Moon Light

A friend of mine had muscular dystrophy.

Wheelchair bound, he was fifteen 

Before his parents ever let him

Spend the night away from home.

But one auspicious night he stayed

45 miles away, at his grandmother’s house.

The bedroom that she put him in was on the south side of her house,

And just shortly after 8 o’clock, 

She heard him moaning.

She went to see if he were in pain,

But he was lying happily there hollering at the moon.

She laughed and shook her head and said,

“Go to sleep, Eugene!”

But, nonetheless, he kept her up all night long,

Continuing to howl and laugh and croon

At the big full moon transversing across his view.

The grandmother told the parents next day,

And they marveled, “He may never have seen the moon like that.

His window at home doesn’t face south, but north,

But last night he just happened to be 

Where he could see it, almost all night,

And it just happened to be gloriously full

In the clear night sky!”

They told this story at his funeral.

He was 33.

-jenn

 Some say life is like a highway.

But maybe heaven is like a place where you can dream,

And be in charge of how the adventures unfold.

Treasures untold or monsters that chase,

Boardrooms that bore, faces that smile or frown,

Wandering through towns or cities or countrysides,

Finding innumerable ways to survive 

And experience everything that you’ve ever dreamt of and more.

But wait...

Isn’t that how life is here?

Maybe this is heaven?

Maybe hell is a place where you can dream

And be in charge?

Maybe this is hell?

We’ve mostly thought that earthly life

Is somewhere in between.

But what if it’s not?

What’ve we got to do

To decide

That we have a lot of say in how

We experience this place?

That we have not been left without power

To co-create?

Or maybe Life really is just a highway?

-jenn

 Art of Creation 

The sky is a-gouache

With watercolour blue behind it.

It is so clear, what I must do.

The spring green buds

Appear, like freckles, freshly drawn upon the faces of the trees.

Their smiles are blowing endlessly,

And it is crystal clear what I must do.

But the world will try to make you into a cartoon,

Defecate on you, and you will  yearn

To turn around and dish it back to them.

But please depart from the caricature.

Return to the art. See nature,

How it receives the filthy manure.

The trees accept it and turn it into blooms and fruit.

It is very clear what I must do.

Who will come and stand with me,

Even amidst all the poop,

To be painted grandly in Life’s creation, anyway?

Take my hand.

Together,

We’ll raise them to the sky,

Thank it for its clarity,

Feel our true natural dignity rise,

Then can we stand?

And Breathe, and Love,

And Bloom,

And Be a beautiful part of the 

Art of this creation?

It is clear to me

What I must do.

And how about you?

-jenn

 Beyond the concrete jungle,

Beyond the bright security lights,

A blazing sun beams its way into the day.

It enters the room as the star of the show,

It’s entourage in purple just ahead of it,

And behind, the majesty of morning.

Those who know don’t talk.

The Sun, without a word declares 

Something more far reaching than mere confidence,

A clarity of everything it’s done before,

The constancy of unspeakable eons.

I’ve heard stories of those who tried

And failed to fly too near the Sun,

But I am sincere and without wax,

And if I myself melt and drip into the golden light,

I’m not afraid.

For I’m aware, that I, the Sun, the entourage

Are already One in the subtle Truth of Reality.

-jenn

 Move me,

Like a giant rock .

Try.

Keep me posted on your progress.

Gibraltar calls.

I have no use.

The parties invite.

Commerce promises its boons.

Nooses,

Nuisance,

And nonsense.

I am the rock.

I have everything I need

And a good book or three.

I’ll see you after summer’s gone,

When you drive your boat past me,

Searching again 

For the long lost colony of Atlantis.

When you drive your boat past me,

Me and my twin pillar of Hercules,

I’ll only pull my reading glasses down to see you go,

Then I’ll push them back up on my nose

And keep on reading.

And as you’re  speeding by,

I’ll keep my eye on you,

But you and your fancy boat will never move me.

No, you and a fancy thousand million boats

Will never move me.

-jenn

 Love in a minor key

Love in a minor key

Love in a minor shade of blue

A hue that’s so familiar to me

But I’m getting my passport ready

I’m going somewhere far away

And then you can see me from a distance

I look better to you that way

The blue fades to cerulean from midnight 

My navy pencil skirt

An eggshell shirt

Dark hosiery and bright red flats

My black jacket

Pressed and perfect 

Looks so nice

Especially from a distance

My teeth are white

My smile is bright and clean

I hung it on a line last night to dry it

My eyes, however, are still wet,

But never fret, I’m going away 

And it’s best, because you can bet

That even the tears look great like this

From a distance 

-jenn

 What would you do if you were a buzzard?

I’ve got a little more life to live.

I’ve got a few less effs to give.

It’s good for me to see the end from the beginning,

Because it may not have to do with winning,

But there is so much goose chase in the culture.

