story idea

The snow leopard mother runs straight
down the mountain.
Elk cliff. Blizzard.
Hammers keening
into the night.
Her silence and wild
falling is a compass
of hunger and memory. Breath
prints on the carried-away body.
This is how it goes so far away
from our ripening grapes and lime,
coyote eyes ******* the canyon.
Yet
we paddle out in our ice boat
headed toward no future at last.
O tired song of what we thought,
stillness crouches like a prow.
We break the ice gently forward.
If I want to cling to anything
then this quiet of being the last
to know about our lives.

Copyright @ 2014 by Jennifer K. Sweeney. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-a-Day on June 27, 2014.

The land was worth half a million,
with the large log cabin and
the tiny one on the edge of the hill.
He found the property for $10,000 just,
and logged it gaining $11,000 back.

I was worth the potential of half a million,
I had value at last. I had trees, and a home to build
and design, with family history and stories written
along the roadway.

I could have walked that road, carrying my granddaughter
telling the tales of our men,
how they came, saw, conquered for themselves,
and how their women held onto their gold as though they
would have to be killed first before they let someone take it.

This is what my 30th year looked like:

Running around naked in front of windows

Eureka, California in the summer

A side yard 40 ft by 40 ft shaded by a mature some kinda tree.

No job, just trying to get a life put together

Sitting cross legged across from two two year olds

Your infectious giggle cracking you up

Snapping timeless surf side photos of your sun streaked curls

Making a home at the health food store

Looking for family amongst familiar strangers

February 23, 2023

Story idea:

Two sadhakas are walking on the road, looking down, walking quietly in peace, until they bump into each other.

They are startled out of their meditation, look at one another in the eyes, and instantly fall in love. They are wrapped up and swirled in a whirlwind of love, affectionate words, feelings, making love.

And then when it all stops, they realize they are walking in opposite directions. One turns white, the other black, or silver and gold, or some other colors. They shed tears, spend a few days and nights saying their goodbyes.

And then ultimately continue on their ways.

The sun sets, the moon rises and sets, and the sun rises, and butterflies flutter.

It was Sunday and she rushed around looking for her hair straightening iron and a pair of shoes she knew she'd worn just yesterday.  The day was as sunny as a Sunday could be, June 5th, dry as a desert in her Sierra Nevada town, no rain in sight until October at least, no smell of smoke, no fires in the air, it was a perfect summer day.  Rushing around her quiet, just waking up cottage, she lifted up clothes piled on her over stuffed fireside chairs, riffling through the pile of clothes dropped to the floor of her shower room, hunting, hunting, wracking her brain, walking backwards through time in her mind to find "where oh where" had she left her shoes!!!

A glimpse of something black caught her eye from inside a canvas shoulder bag, "AH!"  She'd changed out of my work clothes before she'd gone to the river!  There were her shoes, waiting for her patiently to find them in her carry bag.

Shoes found, she raced to straighten her curls flat and sleek, straightened her teeshirt and pulled down her skirt a little so it sat just on her hips and down from her waist, allowing her newly grown Buddha belly freedom to breath.  She knew the flea market would be on all day, but there was something special about making it a whole day event.  If she were the first one there, it was like she were one of the vendors. She would be able to feel the bustle of the potential of setting up shop, selling found treasures and wares, collecting dollars from strangers, meeting new people, and possibly stumbling into the most amazing opportunity of your life.  She would be a witness, as the sun shed it's first glimmerings of light and long shadows down over the market, to the twinkling, the eye winking of the sun as it released it's magic over the lot.  That moment of the morning when the unknown was let down from the heavens and all of life's coincidences, synchronicities, and connections were released for us to walk through and make the most of in order to change our lives.  She fluffed the last brush of blush over her cheek, glossed her lips, gave a little tousle to mess up her now straight hair and was ready.  She grabbed her purse, car keys, and a burlap shopping tote, her phone, a cup of coffee, and a book...just in case she wanted to sit in the midst of the market and enjoy the ambiance while she soaked up some wisdom.  Then...she walked out the door.

draft

Today I am thankful for the silent moments
covering the morning hours,
minutes prolonged inside hushed walls,
absent the pressures of what I must provide.
I am serene.

