Poetry from Julie Jordan Scott

Haiku Duet

Drops from last night’s rain /
turn mulberries into soup /
God winks through the clouds

 

(Note: this HE is not a Divine HE ^giggles^)

He tells of his plan –
all I hear is blah blah blah –
when will he let me be?

Three Word Wednesday on Sunday

Phew! A very fast write on a prompt which must have been simmering since I first read the words on Wednesday.

They are: fear, ignore & weightless

and this is what I did with them.

I fear others will ignore me,

perpetually

My thoughts will prove weightless

infinitely

I am never enough

individually

Darkness will prevail

indefinitely

I will be abandoned

eternally

Don'ts

blot violent blot
covered my don’t’s
and sucked my
tears back inside
tar stains my
heels, drags my
“No” and “Don’t”

down, now only
sludge remains
alone and reminds
me of the
“Don’t live” refrain
Don’t cry
Don’t indulge in
emotion orgies

don’t blots
memories

leaves life

unexpressed

don’t

blot

don’t’s

Found Empty

The Prompt: Boxes

The Place?

Bought of selfishness

Followed by liturgical

Consumption

Empty

Milk dud box

Sat empty of

Caramel or

Chocolate only

To be found on

My desk five

Days later

Empty, still

Reverent, hushed

(Well, it was

Mother’s Day!)

Julie Jordan Scott 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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Backstage

Backstage, waiting

Penultimate moments

Hovering in the wings

Preternal waiting room

Playwright’s assemblage calls

Pencil scratches, holy –

Did he use pencil?

The playwright?

Cigarette spings

Depths voice

Six months, certain

The pencil craves

Closeness to my

Hand, fingers molded

To its straight edges

Breathe words, sir

Playwright so that

I may enter

Mother's Day, 1990

Mom came.
We hiked Mt. Pinos
I saw hope along
the horizon, out there
away, it stirred
something in me
intangible
untouchable
still

Not Mine

I see her eyes

Her name is lost

Daughter, Amy

Shame crept up

My toes, my calves

Quickly sweeping

Across my chest

My heart, my breath

“Wrong” said her

eyes, “You – Julie”

said her voice

God’s safe house

For the

Battered wasn’t

Mine that

day

The Road to Tuesday (Carry on Tuesday Poem, written on Monday...)

The prompt came from Keith Ramblings Carry on Tuesday Prompts (YAY!) There is a rather long story to how this poem was born... and though it is still in draft at this point, I am enjoying the road it is taking me down... so I figured "What the heck?" and posted, as is.

Envy baked thinking I was never one of those
and crusted over thinking I was never one of those, either -

mysterious cavern moms the ones who hang out a lot with other moms doing
unreachable kid schlep or trading recipes - some

unscalable talking, yes, connecting, yes. Housewifey
unsurmountable stuff? Never. Sometimes I wished I was and I longed

to cover unbridged moats,  to be accepted or accept such stuff myself, but I didn’t
rest in the inbetween feeling – I remember it didn’t feel like there were

the unpaved or the four lanes or any roads at all to any friends houses
unbroken, or un or broken so I stayed. Didn’t feel it, wasn’t feeling it.

tucked away swooshing mod podge on the
other side, the one wide berth of fascinations to follow

which never learned - Where are you when I need you? -
the adage, the belief - Where are you when I need you? –

the road to a friend’s - Where are you when I need you? -
the house can’t exist if - Where are you when I need you? –

there aren’t any
friends

Julie Jordan Scott 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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Unswept

Thank you, Writer's Island, for today's prompt:

They touch base, sometimes

Want to be heard, sometimes
I swat them away, mosquitos or flies or
children's repetitive nagging requests
buzzing about my ear
"leave me be" my mouth mutters
most of the time, though...

They stay buried in the box
within my chest, barely audible
only rolling and bumping about
when the storms get rough
stowaway memories
lost within the blue lines
words, images, textures
and colors - -

I notice the footprints scattered
about in the dust or its nibbles
or bread crumbs, unremembered
left behind, unswept

Prisoner #712 - #Poetry for #ThreeWordWednesday

Today’s poem was prompted by the word collection at Three Word Wednesday: Thom offered up these three words

Escape Hum Vibrant

 

Here is what I wrote in response:

Prisoner #712

She wants to escape

This place, her invisible

Container, like living in

A plexiglass prison that

Sucks out whatever vibrance

Was left, whatever remained

To not so suddenly “poof!”

Itself stoically away

Passion turns its face north

She is left with the droning

Hum of the grungy finger

Print covered refrigerator

Plates with remnants of

Last nights lasagna, crusty,

Splatter taunts on the rims

Acrylic paint stains lace her

Fingers, overflowing trash

Can and an assortment of

Torn paper which once held

Some semblance of something

The jay outside the window

Points his beak at her polyps

Of procrastination. He squawks

“Stop Stop STOP!”

Heartbeat whispers too softly

She misses completely the

Sonata sounds it offers

“Begin begin b e giiii n n n n”

Julie Jordan Scott 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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