Poetry from Julie Jordan Scott

With Universal Tags - Get Your Poem On #115

The prompt this week from ReadWritePoem was a powerful one, and one which took a respectable time of introspection surrounding the theme of what I believe and what I don't believe. I wrote about my process on my Julie Unplugged blog . I thought it would be simple yet, it wasn't so simple. It might be worth your while to do the exercise even if you aren't interested in writing a poem from it.

 

I over wrote this poem at first and then settled in with just what I share, here. Shorter than my usual, perhaps – and I think it is just right.

 

Born naked, belonging, identical uniforms

Him with this, her with that, them with –

Otherwise remarkably universal tags

Forever stamped with a longing to return

To some form of uncovered transparency

Where by skin and in skin and with skin

Alone we are adored, cuddled, held in

Agreement with wide-eyed, sacred believing

Disbelief just because we are – nothing to do

Mirror face blinks, moist eyed, relieved

Julie publishes her ezine, the Daily Passion Activator, which includes an Essay and a Poem every week day - inspiration delivered directly into your email box. Why not Subscribe today? It's free.

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Naisaiku #1 - At home, insects buzz

Old craggy branch friends

Made into piles of wood chips

I sit, atop them

Remember solace found here

Whose thought was this mindless one?

At home, insects buzz

Whose thought was this mindless one?

Remember solace found here

I sit, atop them

Made into piles of wood chips

Old craggy branch friends

Julie publishes her ezine, the Daily Passion Activator, which includes an Essay and a Poem every week day - inspiration delivered directly into your email box. Why not Subscribe today? It's free.

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American Sandwich Game #3 - Twitter Friendly Sandwich

In BLUE is the American Sandwich prompt:

How did they find each other?

Dawn's idea of change was spending small coins, Dave wanted to emigrate.

Bound for conflict

Now - In Response to Sunday Scribblings #203

This was one writing moment that literally poured itself from me. The experience was well worth whatever product arose. Grateful. So grateful. for Sunday Scribblings which made it happen - the request? Write of "When Pigs Fly" or "When Hell Freezes Over"...

Before brother died

And life fell apart

Other brothers disdain

Holders of sneering

"When pigs fly!" energy

Above their noses

on their squished together

foreheads

That look always

pulled me into

tightly laced action - -

I would show them

Exactly the moment

"When hell freezes over!"

And I did

For a long while

Until third brother died

Son declared Atypical

Third Clank - Mom has Cancer

Though most importantly

I got perpetually scared of

Doorknobs and splinters and

Not being there when the

One who needed me most called

So I gave up on pigs and thermometers

And hid inside an invisible cave

It is time for me to

Re-Enter Suey Training School and

Gather the Iceburgs training

Stop closeting myself in

Unnecessary shivers

Remember

Lift

Foot

Today's Haiku Challenge - Word of the Day? RENT

North, he drives away

Is love something up for rent?

He spills from her still

Lizabelle's Revenge: Get Your Poem On #114 #CED2010

My key theme this week came from

one of the words in the WORDLE: Lubricious - since

I didn't know what it meant until I looked it up.

It is perfect character work as I prepare

to play Gertrude, Hamlet's mother.

Wanton patter tumbled from

Lizabelle’s frosted lips like

Nails on the chalkboard, hacksaw

Choked muttered from his decaying

Soul, hise eyes red with lust not for

Lizabelle but for the bawdy fiction

In the footlocker, waiting

Salacious, under the fluffy purple duvet

“The one with the unfortunate frog fabric?”

Liz asked, her nails clanking her tarnished crown –

Clunky metaphor sulks upon the creaking throne

No rose petals there, only cracked eggshells

Left by the buxom kitchen wench who

Fled in a panic, her mischievous, lubricious

Laughter a mask as the new queen,

Lady Lizabelle, sent her away

Underneath - #3WW Poem and Prize Giveaway of Your Choice for 500th Comment - #CED2010

This week’s Three Word Wednesday poem was birthed from inspiration from these words:

 

Occur – Ragged – Tidy

 

I am obviously still simmering in my failure to make an object as simple as a door into a poem sans spirituality with the ReadWritePoem prompt from last week. That vibe spilled over and perhaps is pouting in the corner of this poem as well.

 

And by the way, I am very close to the 500 comment mark on this poetry blog. Will your comment be the one which pushes it over the edge? I am trying to think of some fun prize for whomever writes the 500^th comment.

 

How about this – read the poem, make a comment that reflects something valuable to this poet and suggest a reward I may give you in return. If you are the 500^th Comment, you will receive the reward… as best as I can offer it. If you are NOT the 500^th Comment, I may give you the reward, anyway.

 

Surprise me?

Today's poem is....

Underneath

When did the ragged

Wind raked wood

Obscure the tidy,

Manicured, it occurs sans surprise in a

Feng shui’d red front door

Of the Summer-Shed-Nee-Cottage?