The oakwood blazes hissing out snowfall's moisture,
kittens frolic, fluffily bouncing, pattering in holiday fluster.
The wintertide's sheepish wool in flight,
drifting upon the up-country's chilled breeze,
let's out a flaked trail towards our summit
crystallizing our land into a brilliant Wonderscape.

No toiling for me this day,
I am at rest, as is my whole house.
Thankfully piddling about
at their most cherished past times.
Allowed to delicately gaze at snowflakes
for hours.

This day, this day
Brings decisions to be made,
Heavy heart in my chest
Asks what my matter
Is on earth.

What my matter sits here for,
Consuming space
Better spent on another.

This space of mine,
This breath I breath,
Is in fact mine,
Spent on me.

So outward breath
I breath again,
And so I decide
To speak and sing.

Hear these words as they come forth,
May they tap your ears
May they reach your heart.

I sing these songs to you my friends
Rather than ache in silence
Not knowing my worth,
I will own my own divinity
And give you back yours.

God didn't give me an epiphany
He didn't give me the tragic life of a *******
or drug addict
that brought me to him
in a spell of repentance and tears.

He quietly, gracefully, gave me a child.
He gave me the fear of keeping my son safe
in a world that so readily devours it's young.
I chose Christ, in a long, slow, up hill climb to him.

Taking my time to shed my Jewish heritage,
sinning over and over again on the quest
for marriage and a happy home.

Still climbing, now one more attempt has left
and I can resume my journey, my pledge,
my desire to be a Christian. To give that to my son.

What does that mean, even, to be a Christian?
Where can I find others who truly live that life?
So many I have seen, men and women, in love, married
But one man I knew denied even them the title. I guess they were doing it wrong.  

Who is right in the game of Christianity?
Some will say Jesus, Jesus, yet he will say
He does not even know them.
Which one of us are they?

as my body rots in place
as new souls stand out and shine
as I die without notice
my age, my age
I will not survive.

Our lives are but a collection of the hours we spent loving one another.

I love you all.

where arrrrrrre you in all your world?
tonight i wonder if you remember what
i have falllen for you

drunk into deeper wishes for your love
Jesus,  with him it
matters.

dreams and dreamers we all
live,
she is in your reach
i wish you would grab her
or grab me
which ever you wish.

My search for God has not led me far,
just into a bed with a man
Who spoke from scripture.

His holy spirit spat at me,
taking advantage to persecute my ignorance.
I thought God was there, his name came up,
The man believed, I am certain of this.

I spent small moments sitting in pews, listening,
Watching the moment of transfiguration.
A glistening, a subtle odor of Christ, I swear.

Wanting to believe so I might receive the sacraments,
Baptism, Holy Communion, Marriage.
I walked near, then turned down a stumbling road,
Never finishing, never marrying.

Still walking to God, in search of God,
Wanting to find him holding
A palm leaf, an olive branch, and a man.

Still walking, I'll plan a pilgrimage,
walk to a monastery,
Eat dry bread dipped in hot salted broth,
Walk until my soles tear,
My clothes dissolve into rags.

Walking,
I will walk to God
Until the end,
Even if a man denies my effort,
My head is down.

New friends, old friends took you away.
had you loved me, you would have seen
all that I gave up and gave for you.

It was like you took every step I made towards you
and moved in a new direction.
it was like every move I made gave you a reason to back up
and create a life for yourself that did not include me.

You found new friends because you thought I had new friends.
All I was doing was trying to find a job I enjoyed
so I could feed you and make a home for us.
I had co-workers,
you retaliated with getting your own social life
that did not include me.
Perhaps you are emotionally 14.

