Category: Poetry

Family, Parenting, Poetry, Politics, War

If it was a place

Jen

fortitude

If it was a place —
cognitive dissonance, it
would be here, Israel.

Where in one swift shift
I move from embarrassment
(I forgot about swimming

lessons) to fear of
war. Shame I forgot about
it; murder and them

(those who can’t forget
except in dreams which aren’t real)
and yelled at my son

for telling me he
was bored on the second day
after school ended.

If it was a place —
cognitive dissonance, it
would be here, Israel.

Where over coffee
I compose long to-do lists
grateful in a way

to be a mother
with room in my heart for lists.
For tomorrow’s plans.

If it was a place —
cognitive dissonance, it
would be here, Israel.

Where over bacon
(made from turkey) I slowly
savor the almost flavor

of America,
and imagine I lived there
again. Would the world

be less dissonant?
More in tune with my inner
rhythms? harmony?

If it was a place —
cognitive dissonance, it
would be now, this, we.

It would be — it is —
the surreal surrender in
waking, in spite of.

 

Love, Memory, Music, Poetry, Relationships, Writing

Take heed

Jen

What if the woman who’s leaving Bob Dylan in Boots of Spanish Leather returns one day?

Maybe instead of boots she just brings her older, softer, leathery self to a cafe where it’s said Dylan sometimes drinks black coffee.

I imagined that woman

and with her in mind, played a little with blackout poetry.

It’s the first time I almost like the result.

spanish letter blackout2

 Take Heed

I just thought you might want
a long ol’ time alone.
From the storm
From the Mountains of Mad.

I remember saying
I don’t know when I’ll be back
back to where time
depends on true love.

Can you ask me again?

Just carry yourself back to me spoiled.
That’s all.

= = =

(You can listen to 50 different covers of Boots of Spanish Leather on YouTube or this sweet Lumineers version.)

Letting Go, Love, Memory, Mindfulness, Poetry, Uncategorized

Subway metaphor

Jen

It’s likely I will never
understand
the passage of time.
By the time
I understand
I will have passed time.
Quickly
like the express train.
People
some I know
become blurred colors
along a tiled wall.
Their names
once tiled too in a mosaic of sorts
crumble
and all that is left is a private joke
as private as can be
because it’s with me now.
I see myself at the turnstile
at the 18th Street station.
What do I do?
I can’t get on the local now.
It’s too late.
Much
I have to let her go.
She’ll be fine, I whisper.
That’s what her colors tell me.

Books, Childhood, Memory, Mindfulness, Music, Parenting, Poetry, Relationships, Writing

My memory waited 14 years for this photo to catch up

Jen

annabel guitar may 2014

“We took our coffee into the living room. He stood at the stereo and asked if I had any requests. ‘Something Blue-ish,’ I said.

While he flipped through his records, he told me about the time he’d asked his daughter for requests; she was about three at the time and cranky after a nap, going down the stairs one at a time on her butt. He imitated her saying, ‘No music, Daddy.’

‘I told her we had to listen to something,’ he said. ‘And she languorously put her hair on top of her head and like a world-weary nightclub singer said, ‘Coltrane then.'”

— The Girls’ Guide To Hunting and Fishing, Melissa Banks

 

Memory, Philosophy, Poetry, Spirituality

The after-taste of a dream

Jen

My dreams are poems

Righting themselves upside down

in Not-for-long Ville.

 

Still fresh with relief

when I wake I take a pen

so I may keep them.

 

But the poems fade

faster than the dream even

when I whisper, “Don’t.”

 

What’s left then, but last

night’s dream, which will never be

anything more than

 

 

 

Childhood, Parenting, Philosophy, Poetry

In this world, there is a fragile child

Jen

There is a cry lodged
There at the farthest most upper reaches
There at the roof of my mouth.

There, its origin may be found in between
There in between an exhale and an inhale
There where an ujjiyai breath washes over it.

There is not a wet cry
There lies a very ancient dry cry
There where it’s drier than a long suckled Japanese well.

There is nothing to do
There but notice how stuck
There to the roof is a cry.

There must be a way to dislodge such a cry from
There so I may be free from the horrors
There seem to be inhabiting the world of all children.

There in Nigeria
There in Syria
There in Hannaton

There once was a girl
There still is a boy
There are children who stick to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter choking me so that the word guttural rhymes with suffering rhymes with flutter in my chest rhymes with a man muttering

“do you want a ride?”

There is nothing to do
There but notice how stuck
There to the roof of my throat is

There really no place for my child
There or here  for my inner child?
There is only a lodged cry

There where
There should be
There could be flowing wet breath.