So which kind of vulture do I want to be?

To feast on good carrion 

Or bad?

Is there such a thing?

How can one see when sour cream goes bad?

Which hour will I treasure 

When I get my crooked ruler out

And measure it all? All the carrion?

Some say there is good nonsense 

And bad,

But I say it is all nonsense nonetheless,

And some of the best times I have ever had

Were times that I embraced the nonsense 

Head on

And enjoyed it.

I’ve got a little more life to live.

I’ve got a few less effs to give.

But I’ve got a few more laughs with which

To tackle the nonsense and...

What would you do if you were a buzzard ?

I might have a few things stuck in my craw,

But I guess I’d carry on.

-jenn 

 Flags fly south,

But not like geese,

Only when the cold north wind doth blow.

Geese fly south to someplace warm,

Like Mexico.

But flags stay tied,

Identified with their flag pole.

Flags aren’t natural,

And they wear out by habitual flapping.

While geese flap, too,

But they renew by getting somewhere 

Together in a vee.

A flag must be burned if it gets worn enough,

Or if it touches the ground.

Geese touch down frequently.

They build their nests upon the ground,

Lay their eggs on it.

Flags identify with their pole,

And many of us fractured souls

Identify with something as fragmentary 

As all of that.

Geese identify with the entire natural whole of the cosmos.

That’s why things roll off their backs so easily.

Maybe if we could be more like a goose,

We, too, could wake up in a wonderful fresh new world every day,

And live a life unidentified by mere attachments to

Made up things like flagpoles.

-jenn

 Wow! Don’t you just love daylight savings time ?

We were farmers when I was young,

And we always got up before the sun

And went to the ready—

To water the hogs,

Unlock the chickens,

Get the dogs going

And round up the cows,

Brand them and worm them

And plow the fields,

Plant our peanuts and soybeans,

And then, we’d go to bed,

Whenever we were tired,

Or dead or the sun went down,

But it didn’t matter what time that was.

But now I live in town,

And everything goes by the book and the clock.

Even my car has a timing chain,

And it doesn’t matter,

The rain or the shine,

Appointments happen.

We get in line and stand there,

Wondering what we should do while we wait.

I look up from my cubicle 

At five grown men,

Trying to pull the water bottle down into

The water cooler.

I’d help, too, but I’m clocked out now,

And I’ve got to get my car to the shop by 530.

It’s time to get the air in the tires rotated

And the muffler belts changed.

What a faulty construct we created!

The measurement of time,

And most of our so-called civilization.

Our TV guide, our fickle monetary system,

Our vain hopes to play more golf

During our feeble attempts to turn up the clocks

For daylight savings.

-jenn

 When the long lost star crossed stars uncrossed

One beam broke free 

It shines on me and you

It diffused so beautifully around us

We could suddenly see

The star dust we were made of

Was the same

We didn’t need a name for it

We couldn’t say just how we felt

To see that we were already 

A part of the cosmic reality 

And it’s subtle oneness

But suffice it to say

That now we play

To a universal drummer 

We hum a tune of love and praise

For all the days we waited

For all the ways this understated love of ours

Attunes itself to all the other cosmic rays

Just now breaking free

Assuring us that we will be

In love for now

Just as we were yesterday 

Though we didn’t know it

And just as we will be

Forevermore 

Even and especially if 

We never show it

To anyone else

It is ever true

 Work Shirt

I tried to find a shirt today 

That I would be willing to throw away

If I ruined it while I was cleaning.

I knew the filthy state of grime,

Grease and the mix of detergent with it

Might splash around and get me grimy, too.

I finally found a button down, of yours,

That you had left behind, and I put it on,

And I guess something of your aura 

Was left in it.

And thus, so fueled, 

Like a bull in a China Shop,

I got in amongst the garbage dump

And started raising hell.

And more expeditiously than I expected,

Things got done!

And surprisingly, too,

Not a drop of filth dared to fall

Upon your shirt,

Or maybe it was just that none had stuck.

So I won’t ever even consider washing this shirt,

Much less throwing it away,

But I’ll remember how much help it was to me

When I cleaned your kitchen.

-jenn

 Foxfire 

“What is a foxfire?” my little girl asked.

I thought of a lover I had in the past,

But, “an eerie bio-luminescence

Caused by certain mushrooms or other fungus 

Growing in decaying wood,” is what I said to her.

I got down an encyclopedia of plants

And found the F’s.

We looked it up and marveled at the photographs.

One showed the mushroom in the day

With its slightly reddish strains amidst the gray,

But the same fungus when viewed at night

Was a psychedelic sight of glowing neon green.

I thought of the first time I’d ever seen you,

How your eyes, locked on mine,

Gave a gleam, a hint of a shine on me,

And how your natural warmth had drawn me in

To a night in your arms.