 

Perhaps it was when

She divorced herself

From what was proper

What her Sunday School

Teacher expected and instead

Became who she always

Was, underneath -

 

She, with the wind raked

Splintered edge

Ready to be torn

Open at a moments

Notice, inviting pain

Where it was usually

Hidden by carefully

Stitched seams

I Give You - Get Your Poem On #113 - The Therapeutic Writing Spa

The poetry prompt from ReadWritePoem.Org last week’s “Get Your Poem On” was like going to a poetry writing spa: we cleansed ourselves of our normal, unconscious habits through reviewing our recent work and were compelled to write poetry differently this week.

 

I was busy getting the play First Kisses off the ground. I practically moved into the theater so it has taken me this long to get my spa treatment completed. I hope you enjoy it.

 

The one convention I kept which is fairly usual for me is that each line is a matching syllable count. Counting syllables is a usual thing for both Haiku and Fibonacci, yet I don’t count as much for free verse style poems unless…

 

I also noticed that while I switch up first person voice (this is for romantic poems or visceral, emotional “here is what I am feeling right now” poems) and third person voice, I consistently write as a sentient being. I rarely personify a non sentient object – so this poem, today – is written from that perspective… you will more than likely recognize the object’s voice soon after you begin to read.

 

The most overused words I use include “croon”, specifically, and words that employ the use of onomatopoeia. I must be more auditory in my writing than I thought I was. Several times in my most recent poems I used “rat-a-tat” or “pitter pat” and yes, I apparently am enamored with soles and souls. I tend to admire homonyms, another sound-thing.

 

Finally, most of my poetry tends toward Divinity – meaning there is either a

blatantly Divine thread or a quieter Divine thread within the writing. I finished this one and I am not sure, some of you may see some of that unmistakable something peeking through the last few lines. I like to think of it as more of a “Wake up, fool!” thing that will be seen by those who are ready to see it. Otherwise, it would go unnoticed.

 

Let me know what you think.

 

I Give You

 

You push me

And walk through

You pull me

To Keep Out

Other feet

You barely

Notice my

Peeling paint

Or the note

Jehovah

Witnesses

Left right there

You don’t look

You don’t pause

You don’t thank

Me, ever

For my work

Tireless, here

For you. I

Let you in

Keep them out

Hold wind back

Push rain down

The gutter

And what thanks

Do you give?

Here you come

Again, late

You tug, hard

I let you

Open me

And pass through

“See you soon!”

I whisper

As you shut

Me again

Muttering

At nothing

Your back is

All I see

As you leave

Me again

Without a

Nod, look, wink

I give you

All I am

= = = 

See what fellow poets from ReadWritePoem wrote by clicking here.

Sunday Scribble - Do I miss the message?

 

This is my first week writing a Sunday Scribble.

 

I started with a long, drawn out free write, journal style.

 

You can read those rambles here.

 

And then I read guatamy’s words and thought

 

“Poem”

 

So here is my (Second) First Sunday Scribble:

DO I MISS THE MESSAGE?

 

Do I miss

The message

Because it is buried

In a riddle?

 

Why do I feel foolish

Banal, boring, childish

When I proclaim

“Love is the message”

 

I hear hippie

I see spectacles balanced

On the edge of noses

Clicking of tongues

 

I see turning away

In judgment and I think

“Comparison, opinion, power?”

Downturned face

 

I stuff the crinkled

“Love is the message!”

yellow paper back in my pocket

critique loses again

February 7, Tech Week Begins: #4 in Mini Poetry Challenge

The day dawned when I was to write my 4th in a love-for-Denise Levertov series and there I was, in my pajamas, cutting wood for the set of First Kisses, the play I am directing at the Empty Space theater. I thought of Denise Levertov and her style of being sensory driven, present to the moment, and a witness to what she witnessed and experienced. She also has that "divine container" which I see as a presence on the spiritual, though it is more like a constant hum surrounding the poem rather than shouting "THIS IS ABOUT DIVINITY, READY! Check out my WEAVING IN OF THE SPIRIT! WOW!" it is more a hushed whisper that covers each word, sort of like the saw dust that coats both me and this poem.

February 7: Tech Week Begins

Saw dust coats her skin

She labors with this new love project

Memories of sweat coating her skin

She labored with her almost born love

The pain with saw dust is birthed in her head

Not her belly and back

The incantations of focus, love,

Focus, love

 

Fill her hands with a familiar

Ringing, “I can I can”

 

Check list has a strike through

Before the day officially begins

Harbinger of the rest of the process-

We’ll choose yes

No moniter across her to check

The movement of love, the pulse of love, just

Stacks of lumber,  triangles and

A dusting of soft yellow  on

 

The table, the floor, the clamps

Her eyelashes, her hair

 

Her slippers, covered with love sawdust

Her bedjacket, riddled with bits and pieces

All that’s left is two more 1 X 4’s

Light switch to up, lock clicks shut

Coffee poured, final pushing begins

Bones of the shack moved into place

Waiting for pick up and moving

Her hands, blistered beginnings

 

Testify the beginnings of

Transition. Love.