Poetry from Julie Jordan Scott

Firsts and Lasts

Sunrise on the
morning after the
year anniversary of
that joyful first
explosion of hope
between us

I am cursed to
remember these things
First steps, first cups
of coffee, first arguments
first poems written
firsts followed by the
inevitable lasts

The reds and purples and golds
of last nights nightmare
still echo in my ears, the blue
numerals of the clock, "1:07 am"
no you. The first time there
was no you in this year

I let the dogs out
I fluff the pillow
I lie with my eyes wide
open, I read ridiculous
messages about drunken states
and unconsciousness

I blink into the sunrise,
later. And wonder what last
or first this may be
this one I am looking into

Wicker Basket Empty: A Pantoum for Thursday Poets Rally Week #29

All week I have been "meaning" to write a pantoum for the Thursday Poets Rally and today, at the last moment, my poem is complete.

Jingle is the organizer of the rally - it is a phenomenal opportunity for poets to gather, write and encourage one another. Check it out here.

Wicker Basket, Empty

 

Wicker basket empty except for the checkered table cloth

Buckle the life jacket to retrieve the nuggets from the water

Messenger river stones skipped into the watery waistline

There, there - see the traces, the silvery blue outlines

Buckle the life jacket to retrieve the nuggets from the water

Hear it, the what's missing between the shouting silence

There, there - see the traces, the silvery blue outlines

Seeking nameless, nearly formless, gooey solid bricks

Hear it, the what's missing between the shouting silence

Found beside the empty swallow's nest in the Linden tree

Seeking nameless, nearly formless, gooey solid bricks

Balance restored, knee bent, sole flat against the inner thigh

Found beside the empty swallow's nest in the Linden tree

Mulberry tree hides it swallows it, there beneath the massive leaves

Balance restored, knee bent, sole flat against the inner thigh

Crackling dryness smoothed edges guide the path to discovery

Mulberry tree hides it swallows it, there beneath the massive leaves

Wicker basket empty except for the checkered table cloth

Crackling dryness smoothed edges guide the path to discovery

Messenger river stones skipped into the watery waistline

 

Started and Never Became

This poem owes itself to Keith's ramblings and "Carry On Tuesday." Check out the prompt and perhaps you will feel compelled to write as well.

Started and Never Became

Some people skitter
I don't allow myself

Hope
People: Marly and
Bea and Frank
say I am optimistic

(Got them fooled)
They see life
too lightly

They never
experience fear
I want to write
a pantoum
rather than
this rambling
free verse but
the feeling
that sticks
is the

"You Can't"
form"

It sounds
like this:

"You
Can't
Tackle
Form
Right
Now!"
word
daggers
shoot
off the
tips of
scraggly
pointed
fingers

scissors
slice
bud
before
its
scent
fills
the
air

It started as a feeling and
was blotted out before
it became a hope....

= = = = =

= = = = =

If you would benefit from prompted writing practice,

check out Writing Camp:

 

Ghosts Dance on Stairs: A Poem, A Challenge, A Moment of Facing/Writing Fear

I step back, silently
feeling the fear in my chest
and my toes clinging
to the rubberized soles
of my plaid cloth shoes
as I lift one foot up and
the other foot twisted, slightly

I didn't want to get too close
Too intimate
Too anything
with the ghosts that
danced on the stairs,
there, underneath the
sign declaring "Auditorium"

Translated into
"Auditory" "Ummmm"
My breath stutters
"I don't
I don't want
I dont't want
I don't want to write"
and I write into the
pounding pulse now
cradled in my chest

The ghosts stand silently
waiting to be recollected
faces painted and clean
my own face among them
as well as looking out
the window, above, there
years ago, whispering
"What am I doing here?"

I turn, drive away
not willing yet
and praying I won't
I will get up the
nerve to look at
myself inside that

window again

Written because of Monday Poetry Potluck. Grudgingly. Because this is bringing up "stuff" in me.

Look for tomorrow's version....

Backstage Fibonacci

I am in rehearsals for Taming of the Shrew. We are in our final two weeks which means we start "running the show" and which also means those of us who are only in Act 2 now have a long wait.

Last night was our first attempt so after I had reviewed my lines more than enough times, I wrote two fibonacci to pass the time.I also knew after a busy weekend I wouldn't have anything fresh for the Monday Poetry potluck unless I took some time to write something.... so I did.

Backstage Fibonacci

I
wait
make best
of what is
Wonder if I'll go
Or if the night will be all wait

I

hold

my words

Here, the page

My heart breathes blue ink

Pages hold blood, nerves, band aids

Somersaults Out of Paradise: A Haibun Prose Poem

Imagine my surprise at not knowing this Haiku-like form! I was delighted to discover it this week at BigTentPoetry. This is a form I have written in the past and simply didn't know the form of Haibun existed. I know I will write more.

Enjoy now, my first visit to a place I know I will return to soon.

