Poems for the Other Half of April

Ok, this month was WAY harder than last year.  So yes, 30, was finally written, although I've been writing it in my head and heart for a few weeks. 

Poems for the other half of April

18.Moonshine

Sometimes we all look at the moon

And wonder

And remind ourselves of all we do not yet know

19. Beach

New suit new flip-flops

Packing car with what will be

Mostly unused stuff

20. Beach 2

Parking lot night mare

Rage against tourist filled cars

Spot found near Egypt.

21. Beach 3

No fire pits left

Mini hibatchi saves day

Marshmallows later

22. Beach 4

Spread out beach blanket

Lasts thirty seconds before

Sand encrustation

23. Beach 5

Sunscreen applied thick

Dreams of sun-kissed golden skin

Water calls, laughing.

24. Beach 6

Salty water up

Nose forced by nature isn’t

A good neti pot.

25.  Beach 7

Wave walking only

occurs when your feet fly up

Head under water

26.  Beach 9

SPF thirty

Never works against suns lips

Stained red kisses

27. Beach 10

Sun creeps down blue sky

Rays hit water flashing green

Bye red lips lover

28.  Beach 10

Heated skin cool night

Air chilled but not enough to

Stop marshmallow death

29.  Beach 11

Good bye sun and sand

Left red and sandy trudging

Moon lit beach sweet dreams 

30.  Home

When you said you were going home

It did not come as a surprise

But sadness crept into my heart

Knowing you would be far away.

Far away has been where you have been for a long time

And no one can blame you for being there

Especially when your puppy has been kept in a cage

By caretakers who refused to let you feed or water yourself

Kicked you every time you came near

And kept moving so you wouldn’t find them

So you gave it up when you had no other choices

We will all reach that point

Where aging parent s need the care

They freely gave to us as infants

You just didn’t have the opportunity.

So when he gave you something no one else could

A safe place to land

The choice was never a choice

And when you spoke your truth

About what you were returning to

And getting another puppy

That was really when I knew

So go home

Home to the place you once lived

Let those walls you daydreamed behind

Feed the fire that’s been tending in your soul

Let the carpets be the trampoline from which you launch

Grow the grass

Cut it with a lawnmower

Build a dog house

Make plans over beer and barbecue

And go get your puppy

Let him run in the grass

Feed him and water him well

Let him lick your face

We all know he’ll poop in the house and it will smell sometimes

But you’ll never regret letting him in the house to love you

The caretakers will come and try to tell you what to do with him

Some will be kinder and you’ll take what they have to say to heart

You’ll have to let him play with other dogs

It’s how they learn, sometimes the hard way

But know that ultimately, it’s your puppy,

That can grow into a dog

That stays loyal to you even when others walk away

Because you know who you are

And that was never a choice.

@2013 Jennie Olson Six

National Poetry Month 16 and 17

Inspiration

Inspiration lost
still putting pen to paper
hoping for the words.

Long time in the head

fracture spin think think think what did oh really not a chance to change mind spin splinter why how no no no and again repeat spin fracture think think ponder reality disconnect disconnected alone what no one likes me repeat spiral fracture think think react spin what again wait breathe pause spiral pause spiral think interrupt pause breathe past no now yes pause fracture interrupt breathe out let out not here not now think now feet ground root now breathe now think legs now head up breathe out let out not now now here breathe now let go now today good today breathe break a pattern breathe think breathe live breathe inhale now inhale yes exhale yesterday think yes breath yes now yes today yes everything yes life yes breathe yes.  now. 

5 stupid poems

Writing Fail

Writer's Block
leads to pounding head on keyboard
insane debates between the voices in my head
and full fetal position

yeah.....let's keep doin' that.


Turtle

What is most unfortunate
is that I was not born with a shell
to pull my head and body into
to hide from that which threatens me.
Instead, I was born with soft skin
thin in places and bruises easily
my knees are permanently scared.
But I can move slowly
deliberately and with purpose
and remind myself I don't need
a shell to hide from the world
I just need too slow down and take it all in.

5 7 5

Adds to seventeen
Sometimes pure frustration leads
To a clear moment.  

Kevin Six's Famous Last Words

I would only have sex with her once just to say that I did.
You are to obey me in a Christian Household.
We live in a Christian household and you as a good Christian wife are to do that for me.
Pretty much anything that starts with "Christian Household."
In case anyone wonders why....

When the World Blows Up

When the world blows up
will anything need to be said
or remembered or done
other than to grab each other
and go....

National Poetry Month 5....maybe 6....

