I am a poem of painted symbols, ancient wisdoms
Crafted visuals, words with rhyme and reason
in the no reason at all in inky color prisms
Color frequencies, Pirate girls, mystic Mama
Bengali Tiger, peace, and love, vampire bites
dripping blood, Dante's Furies and wordless drama
A her-story of talisman, primal remembrances
A needled rapture of yesterdays longing
etched beneath my tender flesh in my transparence
Yes it hurt with a celebrated welcome
Leave that judge of yours off my skin
I am rich in story as it is my rebellion
Poetry becomes me. It is a wound I choose to wear
Even tho' you may read me on my surfaces
It's to the heart of me that waits the deeper share
copyright jeanne adwani
It is not for wondering if not why
How the quiet and lasting solitude
In shelter we place so much on 2Ply
Wiped out from groceries in great magnitude
When needing to wipe mean something new
Who ever knew that this loss could happen
The race for restocking such a boohoo
Puts a whole different hit on this shut-in
You figured the 2ply, now it's 'bout food
Will they deliver, or grab carry-out?
Decisions are messy in what to do
Pandemic crisis create so much doubt
Priorities messy, really quite segued
Stay in and humble for others need you too
copyright jeanne adwani
It's in the small kindnesses
In the feeling heard, being seen
The way eyes meet and you know
It's in the acts of gratitude
the gesture with no word attached
Of words that come from the heart
It's in the actions that speak
Louder than superfluous verbosity
full of empty promises.
It's in the giving that requires
no receive, no laud, no fame
a welcome silence in the blare
It's in the doing nothing
That that something finds it's way
to the surface that needs doing
It's in the know that you are there
on the other side of the world
across the street, in front of me
It's enough to feel that presence
surrounding me and that I am Loved
and held tenderly to your heart
copyright jeanne adwani
Conspiracy is an abundant playground
Endlessly resourced in cursory checks
and deep dives into a plethora of Global
storytelling and galactic superlatives
Full of truths and fictions quivering to
fill the belly of our hungry need to know,
to find, to be assured that something,
anything might make sense out of the senseless
Isn't it all a tease at our sensibilities?
Every bit of complaint and justifiable
a wiggling finger at our ridiculousness, at
our flagrant act of exaggeration gone rogue
Maybe at our simple desire to find a normal
in the clearly 'who the hell knows that anyway"
You're making it up as you go along aren't you?
You're creative like that in the 8 Billion of us
Making it up as the filters to your thinking
stretch and contract like water to ice
And then it all melts to a puddle at your feet
And what does it all matter anyway what your mind
conspires to when all around us is a puddle that
Is now an ocean and so many are drowning?
Drowning in the Storylines that hold us ransom
to partial truths and late night boozing.
Tossed into a murky sea of fake news and questionable
fact finding that someone can not wait to tag you in
FaceBook perfect and you're it, I promise
Gather you to the bosom of their brilliance
Offer you the cult tee-shirt and the promise that
you are part of absolute clarity supremely
You gave your Sovereignty away for what price?
Conspiracy . . . Sign me up please and thank you
COPyright. jeanne adwani
I’m following a prompt given… writing about a specific place. I take this road a lot cause I love the scenery and Heck, it is called Joy Rd. after all.
It’s just up Prospect St.
Three smooth miles of road
Take a left on the dirt of Joy
Kitty corner from the Sheriff station
Feel the car’s tires hit every
Pitted pothole, and rutted out puddle
With the kinda rattle that shimmies
Those girl parts with a little thrill
Travels fast to the top of the head
And in repeat
`
You slow a little cause a rough
country road will tell you too
even when the raw edge of pleasure
tells you something else altogether
Your car will be better off for it
`
Winter strips down nature
Let’s you see through into the austere
gnarled foliage of how people
living in the country build their
domains away from the others
Tucked into the pines and the oaks
`
Maybe have a horse or two
Gather eggs from the chickens
Grow a field of life sustaining food
Fenced in their cloistered lives cause
They can out here on Joy Rd.
And I can slow drive for the thirtieth time
celebrating and breathing in a little country
`
Taking in all the something specials
A little Joy ride for a few miles
Bumping and nearly grinding along
Depending on the season
Depending on the mood rising
Depending on if you want to take
aback road to your destination
I always do.
`
I know that in a couple miles
of slow driving, and being a nosy posy
Looking for treasure on the side of this
winter battled dirt road,
There she stands
`
Lonely, beaten down over a few generations
Of living all countrified and productive
Now sitting on the edge of herself
paint pealing, boarded-up windowed
Porch trashed, roof leaking empty farm house
A barren womb of prosperity abandoned
`
The seasons have had their way with her emptiness
In their freeze and fire that weathered away at
how she once thrived and life filled Her.
Nature will feed on and take Her back to Herself
This Mother is a great Re-purposer when it comes to her own.
Collaborative conversations with Life's wise whispers in service to personal and communal evolution. To book personal appointments and group experiences, contact me at circleways.james@gmail.com or at (416) 966 - 2685.
“Everyone who is seriously involved in the pursuit of science becomes convinced that some spirit is manifest in the laws of the universe, one that is vastly superior to that of man.” - Albert Einstein