And it is true, I broke up, and I looked.
I ran, and you stayed. I considered other men,
but could never. That didn't matter. I was guilty.
Never mind I always came back.
Never mind that last weekend, you said you loved me
only to throw me away.

Now you have your guys to hang with,
and a woman you can talk to every night on the phone
the way you used to call me.

You say she is just a friend, but you saved her deep in your phone,
then when you were ready to reemerge, you sought her out.
You did something much different than I ever did.

No dear, you never did love me,
because love does not behave like that,
love is blood, something you can not live without.
And now you very much, and happily live without me.
Because you made the choice to call her.
And there can only ever be one.

Look at me and all my flowers,
look at me and all my mess,
do you see yourself in what I have to offer?
Or are you more like her? Two peas.

But we were a disaster from the start.
So really, the disaster drove us apart.
But why all the blaming? Why all the hate?
Why all the lying? To ourselves and one another.
Had we loved, we would still be together.

Till the day we die
tiny words upon our lips
our eyes drill into the unseen
for us to create what will become.

Late in the day we find
a sunset too soon upon us
rushing down a hush
before our world bloomed to life.

A young impetuous boy
terrible with temptation
taunting the audience
daring them to discover unwanted secrets.

Made sullen, weakened
drunk and unvictorious.
Ripped by a wave called Timeline
that was more monsterous than his provocations,
making no exceptions, just anhilating all without predjudice.

Suntea ripened and flatend
before we could attend to it's invitation
the afternoon sank without us
taking one moment to cuddle amongst ourselves at dusk.

Now evening lolls in, black shoulders knudging
peircing lamps outside disturbing a softer natural dark
buzzing us, alien energy stimulating our eyes, our humors.

Someone orders a drink, and the night becomes lost
as his mind fades to forget his tiny, tiny words.

You need to go, you have ruined this road,
There is no market for redemption here.
Christ hangs in a tree over yonder,
Pray there, he alone offers relief.

Mine is a human heart,
Aching and torn.
Seven years it takes mine
To heal and regrow.

If you do not like what you see,
Reading my words,
Gazing at my photos,
Then turn away.
Do not enter my life.

petty worries.

that's all I can think of when I imagine the sheer piercing inconceivable survival happening today. People waking up wondering if this will in fact be their last day. Couples dying for wanting to breath in a certain way, of their own choosing.

what do I have to complain about?

I would do anything to warn you not to turn into that direction keeping you safe and warm.

I can carry you on my shoulders for the rest of your life until I walk into the dirt.

it will be 3 days before you decide that you're going to fall down so far you smell the waste and happiness of everyone around you.

I will be the observer, bound,

I'll probably end up
wandering on the road
Driving anonymously
Forgotten,
No one checking in,
You being the only
People to know my whereabouts
Unless I decide you too
have stopped caring.

I am aged
Graying
Haggard
Never have been one to stop for
Even less so now.

Dreams, you wake up from them.
Fantasies great and small,
too lost in your own vision
dancing in formal gowns
your hair done in a bouffant
He is twirling you around
and you are the only woman
he ever wants to hold.

That is your dream.

His looks more like a harem
with hundreds of women feeding him
bathing  him, grape after grape.
Oils being drizzled over his chest
massaged into his skin.

He may dream of that,
but he rarely will pursue it.

What he won't do either, is love you
the way you dream of being loved.
He gave that to another woman
who shattered his love into
a billion stars.

What you find time and again,
are men who like you only
enough to sleep with you
take your soul's time
distract you from your own music
and leave you wanting something better.

Love is the most imbalanced of things.
teetering heavy like gallons of paint on one end,
while on the other there is a child enjoying the lift.

You wish for someone to value your dreams as much as you do,
someone who will take your image of yourself seriously
invest the time and effort into making you who you want to be,

I guess at the end of the day that is our job,
to be aloof, dive into our arts,
ignore the hearts of the people around us.

Only I've seen lovers love
through the years holding one another
nurturing each soul
being the sounding board that
bounces the words up and down
until they fall into just the right place
and only the most accurate words,
to create a vision of life that
wins awards.