Denial

Denial isn't
A river in Eypgt if
you're swimming it....

The Zombie Apocalypse Came

You and I were not supposed to be friends
It was through our broken we stitched up bandages
made of marijuana, alcohol, methamphatamine and anything
else someone could offer us in exchange for things
teen-aged girls shouldn't be selling.

After intolerable, I started to get out
you had two birds in your nest born from neglect of the world
not giving their mother refuge from the horror she was born into
but you finally found your way out
and back to nesting
but it would not last.

Before I left for sunnier pastures
you started telling the truth again
letting the sweat and the shakes pour out
in my spare bedroom
I encouraged you to keep coming back
it isn't easy but it is the only way
but you chose your own option.

You've had a few last words:
"Your sister wasn't very tough, she couldn't handle the drugs."
"I heard her youngest was adopted by foster parents."


Then your picture
Identical to your mother at the age we met:
Dead, vacant eyes,
Swollen alcholic skin
Nothing left of the beauty once there
Just a mimographed copy of a woman
whose choices led to your abuse
who never got different
who never left you better
so you watched it all happen
her stumble-down drunk dance
with the poison which eventually took everything
and in spite of the breadcrumbs and interventions
chose to put on her shoes and walk right in them
Until you've stopped walking
consciously
anymore.

Poetry

To Anya on her 30^th birthday:

Hey.

You.

You with the imagined big tattoo of 30 across the face.

Not thrilled about being here

Believes somehow that the tattoo is visible to all

and that it perhaps means something.

Comparing yourself to others

who seem to be somewhere ‘better’ than where you are now

At 30.

You see, that 30, isn’t your 30.

Because someone else’s life isn’t your life.

These are the constructs of someone else.

These are illusions, not relevant to anyone, unless you’re comparing yourself to the arbitrary and meaningless.

For if you’re lucky enough to reach 30

you’re lucky to have made it at all.

Chances are you’ve seen some that didn’t make it

And those that didn’t make it in one piece.

And the sooner you realize that your dreams

do not fit into the perspective you have right now

because they are not arbitrary things

you will find out that you are not an arbitrary thing

defined by a number

because you can’t be. 

Because on this day

the universe brought you into being

 a light to shine on all the world

with gifts to give

Nothing less than amazing. 

Poem

Just when I think I’m spent

Given up my last penny

Can’t take one more breath

Fingernails broken scraped

down the sides of the tub

Not getting fished out of the drain

Along it comes

This damnable thing called hope.

@2012 Jennie Olson Six

Awake (Wednesday morning poetry)

Awake

Awake:

Perchance to not dream.

What if what appears is

An illusion created?

Fear molded complicity

Fables taught as facts

Perceptions as reality

All lies.

Waking up to dream:

As, what is appearance,

Creation of false reality,

Sparks the light inside

Emerging to awaken the flame

Of our collective consciousness

And set our souls on fire.

@2012 Jennie Olson Six

Paper Stars

Paper Stars

We were making paper stars:

 Some were almost perfect. 

Others reflected the unsteadiness

 of 8 year old wobbly hands with child-safe scissors. 

And with each imperfection the delight of the task slowly faded. 

We would not have perfection.
We would have almost good enough,

A chip away at a much bigger idea.

The idea of not good enough. 

In these years of living there

That idea became a mantra of

Disappointment turned inward

Of it’s ok and shouldn’t have expected so much

Turning dark on the inside

And waiting for something better to happen

That never did

In the light of imperfection

Everyone seems happier than you.

But no one needs to point out

8 year old imperfections

Only delights and beauty and wonder

Of how these things come to be

The perfection of being imperfect

in the creation of anything

for the delight and enjoyment of creation.

For where would we be if we did not look up and wonder

And then create reflections of what we have seen.

@2012 Jennie Olson Six

Barefoot

Barefoot

Barefoot

In my mom’s friend’s backyard

Tall weeds

Unfinished construction

Dirty rusted nail in wood

Now in my foot

Remembering

Tetanus shot

Blood

Cockroach infested kitchen

Unclean

Poverty

We bond with each other

Over bloody feet

Circumstances into which we’re born

Methods we used to cope

Until that turned to addictions

Without the benefit of recovery

Taking new lives down the same paths

Of unclean

Impoverished realities

Recreating circumstances

As if there were nothing else available

When we know the truth

There are other times

When we have walked

Clean grass under feet

Smell of crisp wet summer

Happy

Fearless

Without shame

Barefoot.

