
Hither Hills
Flops in the sand.
Prints made as I sit.
Yesterday there was whales.
Green and white
patterned blanket.
Two books to choose.
"I am", the other ~
a Vonnegut.
Who am I ?
Pages praising
energy I bring
is the energy receive.
I pay attention to
the energy around me.
A slow pinch, moving my hand upward on a
string of dune grass.
Letting it's vibration
coarse through me.
Feel the wind push
the same string in
my direction, like affection.
I feel comforted.
A seal in the breakers.
Feel the sand beneath me.
Little stones, quartz gems, as they are, from the ground~ under the sea.
Broken to pieces.
Yet still resonating
for their "I am's" ~
I'm a part of them too.
Take them in then
gaze on up at the ocean,
the deep ocean.
Waves today;
brought in by the big wind.
The spray by the mist,
the fog blue and grey,
and I watch the birds. A group of strong flyers, then the broken winged, solo,
alone in watching ~
watching the sea;
watching its equals.
They swoop in,
tussle more feathers.
He defeatedly flys unenthusiastically up,
sloping around, only to
land again as they leave.
As the surfers go out,
saddling their surfboards.
As the striper fish
pick their fisherman.
An older brother
baiting his younger ~
a fish is caught;
unhooked and thrown back before the other
gets to their bit of beach.
Brothers turn their backs,
one more determined
than the other;
back down the beach,
as a group of children
run past to see
the next big fish caught.
"I fry mine in butter "
yells the older brother.
Just as Trout retells
of his writings in Vonnegut.
Night time winds roll in.
This is where I’m found
It's the pressure that it gives,
that lowers me down, all the way down.
The heaviness courses into the ground;
this is where I'm found.
For the rueful, disquieted expressions
are shown in poses only I have known;
the hurt yesterday, still hurts today
and that, I sling to sink to the bottommost.
Tomorrow, if I'm not here,
I'll be buried even deeper~
yielding further into the downpour;
seeing forces resemble, thinking
I've walked away from them, unharmed.
Then, I notice the air around me,
thick with midst from the past storms.
Another surge, the tempest erupts~
coating me with its burdens
to carry along; while I been caught
in another squall, so
I'll just stay down, all the way down,
for this is where I'm found.
And I've been worried about
all this rain we're getting;
and I've been worrying up until morn'.
So many showers have come,
gone and I've gripped them all.
Washed away, into the past;
I try not to keep count, letting them fall.
Yet, as I lay on the floor,
staring up at the sheets~ tangled
in the mess I made,
listening to the sounds of the rain,
I touch the slopes of the pillows and
I can still see the marks on the creases.
For it's all becoming one sleepless night;
I let the tensions soak into my skin,
assuming for me, heavily dull and spiritless;
it's really the pressure that it gives ....
so, I'll just stay down, all the way down.
The heaviness, coursing me into the ground.
~Jessi (poem)
A mothers plea
shivering light of the red giant
the weymouth’s pine stoops dimly,
casting pale shadows from the west.
through crumbled strains,
a calcified pile reaches ground cover.
colorless heaps catch a breeze,
turning to the wood,
your presence sensed,
fueling gentle wisps,
igniting a resentful gust of wind.
over what’s left, I sit.
loose grains remained,
coming up, I feel you
calling my name.
a voice much older,
whispering,
ascending a request.
“time ground me
against these wooden grains
as I lay here in this pine drape.
remanence of blood
plunged through my flesh,
escaping my mourning veins
every time I tried to come to you;
seeping and seeking refuge,
leaving me desolate
with only fear to cling onto.”
“I tried one summer
in the searing heat,
to taste the sweat the wood sap bled.
out from the deep,
in these expanding staves;
to be born again
of the white pine’s sugar.”
“but God stopped the sun
and Satan turned it red.
laying my tree low, to litter the soil.
with a broken soul’s purpose,
my spirit roared! rising
to clang on heaven’s gates. yet,
your heart had passed on me.”
“I tried to come to you
through thin cracks~
where the wind tapped.
within drops of rain,
feeding the garden beds
of potato and bean,
so that you could forage in spring.
yet all the glamor of it’s fruits
washed away~ clawing
outside the plots,
every day you came.”
“come. please.
turn this soil- take this seed.
let the last bit of me touch your skin.
with a voice fueled only by the
thick high-flown sky,
I ask for forgiveness.
let my plea nest in your mind,
to set you free; in your ears -
to chime and wake your heart.”
“you see, I’m in the space between~
waiting to come to rest in your peace.
to dwell forever, together.
and as you live on,
I can give beat to your heart
once more .... like when
I first became your mother.”
This weeks news brings déjá vu or premonition
a dream
many moons ago
of sounded, synced alarms
amongst strangers in a diner
eerily gazing
from phones to faces
the same message
all the same sounded alarm
in and around
floods in Brooklyn
resonating waves
from my subconscious
into my waking betas
regurgitating it's marks
on friends and family;
or any stranger who listened
resurrecting again
as chatter surfaces
in news of an entire nation
in preparation of
sounding alarms
on every cellphone,
tv or radio station
an electronic warning tone
just after a week prior
of strong weather
had left Brooklyn flooded
.....
and then the sky fell
Queen of Spades ♠️
I‘m getting ready for the wedding,
I put on my black dress.
It’s long, elegant and full of grace.
I struggle to get into it.
Others around me seem arranged;
ready for the festivities.
Elegantly, swiftly, and gracefully
running past and all around me.
Family and friends.
Equipped strangers.
As I battle with the elegance,
grapple with the grace,
untrained in the beauty
of my elegant black dress.
My legs feel weighted,
I realize my ordinary clothes
lie underneath my dress.
Stiff, unfashionable, heavy.
A brown tank top.
Two bras~ one with an underwire,
another just stifling me.
Layers of disheveled rolled-up garments
to sort through, to hassle with.
I don‘t remove my black dress,
I just work on getting them off.
The elegant black dress covers me.
I notice everyone’s attending the wedding before me.
I feel them brush by me,
the room empties ….
I sense the heaviness of my frame~
the miscarried black dress.
I look at myself for awhile,
and the long mirror knows.
I put on makeup, fix my hair,
find some jewelry ....
movements that have been memorized,
yet are not a part of me.
I smooth out the elegance.
I fix my straps and look for grace.
I stare at myself.
I am the last one.
In a beautiful elegant dress
.... late to the wedding.