Those types of love affairs do exist,
after you wake up from the dream.

Your lives are much sweeter than mine,
triumphs mixed with parties,
action and crowds.

I can hear it when you speak up
despit your fear, agony, youth, or depression,
at least you drive
finding someone
or you paint your lips with color
smacking them on the cheek of a compadre.

You drink crap beer or wine
maybe you even smoke.
Vices.
Mine are long gone,
sacrificed.

You visit darkend, pulsing clubs
people know you
they even come up
honestly glad to see you,
you are embraced.

Hello Despair, my constant companion,
threatening my stride, corrupting any confidence,
insulting my intelligence, forbidding me to improve,
denouncing me as unworthy, I recognize you.

I'll not let you win, even when you bear more strength,
fighting till the death, mine or yours.
I resist your name for me,
old age coming, colorless shape,
forgotten something,
needless.

Under your heavy core that masses like lead,
I'll wimper with a finale breath,
even when there is no one left to believe, remember, or hear,
I will fight against you.

To be satisfied, comfortable,
nay, even confident avec mon visage,
ma chemise, la couleur de ma texture,
the comforting weather forty years,
silvering chestnut, softened denim,
******* relaxing, cradled lower,
crows feet etched,
sun worn skin leathered well.

To be comfortable with my tone of beauty,
a select vintage for specific taste.

I'll not suite most passers by,
subtle, almost undetectable,
but for the one who cannot
     shake me from his memory,
the one who will turn to follow
     to witness my slow aging,
the one who's weather I recognize as home.

The idea that you would sacrifice your life for me is a ridiculous fantasy I can play through my mind like a film with an emotionally roaring soundtrack and as much as I crave your bond, my dream imagination gets shaken awake by reason.

pumice
peat
mulch
humus
leaf mold
clod
loam: a rich, friable soil containing a relatively equal mixture of sand and silt and a somewhat smaller proportion of clay.

marl:  Geology. a friable earthy deposit consisting of clay and calcium carbonate, used especially as a fertilizer for soils deficient in lime.

argil: clay, especially potter's clay.

bole:
noun
1.
any of a variety of soft, unctuous clays of various colors, used as pigments.
2.
a medium red-brown color made from such clay.





clutch
kaolin
loess: a loamy deposit formed by wind, usually yellowish and calcareous, common in the Mississippi Valley and in Europe and Asia.
slip
till: a stiff clay, a glacial drift of clay, sand, gravel, and boulders

Walking, I passed by a man first
Then a woman.
Rocky path in hot sun.
Desert terrain littered with sages.
Eyes to the ground,
Back loaded with pack,
Thighs trudging,
feet hitting the dirt ground.
Walking now, I pass by.

my life is a walk spent dodging traps
I walk into with my mouth open to them,
even though I don't want to get caught,
I also don't want to be alone,
so I trap myself with men who
stop me in my tracks
keeping me from where I am really going,
which is nowhere at the moment,
except that I want it to be somewhere,
only I'm having trouble finding the path where
I am walking unrestrained, the winds freely blowing past my body
and the people are still there with me only they are walking with me
rather than being in front of me like a concrete blockade or a tar pit
something I might run head on into or die being stuck.

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 02, 2005

I am quiet, walking between the rows of shoulder high...
there is learning catching up to me, racing towards my heels.
its pace crushes my lungs;
My head hangs, the earth's aroma lifts towards me so I can smell.

Huffing with the strength of an intelligent woman,
My ******* are firm,
my brawny hair ringlets down my sides,
my solitude attracts attention for one moment,
then the love moves on.

the cold freezes my breath.

I sit at a desk,
conjuring up their names without permission.
invading their lives like an uninvited transient.
watching through an open curtain as they make love to other women.
discarding my own life, calm, slow, sleeping,
fighting for nothing.