A hook-line-and sinker kind of catch, 

You held me fast against your skin,

And as the night fell hard, so had I,

So deeply into a lovedream with you,

A faerie-fire, a foxfire state, 

Of loving sweetness, and mate-for-life

Kind of bio-luminescence.

And my little girl sighed

And said, some night,

When she is older,

She’d like to go out

And try to spy

This furtive wonder,

And I said wistfully to her,

“I hope you will.”

-jenn

 The rain comes in.

The storms arrive.

The cold front gang-busts in on us.

But the sunshine just appears.

It makes its presence and its ways subtly known

As the clouds disappear. 

The bad times gather.

They descend.

But when they end,

They go away,

And we see that the good times

Have been here with us all along,

Just like the sun.

-jenn

 Frozen Blossoms 

Here, the weather in March is fickle.

It’s mean and cruel.

It shines at 84 degrees

And lures the fruit trees into blooming.

The morning after, brisk and cold,

Without a shred of empathy, 

It freezes.

I see the blossoms clot.

They grieve and fall upon the ground 

Like autumn leaves.

-jenn

 Fox and Grapes 🍇 

My Fox appears on the morning trail.

His rusty red, his beautiful tail

Give me a start.

My eyes delight on his brightness.

My heart beats faster.

I catch my breath

And stop everything I’m doing.

I’ve brought him grapes,

And I manage to muster

The courage to get a little closer,

And place the cluster on the back rail

Of a portico.

And he’s eyeing me.

And I turn to go.

And he feigns leaving,

And I know he knows exactly where I am,

But I’ve hidden myself and try to peek 

To see if he’s taking the grapes.

In dreams, my Fox comes running to me

And jumps in my arms,

And I feel his furry neck on mine

And his nose nuzzling.

I feel his tongue flicking my face

And his whiskers tickling me.

But today, I must only wait and see

If he will take my humble offering,

If tomorrow he will be here in the morning 

To play this lovely game of hide and seek with me.

-jenn

 I go up and down like the lifeless ponies on the carousel.

Sales are good.

Sales are bad.

Interest rates are fluctuating.

I saw a robin in my yard at 5 am.

It was raining as I got into my car.

My headlights shined, illuminating the silver drops

And the dark wet feathers of the bird,

His orange breast a happy sight to me.

And Life is here.

And Life is there.

Life is everywhere except 

Within the four walls of my bedroom.

-jenn

(The average life span of a robin is two years.)

 I Am

If I am not the river, tell me why

I follow a course laid out by an ancient sky

From stars that happened long ago.

I blend with sand and make a bank.

I race downhill and rumble over pebbles That sank in the first of many millennia.

I course along, hugging the beautiful bends

And taking a precarious route 

That seems to defy gravity

And whips about on edge.

But how do I know

Just where the elevations go so low?

And how can I be

On this one-way day trip,

Ever, ever, to the sea,

If I am not the river?

-jenn

 When We Play

When we play together 

The stars realign

As they were at the moment

That time began

Like a newborn colt

That stands

In the first minutes after it’s born

Like the whitest brightest blaze

On its forehead 

Between its eyes

We shine

When we play together 

We came here to this life to play

Let’s remember how fun the days can be

Let’s enjoy the cool breeze

And the deep star shine

The moon the sun

The stormy weather

Every day and every thing

While we learn to play together 

-jenn 

 Revisited

They’re quite a pair.

They walk to the gym

Hours before school starts,

And then they walk home.

They’re sister and brother,

Tall and slim,

Like ancient Egyptians.

Their hair is raven black,

And so are their eyes,

And he is taller than she,

But I think they might be twins.

They never speak to anyone else,

But only to one another.

And he wears a silver necklace made

Of the thinnest strands I’ve ever seen,

But they’re so numerous and hang

So perfectly about his stately neck.

And here and there, randomly it seems,

Countless sterling filigrees, shaped, like charms,

But so much more delicately,

Like stars, they shine.

I have to look twice at him to see,

Is this a man or woman?

But he’s tall and angular, and his muscles

More wiry than I’ve ever seen on a girl.

And the more diminutive twin,

She is a bit more feminine,

But she, too, bears an androgynous appeal.

Her body is svelte, tenuous,

But her sinews flex, with every step

In a sensuous way, slightly understated,

And yet, one would never underestimate her strength.

She commands respect as if

She may have been a general in 

A previous life.

Or was she the wife of a pharaoh? 

This pair, walking so commonly

To the public school in town,

Their eyes are old.

Their souls have been around 

For a long, long time.

I feel I’m seeing Anthony 

And Cleopatra,

Or perhaps it is the great Tutankhamun

And Ankhesenamun, his sister-bride,

Who’ve found their way

To be reborn, this time as twins,

On the other side of the planet.