Poetry from Julie Jordan Scott

Untold: A Poem's Unfolding

Day 1 for several writing challenges was yesterday and yes! :I wrote this yesterday. Enjoyed the heck out of the process and it may not all fit here on in instagram post… I’ll experiment and if not, I will post on my dusty poetry blog. What I can get here, is here - thanks entirely to (these are all housed on Instagram, FYI)

#1wordpromptchallenge #1word = begin + #septemberfalls19 + caves and sheds + #worthyshares #worthysharesSept2019 = aesthetic

Is this fictional or confessional? Your guess is as good as…. :-) enjoy and thank you for reading. Would love to know what aspect of this mashup work best, in your estimation. And here... we go.

UNTOLD: a Poem's Unfolding

I’m afraid to begin, nervous to write it because

to write it means I will have to return to  the darkness the

bitter reality I work so hard to stay away

from the mixture of mud and blood torn from the bottom of my right foot

to put it on paper, to move my pencil back and forth and up and down

requires I solidify the “it” I’m not ready to name

Understand with me, it is more comfortable to dig a shallow 

hole in wet ground, take the shovel from the dusty, spiderweb 

covered backyard shed, a catacomb of rusty unused words, a messy cave

in the middle, no one ever gets to that midpoint  anyway

her aesthetic doesn’t shimmer here

It is safe

to say those things that ought to just go unsaid

suddenly I am strong,  standing at the

podium offering thanks, my heart pounding in semi-disbelief

because I don’t win anything I belong in this hovel, this

hollowed out place only for me, my shape lives

in the in-between that people don’t ever seem

to get to, their calendars punctuated with

exclamation points, not the fleshy commas, hidden.

The not having the answers to the nosy questions

such as “what do you mean by messy anyway?” and

everything stops waiting for you say “messy is calling”

the glint of the star the sheriff wears,

he is the one who notes the list of marchers

in the parade, the handprints left behind

the flag bearers by the windows, the smudges

of pencils, erased not quite forgotten frustration at

not getting it right. Getting lost in in

the ghostly pounding of fists against injustice

sneering down his nose, remembering observations

“she was an angel, such a dear… she always” add the

next glowing moment for recollection. On replay. Repeat.

Forgetting the hollow pit in my stomach from the

pounding on the window, his begging me not to

call, not to ruin her life, to sacrifice myself instead,

shroud pulled, silence while outside mysterious

shadows except for the poignant iphone glow

no one will read this mess, no one wants to know

she sat on the stairs he made for my

production and she now slept there, spent.

exhausted calling her friend compassion, familiar

knocked on my hearts hearing. I heard the lament

taking shape, a litany a prayer a catechism

 she didn’t know how.. the list, lengthy and

right then, in that dark pre-dawn when I

listened in disbelief to the snores beside me

and on the other side of the window and

wall, she slurred words, aimed at

getting back out, over the fence which

I was metaphorically sitting on

feet dangling, heart, skewered, pain

on hold. As long as it stayed there,

numbness glistening would win and

the smiles might could continue.

she leapt back over the gate sometime

before daybreak. And repeated. Three times

I know of but no one wants

to hear that mess. No one  wakes up saying

“tell me again, the messiness of standing

beside the deputy, his gun belt leather creaking

as he says “You know how men” obviously I

must not, seeing this evidence, sir

“are, when they are” damaged, left behind,

highly practiced consumers of high drama

tragedies devoid of gentle, lasting love

“offered sex.” Aggressive sex, officer?

where 911 is called and pacts are made

and eye glasses are broken and lies are

believed and restoration lies dormant?

Thankfully the middle will go unnoticed.

People want the introductory hook and the

punchline. Those are the undroppables.

Those are what the best stuff is made

1. beginning (forgotten middle) end.

aesthetics not (buried in sheds or caves)

victorious conqueror, hailing the gently

falling beams of light, everlasting romantic

not mud or blood but blind forgiveness.

Yes infinite sojourn into that truth

untold

Memory Insists: National Poetry Month 2/30

Two days in! Still at it! I know, two days is nothing AND it is a something! I have found poems literally waiting for me to find my way to them. Love when this happens.

Memory insists I lean back to

sit back on my heels and look again.

Look more deeply.