 @jennieolsonsix 2012

#POETRY 21

Twenty-One

I just got started:

Community college class-load

Part-time employed

Starving student vegetable rice dinners

Cheap tennis-shoes

Growing out dyed hair

Retro-fied hippy wardrobe

Minimum payment on maxed out credit cards

Running slippery rain hills

Boyfriend at the 4-year university

Push start Volkswagon Super-beetle.

I went on to waste my time in various ways,

70's disco themed parties,

Hippy to office appropriate to yoga culture

Moving states,

Changing boyfriends and bedroom furniture

and jobs and careers,

Having choices.

You no longer have choices:

Ended in dirty lands

Filthy wounds

Too soon is a fucking understatement and a crime to say.

As I saw your name and age

Amongst the list

Of 33, 31, and places like Idaho

Hunting, Simi Valley

Families never getting their prayers answered

Hopes smashed

Dreams of college education

Gone.

What happens to that money that should have gone

To community college class-loads

Vegetable rice dinners

And cheap tennis-shoes to run in

Slippery rain hills?

Your names now on a list

That is far too long

And too often forgotten

When we can’t be pulled away long enough

From being entertained

To recognize the sacrifice

The loss of dreams

The elimination of choice

So we can still think we have one. 

#POETRY "To the Maidens"

To the Maidens;
You less than skinny,
stockings runned, pock-marked, less than perfect beauties
You who can not compete with airbrushed lies
But live full out in your speckled skin wonder
Worsened by the unknown chemicals in food
Supposed to feed but poisoning us.
Those earned feathery eyes
Sparkling behind oceans of tears,
Shed in moments of pain or joy
They do not compare
To the soft weather of your hands
Worked to keep mouths full
Of sunshine and hope
Tired, oh yes,
 but in those moments of wondering,
 Whether to ball into rage or comfort, you make choices
To laugh,
To breath,
in spite of polluted air and better beauty products
made only to consume what has already been consumed
hips made to sway
lips made to smile
cracked open you are and you run anyway
on feet bounding through blistered dreams
cause this, girls, is what it is to dance
and this, is what it means to live
in a world that doesn’t believe you’re worth saving
Hair, wild, burning through forests of
Doctors making surgical options
To make a better you,
And politicians making god-like decisions
That they were never hired to do,
And believers so lost in their own pollution
They forgot the holy words left by their savior’s blood.
But these are stitched into your fingernails
Hollowed into your marrow
Gray mattered gospel it can’t be broken
They try to erase you and yet the angels sing praises in your name,
The vibration of their voices shake them all awake
Crumbling institutions that can not save,
Because we knew that already.
Holding onto pieces doesn’t put them back together
It just makes us stronger.
These tree-trunk legs were made to work
And dance and hold ourselves up when no one else did.
This, you fire-dancer, keeper of the down-trodden, lover of the beast, speaker of the truth, shoulder-crier, breathless rebounder, giver of all you have got and then some more,
you are what makes this world bearable. 

a blog post a little #POETRY

My thoughts for the day:  I still stick my foot in my mouth, I just have learned not to chew on it.  This pretty much applies every day.  And it's a little atrocious sometimes.  But I've also learned to keep my mouth shut and THAT actually helps.  A LOT.    Now here's the Poetry, I'm behind 2 days so it's 2 days worth:

Update on the Psychosis

I didn’t feel like

Writing shitty poetry

so here’s to crappy….

Almost

51 degrees

Light rain

Bus stop

No umbrella

Useless shoes

Ruined hair

Sopping wet

Bad cell reception

Missed call

Cancelled date

Wasted bus fare

Thunder claps

Lightening flash

Seek cover

Puddle rivers

Storm drain tsunamis

Lost shoe

Frigid toes

Coffee comfort

Card declined

No shoes

No service

Bus early

Tears

Sobs

Kind eyes

Deep breaths

Kind offers

Wiped tears

Warm cup of tea

Grateful hands

Phone Frenzy

Sympathetic ears

Rescuer coming

Many thanks

Cold wait

Warm car

Comfort heat

Safety net

Homeward bound

#POETRY Day 11 of 30

To the Self-Proclaimed Wine Steals Whore:

You may make out with them in the parking lot,

Share wine and tales in the same room as some of your former consorts,

But unless they see you for the diamond you are

Tell them to pay their own damned cork fee!

#POETRY Happy Easter

Easter

Baskets.

Candy-filled, hollow chocolate bunny, peeps, rabbit-poop jelly beans.

Easter outfit. 

New shoes.  Dress. Usually floral.  Sometimes white.

Church.

Easter Hats.  New outfits.  Long sermons.  Boredom. 

