I’m sending hugs

From the Sunshine of My Love

My ten minutes is almost up

But come and sit tomorrow with me

Feel the breeze that blows between 

The live oak trees here

The leaves give it a certain life 

It can remove a lot of karma

My strife has flitted away from me

I identify cosmically with you

With everything I see

I am a part of this grand game

And blissfully I accept the invitation to play 

My heart is windblown 

But my spirit has resolve

A deep love remains

Outpouring 

For you

And for everything I see

-jenn

 “What are you doing?” his mother asked.

“I’m sitting here watching this tree,” the boy answered.

“Well, we don’t have time to watch this tree!” his mother scolded him.

“We need to go!”

“We don’t have time not to watch this tree,” the boy said quietly.

He continued to stare into the leaves,

Even as his mother jerked him up from his seat on the ground 

And pulled him out of the backyard 

And put him in the car to go.

-jenn

 Some people like to drive their motorcycles up Chummundi Hill.

I just like to ride, behind someone,

With my arms tight around their waist,

Closing my eyes, and opening them

Only occasionally along the way.

The buzz of the cycle starts at my seat

And radiates, down my legs, out my arms,

Up through the top of my head,

And when I peek out, I see spots of colorful lights

Reflecting off the plexiglass wind shield.

Even they buzz.

I close my eyes again and breathe,

The odor of faint rain in the distance,

The fragrance of your hair,

A hint of gasoline , and something rocky,

And of something green with life.

It’s you, isn’t it?

It’s me?

It’s the ascent we take right now,

Up Chummundi Hill.

-jenn

He makes art while the birds chirp,

The longing coos, the wistful cries,

The whistling peaceful je ne sais quoi

That comes from the hearts of the birds.

His medium is beige on beige,

Brown on tan. He creates

A mound of beach sand

And then begins to swipe away

With his hand the things that are not

To be a part of his sculpture. 

Someone warned him long ago

Not to be too colorful,

So he works with beige on beige,

Brown on tan, but he can’t disguise 

His great talent that has bloomed

Even here, on this salty sand.

And even as he swipes away

Everything that’s not a part

Of the art he seeks thus to create,

He gathers himself into himself

And breathes,

And quietly shares his inspiring creativity 

With the people here at the beach,

Who sigh and admire his stunning art,

Comprised of equal parts 

Of beige on beige and brown on tan.

-jenn

 I saw a miracle once.

A mare gave birth to a baby horse.

A colt, came out of her,

From seemingly

Nowhere.

The mother ate grass

And created milk,

And the colt nursed 

On its mother’s breast,

And it grew.

It grew into a mother, too,

And also gave birth

To a beautiful colt.

There was never any currency passed.

None of the horses paid for the grass

Or the milk,

But each of the mares had the potential 

For creation.

(All they needed was a stallion...)

And the good sense to eat what the earth provided,

To drink the rain that gathered freely in the pond,

And somehow turn the nourishment into “horse,”

And gather themselves and disseminate 

Into the following generation.

How would a nation of horses be?

How would their government proceed

With this amazing magic they perform?

What if we humans could find such a simplistic norm

And follow our basic human nature?

We could probably still make this world a better place

Right in the face of all the complexity,

For, believe it or not, we have the amazing ability to create,

Just like the horses do.

-jenn

 Belief

“You miss out on a lot of things,” he said to me,

“Listening to what others say,

Instead of experiencing me, for yourself.”

I had heard many stories about him,

What a dangerous no-good, bum he was,

How terrible he smelled, and what kind of things

He went around with in his teeth.

And here he was,talking to me

On the street corner.

“Why don’t you take a walk with me now?”he said,

“And I will tell you about God.”

But I ran away.

I’d also heard the things they said about me.

And I’d seen My Love listening.

He chose to believe them,

Even though he’d been with me, in person,

And they never had.

Still, somehow, he believed their lies,

And forsook me, his kind and loving friend.

I had been at church that day,

And heard them say

That God is Love.

They sang their hymns and praises to

The God above,

And postulated high theology,

Yet seemed to bend their knees to Satan,

And prostrated themselves to something 

Which they did not know.

“I want to know god for myself,” I thought.

I got up to go before the service ended,

Walked out to the corner, and saw the mystic bum again,

Wondering now, what he might really have

Between his teeth if he grinned.

“You may believe a lot of things,” he said,

“But you don’t know. Come, go with me,

And you will see, that those who believe,

And those who don’t, may be in the same sinking boat,

But those who don’t know? For them,

The possibilities are endless.”

And so I held my hand to him,

My offering to go his way,

And when I did, he smiled at me,

And his smile was clean and big,

And his teeth? They were white as snow.

-jenn

 Shape-shifter

I wake tangled in my own silk sheets

And slowly pull my legs from the covers.

I stretch and see the sun is rising 

Pink in the eastern sky.

The still small voice speaks to me,

“You need a plan for your life today.”

“Yes,” I say and then, I begin to spin.

Now I have become a horse.

I gallop the beach as the sky peals lavender 

Squealing with pleasure to the golden sun.

My thunderous hooves beat the sand,

And the sea-green waves, begin to move,

Still sleeping.

“I was dreaming of you,” 

The crows squawk, walking the sand,

As I run by, 

“Just this minute as you were calling,

We were at your party, but it was lame.

So we just came home again 

And went to bed all by ourselves,

And slept, and we’re still sleeping .”

I’m still loping, as they speak.

But a creak in my knee slows me.

Just as I think that I should stop,

I discover I have wings.

My bones have morphed to hollow things

And I can fly. I’m now a bird.

The sky is blue. The sun full bloom,

The day begun.

“Run! and fly!” The still voice croons,

“But I will catch you. You need a plan 

For your life today.”

I fall. I stutter. I flutter by a placid lake

And see I’m now a butterfly.

I’m slower, and I seem aimless,

But it is plain that I’m in motion still,

Even as the sky turns brown with shadows.

I see a spider spinning an orb.

She seems familiar.

“The spider spins her web,” I say,

“Then waits.” But waiting is part of her plan.

Patience pays.

While she watches, blossoms bloom,

Trees bare fruit, and bugs appear.

The night wind blows.

I flew too close to see!

I have fluttered into her web.

She’s wrapping me in silken sheets

To save me patiently for later.

Then I see that she is me.

I am her.

I have finally caught myself.

The still small voice says,

“Let me rub your legs for you.”

I pull them from the dewy web.

“That may take a while,” I smile and say,

“For I have eight.”

“I know,” the still small voice says

“I made you.”

And without another word,

My legs are rubbed,

And all the pain has gone away.

-jenn

 I know you like to save the day 

Help others 

And you fill your way with those that you can serve

And I’m the type that doesn’t like to ask for help

And I don’t accept it well

But I can tell you

That you help me more than you know

Maybe more than all the others

That you show your kindness to

By touching me

I feel the depth of intimacy 

In your touch

I need that

So much

And when your loving work is done

Why do I always seem to feel 

I owe you one

-jenn