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.

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)

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.”

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

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.