October 2, 2005

Mother Rock, I sit solidly on the porch
as the May wind blows the lanterns.
I am the family stone, I hold this space
while the children's lives soldier on
to the fields of hearts, where swords and shields
penetrate and cover, where new blood is drawn.

I am finally finished playing at war.
My position is still, as the wind washes past my solid form.
This day moves all around me,
washing me away, eroding with each brush of breeze,
my blue jeans fade in sunshine,
my gray hair streaks, as it lingers to my shoulders.

Mother Rock,  I sit solidly on the porch
as the May wind blows the lanterns.
Like the family stone, I hold this space
while the children's lives soldier on
to the fields of hearts where swords and shields
penetrate and cover, where new blood is drawn.

I am finally finished playing in the war.
My position is still, as the wind washes past my solid form.
This day moves all around me,
with me washing away, eroding with each brush of every breeze,
my blue jeans fading in sunshine,
my gray hair streaking as it lingers to my shoulders.

ten years ago I was thin.
I remember the lover I
met ten years before then.
ten years later was nowhere
to be seen. Five years later
had yet to happen. I can
remember the freezing winter
of 1996.  It was just like yester
day.  I miss the creamy cotton
futon tucked quietly in my private
curtained alcove entryway, all sheets
calmly milky, my studio littered
by inspiration found outside along
Warwick Street. Life was easy,
I'd only loved one man for real. He'd
loved me just enough to leave
me in tact. Ten years later from
ten years from that, I've been left
twice, and left with one who stays.
All the while wanting the man
meant for God and an angel.

Too much happiness is like an illness
that you lie in bed for waiting until it
leaves your body.

Just as you are laughing, cracking up,
closing your eyes and throwing your head back,
you get well again. And stop laughing.

I couldn't imagine a lifetime of being sick
with happiness. I've never been sick for
more than a week. My immune system
is far too strong.

I'll ***** the pin through the paper
to bring the light back through.
Not all darkness persists.
In our desperate cries
into the void
God does listen.
Faithful to us
until the end.

It's funny when you look back
to find out you have been erased
from the lives you thought you'd
played a role in. Who will remember
me? Did I even exist? There is no one
around me to remember I am alive. I
disappeared from the memory books,
covered up, erased.

Not I in this life,
though I wished so hard,
and prayed every night.
Not God's dream for me,
though it hurt much
not to be.

Still with each breath, Lord,
though you may not give this,
I can feel one man, arms long, singing
craft, and peace, loving creatures
gently, and waiting for only my tune.

Though a wife I will (probably) never be,
though hope refuses to leave my soul,
it is what I listen for, the sound of
rugged wood, of fire, and reason.

Do not text me,
Do not send me one more message.

You need to go,
You are not my friend,
You never met me,
You never wanted to,
You wasted my life,
You intruded on my relationship,
You stayed on the phone with me for too long,
You have no gauge as to another person's life.
You have never seen my face,
You can keep your electronic online only relationship.

There is no flesh there.
There is no blood there.
There is no heat, no sweat, no fear there.
There is no breath, no body mass, no feeling of cloth.

I am not there,
The real you is not there.

You turned everything you said to me into a lie.
You erased every feeling we'd created.
You became angry with me.
You hated every word I said.
You hated everything about me.

You would rather sleep with your friends girlfriend
Than be with me.
You would rather sleep with anyone else
Than be with me.

You never cared about me at all.

Scoffers and fools
wasting away
chafed by the wind
ruined, crumbled
stolen from, rejected.

The poverty of the poor is their ruin,
I am in poverty.
A rod for the back if you have no sense,
I make foolish choices.
I worry and dread,
and yes, it comes true.

How much more of me and mine will be destroyed?

Turn me around, O Lord.
Make my mouth, my lips, my words righteous.
Guide me with your instruction
and keep me only along your path
that I may find men and women,
brothers and sisters, to learn with,
to pace my life with, to encourage one
another towards your solid way.

