The form of this Poem is a Triolet. See if you can see and feel it's rhythm. It is a prompt from the NaPoWriMo.net website. It goes likes this. ~~ THE SHELTERING BREATH Nestled into the sheltering breath Of how the days find rest in each other In the alone shallow of the hardness of death Nestled into the sheltering breath Of warp and weave on life's eternal weft In remembrance of the being held by other Nestled into the sheltering breath Of how the days find rest in each other copyright. jeanne Adwani
Tag Archives: Jeanne Beauchamp poetry
In the quiet is when I hear myself The steady beat of my heart the echo crackling pulse in my ear The questions my skin asks of me like... When will you rub cream on me? Why haven't you let me feel the wind today? I hear the Sun calling to me Will you take your face to greet him? The quiet doesn't sneak up on me She doesn't really do anything overt Or show any change in her weather She is simply define by a lack of noise By the clarity of the air The ripening freshness As green returns to the once Wintered land Quiet doesn't claim any particular season There isn't one element or another That she aligns herself with There is no vitriol to her presence No pressing want of need given or asked for She doesn't make any demands of any kind She simply is. When all the busy, all the over achieving All the doing, the placating, the perfecting the absoluting, the info gathering, and chatter Stops Quiet arrives in her not-very-fancy attire She's really quite naked, vulnerable Unimpressive might be what some think As she seems small and lacking in personality With nothing at all to say. Not a word Not a thought, emptiness, a void That's when I know she's here In the stillness, the silence Sitting next to me, in me Quiet is the most tender part of my heart, a deep well of waiting Every answer I ever needed to know arrives in her eternal presence. copyright. jeanne adwani
Day 3 of NaPoWriMo… my on going quest to write a poem/story, adding some made up bit every day, cause I can and it feels delightfully like a foolish thing to do. Us Fools do like to Jump in, after all.
The gift of the Bench… an awakening A Journey. 3 April 2017
There would be no explaining this.
Pressed deep into the wooden bench
Letting the wind tease at her edges
Letting the trickle of wet trace her cheek
Letting the smell of grass and root
weave their way passed the senseless
life so void of living, when her lungs
are filled with bird songs, her ears
held to the music of grass giggling,
and her closed eyes taking the Sun
as her lover.
There would be no explaining this
hyper sensual, elemental, out of body, and
back in again with repeat.
Laying witness to the forgotten
brought back in for remembering.
The tremble of the Universe filling her up.
Exposing the DNA of infinite connection.
Not in a city lost to any noticing of
the nature of this nature lost.
The hug of Verdancy, with her long
fingers and long ago memory
of a forever of Seasons changing,
wrapped tenderness around this Fool.
She fluttered in her consciousness calming
the split of her world in the abyss of clarity
Called out in a silent exhale, ‘Wake Up.”
A spell cast, a spell broken, on a park bench,
in this city of empty, on this April Fools day.
where stories of magic and earth wisdom
soaked deep into that bench wood of oak
with a thousand Foolish days that waited
for her to pause, lay down, and listen.
It had waited for Jane14.