Poetry from Julie Jordan Scott

Sitting Amongst the Sea Shells

 

Sitting
amongst
the sea life
on a boulder chair
when I saw her
green, slightly,
thin and fragile
lodged
stuck
unmoveable

She was so fragile
Force may hurt her
So I stayed
sitting apart
ever so slightly and

In the wondering I felt
the tiniest nudge
of grief

I wondered more ~

What was
I grieving?

Selfish desires to make this shell mine?

Ego-based hope to incorporate
her beauty into my creativity?

Relentness lust for more experience?

I heard the seagulls wings
river-like as they opened and closed
they unfolded and refolded

I heard the waves greeting the shore
moving away from the shore

Seesawing up and down, back and
forth, in and out, hello - goodbye

The water became fire licking and burning
the sand with the heat
of the ocean underbelly

Weight relaxed against the boulder

I simply sat with the shell
the rocks
the silence

I sat

I sat

I sat

I looked at this shell and wondered
who was imprisoned, who was stuck

Was it her

Or was it me?

(Written in part for the Jingle Poetry Potluck)

Follow me on Twitter: @juliejordanscot 

Connection Covered with Ammo Dust (Three Word Wednesday Poem)

Today's Three Word Wednesday words:

  

conniption; noun: a bad tantrum. One has a conniption or conniption fit.

janky; adjective: broken or functioning poorly or improperly; messed up.

scooch; verb: to move over, or to scoot.

I was cranky as I sat down to write. I knew writing would help the cranky feeling, the disgruntled "how am I going to solve this?" spinning around me... and it did. I clicked over to Three Word Wednesday, my grouchy voice saying "yeah, you're so smart let's just SEE you write a poem that fits." And I did. SCORE!



I  linger at the door

watch his ever-lengthening

frame walk away from

me toward the waiting

yellow school bus

the short bus

the door to door bus

which swallows him

every day, takes him

there, to the place

he has come to abhor

Fresh conniption slaps

me back and forth

forth and back , "Stop

saying that," he shouted

"That makes me mad!"

my words "I believe in you"

shoved aside, our connection

janky, wobbly, covered with

ammo dust and mud stains ~ ~

I watch, still, silent, tears prickly ~ ~

and moan ~ ~

will whatever knocked him

from doing so well this year,

whatever bullying or meanness

or misunderstanding, whatever

the hell you were or are or

continue to be -

give this Mom a break

scooch over

leave my son alone

like you found him

getting along in the

typical world

instead of hating

us all, longing to

be a hermit in

a remote cave ~

jangling video games

the only remnant of

togetherness that was ~

 

Follow me on twitter: @JulieJordanScot

 

Garlic Chicken Pizza (A Poetry Potluck Poem)

 

Emma and I share a garlic chicken pizzza.

Through the chews I hear your

mantra, "I have no money" not

unlike your diatribe "I don't mean to

make you cry" my time lapsed

echo of "You are not creative.

You don't express true emotions,

you are sentimental. You are shallow.

You have no real talent." and on

and on and on as my face

and my gut are slapped by your

well-timed insult-expletives

splurt against my now mottled skin

"You don't understand the rules."

You say as you tie me into

the "No one ever's" rust

colored corset and pull, squeeze

the hissed, "You are no one"

I am your comma, I say silently

Your space of waiting until a

more interesting, rule-knowing,

angry, vindictive, ego-driven

compassionless speaker of your

language opens the elevator door

on the floor marked YOU.

This poem flew from the tip

of my pen, my tongue still

scratchy from the garlic chicken pizza.

My hands find solace under a

purple throw blanket. My hands and

the blanket cover my ear so the silence

overtakes, for once and for all, your

"I have no money" mantra

= = =

Written for the Jingle Poetry Potluck

= = =

follow me on twitter: @juliejordanscot

1905. 2011. 2116. A Magpie Tales Poem

This poem was inspired via the image found at  Magpie Tales, specifically Mag-49 which may be found here.

This photo spoke to me, loudly, and too a while for me to respond to it. Felt so rich. I am certain there will be more. For now,  because I am woefully tail end as it is - here are my words.

In 106 years will there be anything left?
Will there be any semblance of civilization
to point and nod and say, "That was her,
her of many notebooks filled with little
more than floating gibberish. Her, drinking
Vitamin C drink to lull her cough and stop
the for-this-moment-chronic nosedrip. Her
with the navy blue coat and sometimes too
many friends to count."