Somersaults Out of Paradise

 I stepped off the train and onto the soil at Concord, a pilgrim. I was a disoriented pilgrim who didn't quite know the way to where I wanted to go but I was a pilgrim, nonetheless. I consulted my fellow traveler who didn't share my transcendentalist fever. "Taxi? No taxi..." Her thirt een-year-old-shoulders shrugged.

We taxied. Comic book driver colored with all the proper New England Tough Guy accesories knew nothing of Emerson, Alcott, Hawthorne, Fuller, Thoreau, Walden Pond, Little Women or even the details of Paul Revere's ride, but he did know about being swindled, cheated on, landing in jail and driving to sanctuary at his sister's house with just his dog and the clothes on his back. "Do you still have the dog?" I asked. "Yeah," he answered. "He's great." His distinctive vocal lilts and rolls helped my child feel normal.

We landed at Orchard house and tumbled into transcendental paradise. Time evaporated into wonder at bedroom windows, drawings on the walls, stories of blended genius and benches at the base of trees and by the time I was full of the Alcorrs I was shocked to conclude there would be no sleepy hollow during this visit. No Olde Manse. No slowly walking through time on Main Street or writing along the river.

Our driver came back

Purple line waited for us

Salty tears on cheek

Our Blood Speaks - #Poem Prompted by Magpie Tales #33

Thanks to Willow at Magpie Tales, I added one item - the only item so far, to my Christmas/Birthday list. i didn't know until today that Acqua di Parma existed and now I must own it. You just never know what to expect when writing the round of poetry prompts, now do you?

We bleed Italian blood
though there is no evidence
in our family line

apparently one of our
more passionate celtic
foremothers had a

romantic rendesvous
and created a brown-eyed
sulty progeny who

gave us our wildly
gesturing hands and our
inexpressible need

to gently coat our
skin with a barely there
layer of Acqua di Parma

as we drink a cup of
coffee, slowly, and an
inexplicable force in

the air draws us back
to a homeland we have never known
because our blood speaks Italian

 Visit Magpie tales for weekly image prompt inspiration. Always fantastic... I adore writing from the prompts Willow provides.

A final PS - If you are a writer/poet seeking daily writing prompts of the soulful sort, visit And Now You Write - there is an audio prompt waiting for you there, now.

 

Not Exactly a Cup of Sugar: Thursday Poet's Rally Week #29

This poem was born due to my beloved friend Jingle's Thursday Poet's Rally. I wrote two poems I considered for the honor of being the Week 29 poem, but this one won out. This is only my second time at the rally, so if you are considering joining know the word-water is fine. Leap in and swim around for a bit!

Not Exactly a Cup of Sugar

Randomly she declared,
"I've got piano innards"
Not unlike, "I've got a cup
of brown sugar" or "you
need baking soda or baking
powder to fill your
spoon, neighbor?"

"I've got piano innards"
abandoned by the host
the body the sound provider
Its music may no longer
be bitten into, the crumbs
no longer fall upon the
blue-green formica table top

"You've got piano innards?"
he queried? "Truly? So do
I!" Ping and pong,
surprising this never even
remotely thought of owning
piano innards listener.
"I don't own any piano innards"

Silence
Silence
Silence
Silence
"Oh"
"Oh"
Giggles....

= = = = = = =

Two Things! This week I won a Forever Friends award from Jingle (YAY!) plus if any of you are experiencing, block and resistance, check out And Now You Write, which is linked below my fabulous award... as my way of giving back to the writing community.

And for those who are blocked or who just want to write, consistently, and in community:

Join a community of writers which will move you from where you are to where you want to be. Audio prompts, free flow writing, lots of camaraderie.

Join "And Now You Write" Now.

3WW #Poem - Midge Waits

I am not sure what's up, but I have been writing more poetry in the third person lately. Poetry fiction rather than confessional, "from my own experience" poetry.

It isn't as if I plan it, instead the words just make themselves known as I move my pencil on the page. This is what happened this morning. As the words came, an image formed and Midge was born. She is the child of "Nudge" actually, because I liked the sound and was saying it aloud and then Midge appeared, sounding remarkably similar.

Thom posts the words each Wednesday at Three Word Wednesday. We choose to write from them and with them.

This week's words: nudge, gait, ripen

 

Midge Waits

Her shoulders slouch into
Midge's awkward gait. she
doesn't gallop or drag her soul
it is just oddly blatant and
more deafening even than
her nasal laughter filling
the bleak corridor
while tomatoes ripen
pumpkins ripen and
souls ripen, thje glandular
nudge has yet to tap
inside her  body to ripen
though her pleated skirt and
peter pan collared shirt on
her outsides long for
love to ripen before
yet another morning
before the bell rings
she leans on her locker
alone....

Read the other poems from Three Word Wednesday here:

Blissful Haiku

Simple square nugget

Waiting for the unwrapping

Water on my tongue 

I found a new place to write haiku. Be still my beating heart.

I hope I will see your words posted at Haiku Heights, too, where weekly themes are posted to use as inspiration. This week was BLISS. (Can you tell?! ^giggles^)