Tobacco, the first intoxicant wrapping me in a gauze of sultry skip days,
Wine, beer, swimming pools with bikinis, suntans, tropicana oil,
Kansas heat on concrete. Lawrence, Ks, KU, art and black, red ochre conti crayons,

Life drawings of nudes on platforms, fat, poor,
glamorous models, how i wanted to be one of them
stripping myself in front of you all,
my young beautiful naked body
you'll never see that again.

Fresh grass and lemonade,
Volvos driving across our country
55mph...80 was faster.

One night stands
led to terror.

Hurting men forever.

Barns and Nobels stealing book
coffee was new
young at 25.

Walking the street in Kansas City,
Warwick street with it's three story walk up
trimmed colonial white
1995.

Tea, herbs, kale with sesame,
Health food shops on corners
young women of 23 starting their biz.
We could do it our own way back then.

Abortion, adoption, college graduation,
law school, med school, drop out,
write.

Here are some great contemporary writers who are alive, active, really dynamic, and really making their lives and the lives of others happen.  I wanted to share, and please add your own "writers that inspire" in the comment section! (please make them living writers!)


D. Watkins
Deborah Ager
Rita Dove

bakers dozen  
on the horizon near the playa
where apocalyptic marauders skate,
following a verde raw fruit shake,
beneath fade red chakra shawls  
billowing from the desert winds.

a touch of gypsy, an ounce of saint
distant, unattainable, supremely created beings.

dusty weathered skins, they survive on magic,
gifted to them
alone.

He said,
"You're used to being the only intellectual in your circle of friends."
I am????

I stopped reading in 1999 or before.
I prefer for people to be smarter, most are.

To get my goat, to see my knee ****,
watching the response, then pass his judgment.
Failing, a complete fail.

Not tonight, I think to myself,
although today was soothing
in it's pace.

Spending time tinkering with oven grease,
domestic moments on my knees.

Still, not tonight.  I care none for
the ache of human neediness.
I wish not to concern my feelings
with another person's wants.
I want us all to be satisfied with what we have tonight.
We can't have all our cravings.
Only the bits that fall in our lap.

You'd th nk, with HUNDREDS
of people flocking to yoga fest vals
'd be able to f nd someone
to talk to.

Dharma talks, people s t and l sten,
where do they go when they return home?

My door bell  s s lent,
none enter to s t and further the talk.

  guess  'll never reach Samad , passed by,
no one wants me to get there,
only myself,
   guess  'll walk alone.

This room is empty now. No words in here to complete the sentiment for the feelings that sweep over you when a person you care for walks away from your life leaving you in the room you have furnished for yourself.

They walk away into the empty zone mixed with new faces, red haired ladies in tight see through black bras, excellent jobs like stock analyst, lobbyist, journalist, emergency room nurse, or worse. They don't let anyting stick to their walls, not yet, not now. They get to rewrite their songbook while yours becomes yellowed, dogeared, coffee stained.

Your room, blanketed in dust, dirt in the corners, dog hair covering your bedquilts.  ***** laundry piles up, you never become wealthier or smarter.  Your circle of friends degenerates into locals and deadenders like yourself. Days pass, you become old.

You latch on to anything that is moving.  Hopefully it is moving upward and outward. You dream about driving away, far away from where you live, driving for miles into the desert.  You want to live in a town where nobody knows who you are, you don't know anyone either; your home an isolated, small, cheap apartment like the one you had when you were a freshly freed adult.

Dreaming and dreaming about a life where you can be left alone so you will have the freedom to maybe, this time, find a life that resembles your fantasy of what it is supposed to be like.  All the promises of what education and college would bear.  Intelligent friends, moving and shaking the conciousness and politics, life, and town were supposed to surround you, invite you to dinner parties where you would drink smart wine and discuss shaping the tone of the future.

Turning over in your sleep, you wish everything around you would walk out and leave you. Everything except your child. He would stay, weather the change, ride the storm into your own empty room where you could paint the walls of life newly.

Fall away
               s
                                        i          ,
          ­              then    a         r                               &


s                           p                         a                          c                             e


and

l   s   .