked her yet again 

When she thought she’d chinked the cabin of her mind

But how did he find the one weak link

Every time, to shock her with some needless hurt 

One face launched a thousand ships they say

But this face launched me 

I’m gone

And yet, this face will melt,

And be replaced with something new,

Something shockingly unshockable

Because beneath the face,

The heart cries out for wholeness.

-jenn

River Goddess

I have been reborn by the winter snows

That fell on Kailash, and slowly melt in spring 

And now I know

I’ve found my way 

I have nothing more to say

Except the rivulets of poetry that leak

From abundant rain

I speak them plainly in gurgling brook

For every meadow nook and glen

And sing them soft as lullabies 

To newborn cries of fawn and cub

Again and again they long to hear

The ancient trueness of the RiverSong

My only source 

The subtle integral virtue

Even in my sleep I flow

Dreaming of the destiny

Even in the day I feel

The deep connection to the Milky Way

The galaxy that stirs continuously

Those who long for rest for their soul 

The forgiveness and the eternal peace

Come and lay their heads down on

The gentle hills that slope beside me

They dip, first,their toes, and then,

Feeling the refreshing stream 

That rushes just below the still waters

They bend their knees into

The deeper parts, and then their thighs

And then they sigh, as my cool touch

Expresses the much needed relief

At their umbilical hole, and some 

Even squeal in sheer delight as they go under

And come up reborn in fresh light

And fresh breezes for their previously drooping sails

I’m healed they say

Tho others talk of my demise

She dead, they shake their heads

Gone away 

—-

The River loves the Sun.

The River loves the Shade.

The River Works, 

Just in, what some might uninformededly term,

“A lazy way.”

River flows by places where

Gardens were planned and planted, and

River flows by wild unkempt woodland trails.

She spills over in one low place,

And seeking lower places still,

She trickles through a street in my neighborhood.

She blesses every house as she seeps by.

Particularly, I hear her, at a home

Where an old Jon-boat sits sometime, 

And sometimes it’s gone.

“Bless this Jon Boat,” River croons,

“And the River-Lover who owns it.”

—-

“I like mine watered down,”

She said, quietly, looking extra lovely

In her Aqua evening gown,

And while the ballroom whirled with lights

From a sparkling strobe,

Her mind twinkled, like stars on a River

So long, it wound around the globe,

And she was at the place in that River,

Where the waters fell. They tumbled straight,

Then splashed a silver spray,

Where a rainbow stayed continuously,

Even though the waters of the River

Cascaded down. It was a wonder,

And certain minds could note,

Could marvel at the sacredness 

They felt in the ballroom of The Riverboat

That night.

—-

River always has two ways to go,

If one says no,

One says yes.

There is no guessing,

Doubt or hesitation.

The destination is the same.

The subtle force can play the game.

The subtle force can win or lose,

But River will always choose the best,

The path of least resistance, yet,

Her way is Power, her day respected,

Her night trajectory ever strong.

The Junipers do not expect it, either,

Yet their age is revered, and River

Never asks for anything, least of all Respect,

But River gets it.

—

Old Man is crazy like a fox.

He brings his grapes to the River

To wash them off.

He sits on the bank and eats them slow.

He remembers something his Mother told him,

“Always eat everything with your fingers, Son.

Nothing you have to cut or cook

Will provide your body with

Any nourishment at all.”

He stares into the waters of the brook.

He follows a mystical stream in his mind

To a cosmic place of nothingness,

A most profound peace he experiences there,

Not joyless, but so quietly, mystically rapturous,

That it cannot be disturbed for days.

He will wander back to town,

And others will think that he is drunk

Or stoned, but his heart has been transcended.

His world upended by the subtle flow

Of the unending waters of The Great River of Life.

—-

River has mysterious ways.

She’s mischievous.

She plays over the rocks in the forest glades,

Gurgles her words to them

As she coos,

Smoothing them into River Stones.

She doesn’t own them.

No one does,

But the value they possess when she is through 

Is exponentially more 

Than when some child, or lonely 

Exasperated fisherman threw them in,

Here at the bend, where River slows

To listen to them and the others who come to wish,

Or opine, about the way Father Time

Has mistreated them.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” she sighs.

Eventually, we come to realize this.

—-

 She’s always barking out wild ideas to him,

As if they were orders.

He stops in his tracks, rolls his eyes around in his head,

Tries to decide whether to laugh or cry.

Then as it all sinks in,

He thinks about whether maybe he might ought to try it or not.

Maybe it’s not such a bad idea after all?

What kind of world do we live in anyway?

Which way is up?

Which way is down?

When we start off blind and naked like rats,

And then they tell us the earth is round, not flat,

And it’s going around the sun?

And so the man in the moon

Listens to the loony lady’s wild ideas sometimes.

Maybe it’s not such a bad idea after all.

-jenn

 You only hurt yourself when you gossip, 

Run a smear campaign,

Use sarcasm to demean someone.

You think you’re cutting them down

(To your size),

But doesn’t that imply

That you think he or she

Is bigger than you?

You show your envy,

Your stingy belief

That the universe isn’t grand enough 

For everyone to succeed,

(But it is).

You display your small-mindedness 

And your short sight,

Not acknowledging that

There might be at least two sides to every story,

Or even ten, or twenty sides,

Or more, 

But you won’t acknowledge the wholeness 

Of the cosmos and the possibility 

That you are just as much a part of the sin 

As you are the rightness,

And your own, overgrown self-righteousness.