Three women.
1905. Snow. 106 years ago.
One moment. A split second.
A three voiced shout, "I am here!"
"I am present." "This is me..."

This one in a striped
coat, that one in an oddly shaped sort
of beret style hat and the other,
a fur scarf.

Do I notice clip boards and writing
materials? Are these women documenting
the day with words or sketches or "this
is what is now, this is what will be echoes
and shadows years from now."

That one could have held my granny as
a tiny baby. That one could have pointed
my grandma to kindergarten. That one
could have scolded Grandpa or
patted Grandpadaddy on the head, double
digit aged boys, roving and wheeling
about flailing their arms: building railroad
ties of thoughts and not even figuring
flight or today's communication into
their scientific meanderings yet these
women in their world are still here,
right there, I still see their individual
marker of you-ness, her-ness, that her-ness.

Between me and the next 106 years, I want to
make more of something: an originally stated
thought, perhaps ~ see something in a way
that helps others. I continue to write, even though
the ache in my head nags me to stop
I devote myself instead to this topic.
Right here, in front of me. These three
women. This snow. 1905. They held
my focus. Inspired. Invited presence.
Spawned two hundred sixty
seven words.

For them, gratitude lives.
They live. We live.
1905. 2011. 2116.

Poem: A Hankering Knocks (Inspired by Big Tent Poetry)

 
Some mornings a hankering

knocks on my belly's door

"scrambled eggs, bisquits,

country potatoes, a saucy

waitress. A blend of old-school

and country, mixed up and

served on a simple crockery

plate by a hand wearing a gawdy

costume ring on her index finger."

I listen, mindfully, mouth-wateringly

to this heart attack on a plate siren song

The thought of smelling it alone makes

me want it more ~ square, in front of my

gut ~ served on a oil stained, trivia laced

paper placemat emblazoned with

"Come back soon!" it calls out

with an early morning chirpy voiced

human-bird call.

Hobo Omelette. Corned Beef Hash.

Every pork product I shouldn't eat.

I gather my keys, my wallet,

my now moist mouth and

the gnawing in my memory

and in my stomach.

I know my destination.

= = =

follow me on twitter: @juliejordanscot

Three Word Wednesday Poem: What happened before?

I have never, ever checked 3WW and been able to post near the top... which meant I simply HAD to write this poem.

Our words for this week:

descent, kill, surreal



What happened before my

favorite poets began their

descent into the end

when the kill went beyond

words and into the cessation

of breath, the surreal became

real and they left and only their

words remained

Their hands which wrote

were their hands that stole

the words from their minds

the page the rest of us

What happened before my

favorite poets began their

descent into the end?

= = =

follow me on twitter: @juliejordanscot

Poem #3: The Dead Woman Sat at a Table in the Neighborhood Eatery

 
The Dead Woman sat at a table in

the neighborhood eatery

She prayed the anorexic waitress

wasn't assigned to her table

The dead woman felt guilty

eating food offered from plates

passed to her by bony hands

She didn't know why the

restaurant hired anorexic servers

who made customers wiggle

and regret or even pass up

saying "Scrambled eggs"

or "fried chicken"

The dead woman wondered

if perhaps the anorexic

waitress was an imposter person

Maybe she was a dead

woman, breathing

The dead woman forgot

The dead woman remembered

she loves the smell of coffee

more than she loves the taste

The dead woman discovered

the cold drink of water tastes like

hiking in April or waking up in

a tent after the first night of camp

when she wondered if her snoring

bothered any of her tent mates

The Dead Woman sat at a table

in the neighborhood eatery.

= = =

Follow me on Twitter: @juliejordanscot

Never lived that One (A Thursday Poet's Rally Week 36 Poem)

 
Do you remember

when we first spoke

deeply, beyond the

surface, no admiring

of content or form

letting subject or

object or precept

or concept fade

from view and all

that was left was

the breath and the

question,

"What do you long for?"

We never lived that one.

It's a regret I still hold...

I thought I was writing

this poem for someone

else until just then ~

When I discovered

it was

for you

 

Samuel Says (Poem 2/365)

Samuel says

"I saw Jesus"

a short blip

"in the car booth"

and I realize

he isn't having a

religious ecstacy

he is busy playing

Mario Super Cart

"There's Jesus again!"

and his Jesus-Mii

was making a cameo