Maybe sun.

Maybe rain.

Easter Egg Hunt.  Pretty hard boiled yuck.  Plastic-filled goodness.

Flowers.

Japanese Cherry-Blossoms.  Daffodils.  Pansies.  Easter-Lily.

Dinner.

Ham.  Potatoes.  Salad.  Easter candy dessert.

Memories.

Childhood. Family. Rituals.

Resurrection.

Liberation.  Freedom. Relief.

Re-born.

Forgiveness.  Release.  Absolve.

Ascension.

Into Something Else.

Phone Calls

I am not sure about you.

Nor sure why you are really calling.

But it is good to hear your voice.

But I hesitate. 

Blood relations are complicated.

And non-blood history makes it ever so twisted. 

But still, it is good to hear your voice.

Phone calls make it convienient for those who

Do not wish to traverse miles to see one another

And for those who can’t really bring themselves

Face to Face with their failings. 

#Poetry 3/30

Dear Legislators
I and the Father are one
You are not needed.

#POETRY 2/30 "Grace"

I looked up Wikipedia for the definition of grace.

Looking up things in Wikipedia is usually a mistake.

But I needed some reassurance so I went to the online dictionary

And it came out a little something like this:

Elegance or beauty of form, action, manner or motion; a pleasing or attractive quality, favor or goodwill, a manifestation of favor by one’s superior, mercy.

See, it gets messy here in humanity.

There are those that think they have the corner on the market of grace.

And because they do,  they get to judge who gets it and who doesn’t and why they should or shouldn’t. 

We humans are like that. 

We like to judge.

We like to put things into categories.

We put labels on them, sort them, and then condemn those for not sticking to their little labels, and tell others that they’re going to be punished.   

It’s Barbi and GI Joe on a much grander scale.

When Barbi did something wrong, she got put into the toy box and pulled out later after she was significantly punished….

Except our judgment is a little twisted.

Our human survivalist notions of self-preservation clouds our vision so that only if things are in my category, my label, my sorting decides who gets punished. 

We have the idea that we are in the job of handing out justice rather than correcting our own mistakes.  

We offer judgment rather than observation. 

We offer righteousness without self-reflection. 

“Barbi you are guilty of driving Ken’s sport coup under the influence of Coco Puffs through the neighbor’s back yard and now there is mud on the carpet, you are sentenced to your box.”

You can’t just traipse through life driving someone else’s sport coup and getting mud on the carpet. 

So, what about grace? 

Well?

We decide whether or not we are capable of handing out grace.

 It’s because we have a hard time defining what grace is to begin with and how it applies to us.  I have a hard time defining what it is, what it means.  How can I explain something that I don’t apply in my life?  How can I offer something that I have no idea what it is?

But somewhere there has to be grace.  Someone has to figure that one out.   I can only define grace because I’ve seen it once or twice.

Grace.  

A stream of relief that comes when you least expect it.

Grace.

A merciful moment in the middle of chaos. 

Grace

A mother telling her story of her first born that lived for only for moments, choosing to hold her baby until the last breath was taken and heartbeat stopped.

Grace

A parent offering of forgiveness to the teen-aged child who made the mistake of shooting his schoolmates, including her own son.

Grace.

A woman pleading for mercy in the sentencing of the boy whose careless deed permanently disfigured her.

Grace.

A violent drug-addicted offender choosing recovery on a daily basis.

Grace.

Holding the hand of a dying parent whose deeds left scars no human is able to heal.

These are what I call grace,

and while I don’t know that I am capable of any of these things

I know, they exist for me to have something to look at

And define

And capture and hold in my heart

For they show me

What it really means to be human. 

. 

#POETRY 1 of 30

For now something small
like life requires patience
for good things to grow.

30 Ways to celebrate National Poetry Month

These are not my ideas you can find them here:  http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/94

But I am participating.
1 poem a day.
Did it last year and had great fun.
#poetryrocks

On being afraid

Heavy
at the center of everything
like a big immovable stone
just would like it to leave
so I can see the space left in its place

Old poetry 2005

Last night the women got together
The women got together to share
To share about their experience,
strength, and hope.
Experiencing a life that is not always happy
Having the strength to reach for another day
And the hope to experience another day.
And the women prayed for the one who was not there
The one who needed their experience, strength and hope
but was lost.
And they prayed to the universe for the lost one
as the stars shined brightly in the clear night sky.
They say miracles are just coincidences,
strung together by tiny pearls of collective wishful thinking.
But if you were there with the women you would know
that on that very night there were no coincedences.