So your little digs and jabs?

I have news.

They might hurt a few feelings here and there,

But most of all, 

They’re hurting you.

You’re hurting yourself,

Over and over again.

And to those of us who think we must 

Put up with this repeatedly:

Take away anyone’s right to hurt you,

And see who stays.

-jenn

 I remember the summer when I was ten,

The first time I’d ridden a bike on a paved road.

A friend of mine, named Jill,

Lived in Cross Cut,

Something of a ghost town then,

But it had been an oil boom town

Deep in the heart of Texas.

It was easy to pedal and ride.

We stayed outside all day on our bikes,

And we, not once, saw a car or a person,

Just jackrabbits, and one lazy possum 

Came out at dusk and scared us,

So we knew it was time to go home.

I spent the night with her and her family,

And in the morning they introduced me

To pancakes with peanut butter on them

And store bought maple syrup.

And I told my family about it when I got home,

And we decided they must be

The richest ghosts in the ghost town.

And this afternoon, I’m riding my bike,

Thinking of you, (yes you),

And the way the world is going now,

And the way the wind is blowing,

I’m pretty sure this is a ghost town, too,

For I don’t see anybody moving around.

The streets are empty and the sidewalks are brown,

And the sky is an eerie shade of blue.

But maybe I’ll go spend the night with a friend,

And maybe I’ll have something new for breakfast again,

Like I did back then, and if I do,

Maybe I’ll come back and tell you ghosts all about it.

-jenn

 I’m worried about the world going to hell in a handcart.

I ruminate on the numerous 

And various ways it could do that.

I’m riding my bike and come to a turning place.

I could go this way, or I could go that.

I choose to go a further route

That takes me by a pasture

Where a playa lake buzzes 

With natural activity.

The birds remind me 

That it’s going to be okay.

The leaves of grass speak Whitman to me

And suggest other poetry,

And that mushroom that popped up overnight 

Reminds me that

There are things I do not like to eat.

I remember my baby brother’s birthday dinner,

When they offered him a plate of spaghetti,

And he looked at it without taking it.

“I don’t like mushrooms,” he said.

“Those aren’t mushrooms,” Mother lied.

“Those are... um..... green beans.”

“I don’t like green beans,” he replied,

And whirled about and ran back outside to play.

It was his birthday, for gods sake,

And he didn’t even get to have any cake,

Because he hadn’t eaten his spaghetti.

I sigh,

And bravely onward go.

The world went to hell in a handcart 

A long time ago,

But that’s okay.

-jenn

 It was a difficult night

When planets oppose one another,

And the stars have tears in their eyes.

He was like fire,

And I was like ice,

But as the conversation wore on,

More and more of the same old thing,

I melted and disappeared from sight.

I’m dripping down, now, towards the 

Cracks in the floor boards.

It’s really quite a welcoming relief.

I’m already planning a tea party, there,

With whatever may be living beneath this.

Maybe there’s an old teddy bear,

Or bugs or dust bunnies who will join me?

Or what if I just have my tea alone?

Either way, I’ll be entertaining new feelings,

And I’m going to learn a new approach 

From following my new direction.

Maybe, even melted here, I’ll see

An uncommon way out of a mindless rut,

Switch up my routine, and just be happy.

But I’m still hoping, there may be some creature,

Some new life-form I’ve never heard of, 

To come and share this new leaf I’m turning, 

Or at the very least,

Someone,or something, to enjoy

A spot of hot tea with me, 

And a lively conversation?

-jenn

 There are two roads to the Sun.

On one of them,

The wax between your wings can melt, and you can fall,

And on the other, your feathers develop 

A lighter sense of air,

And you don’t care anymore.

But if you did, you’d notice that,

At some point on your journey,

A fat, cherubimic cushion of love

Had enveloped you somewhere on the way.

Can you say what it is that made you want

To visit the sun in the first place?

Can you tell if you’re in heaven or hell?

And now, forget about your wings.

It’s seems that you, yourself, are melting.

Love has won,

And now you’re aware.

There’s really only one way to the Sun.

But where are you?

Swallowed by heat and an auspicious lack of air,

And something stronger than death has you,

The strange breath of life-giving sex

Is breathing you!

Breeding you, kneading you into

Bread, baking you, eating you

Digesting your essence,

Taking you apart and using you

To energize her life for fun!

And now you’re not even sure.

Did you make it to the sun,

Or not?

-jenn

 The aspen trees grow along the snow fed river.

They tremble at the slightest glance,

But stand expectantly,

The virgin forest.

It is beautiful to feel beautiful,

To long to be touched.

The aspens shiver at the exhilarating breath

The wind’s mere exhales.

Their supple leaves whisper,

“Thank you. Thank you,”

As their flattened petioles dance.

And they sigh,

“Ohhhh my.

Oh my, oh my goodness,

Yessssss...”

-jenn

 I remember what I used to be,

When I was sweet,

Before injury carved me

Into something it could use,

A ruse to confound and control.

But I have found a way to renew my soul.

I’m regressing back into the wild and beautiful thing

That grew on the side of the mountain,

The vine that knew

How to dig its roots deep through the rocks and soil,

How to turn its leaves to the morning sun

And follow it til day was done,

And sleep and dream and rest

And be 

At peace

And sweet again.

🌸😁🌸

-jenn