Behind the steering wheel of my car

I pause. I had forgotten this road, the

Fast way home, was closed. Still.
Finally my car lurches forward,

I turn the steering wheel toward chores

And lists and an infinitely growing pile

Of laundry and find myself stopped

Again, another red light –

another missed opportunity to sail

through a “free pass and arrive earlier

to save the dirty dishes in the sink

60 seconds more quickly”.

I take a breath and look up

I see the almost three dimensional rays

pouring from gaps in the clouds pronouncing this

new day has arrived, right on time like always

I remember Samuel used to encounter clouds

and rays like this and point excitedly,

“Mommy, its God!” he would say.

I knew pure bliss with him in those moments

And now in recollection even though

At seventeen-years-old he has subscribed to God’s absence

even in sights such as this one that enthralled the

seven-year-old boy he once was.

Memory insists I sit facing east at

this precise moment so my lips will

spread into smiling at both moments

Because memory insists

Take 3 – Stranded (A Poem)

This poem took 3 tries to write and a lot of inner talk until I allowed the words to flow from me.

The prompt came from Diane at Urban Siren Creative and her SagitarriUs Challenge.

The image is one I first created in 2009 and I found when searching after a time when my children and I were literally stranded on the prairie in South Dakota, miles from people we knew. 

 

Take 3 – Stranded

She was the kid who never made it through a sleepover.

It was a visceral thing: She needed to go home because

There was a never-absent belief that if she left for too long…

Upon her return the family home would be empty of the people

Who at least pretended to love her

They would leave for better spaces and a different, much

Better and probably blonde thin daughter/sister would

Replace her awkward, brunette and perpetually pudgy self

Adult Her isn’t comforted by the fifth grade and the seventh grade

and the fifty-six-year-old defection and subtraction of friendship

She has survived other circumstances. Cancer, death of friends, bankrupty.

There are fundraising marathon sleepovers for cancer survivors but

Never a tea party for “stranded survivors” – those who were exiled,

Dead-alive by those who pretended to once at least care about them.

Maybe the kid who begged to be taken home for fear of being left

Was the wisest of us all – or at least the one with the widest future view.

Or perhaps many of us are stranded together

We just haven’t figured that out yet

And are beginning to awaken to the reality we

Are the life raft. We are the search party.

Our collective heartbeats are the search – and

Now, coming to be, the found lights.

No longer. Stranded.

 

Notorious: Educational Failings - Written on World Autism Day 2018

It is a blur.

Smudged in my eyes and ears by my then five-year-old son’s crying.

Shrieking. No attempts at shielding his fear and horror as he stood in a corner.

Surrounded by men, towering over him, keeping him there.

I reached between them and relieved my son of their imprisonment.

Another day, another time, called to school because of his behavior.

Shrieking. No attempts at shielding his fear and horror as he stood in a corner.

My heart beat now, stuttering, rising still in my chest, ten years later.

“He insisted on swinging” someone said as I held his quivering, still

Crying self on my lap. Intuitively I rocked him, held his ear to my heart.

Smudged in my eyes and ears by the cause of his being held prisoner

In a corner with a school psychologist and an administrator as jailers

Was his desire to swing? A roar, again, in my ears.

Wait his desire to swing? On that swing, to the north of the slide?

My daughter reported seeing him dragged across campus.

(later I would learn swinging calms the vestibular sense for spectrum kids)

It is a blur. I question my accuracy but I remember quite clearly.

Another day, another time, called to school because of his behavior.

This was all because he wanted to swing.

“He insisted on swinging” someone said as I held his quivering, still

And he wanted routine.

He begged his teacher to let him stay with the other children.

Another day, another time, called to school because of his behavior.

Sent home, again. Not educated, again. My fault they inferred, again.

And he needed to feel safe. “I like him” his teacher said

“He doesn’t behave like this at home.” I said.

Silent glares. My then five-year-old son’s crying.

Crying self on my lap. Intuitively I rocked him, held his ear to my heart.

Smudged in my eyes and ears by my then five-year-old son’s crying.

And he was punished. He begged his teacher -

For something kindergarten educators.

Shrieking. No attempts at shielding his -

Another day, another time, called to school because of his behavior.

Should have recognized. It is a blur.

My heart beat now, stuttering, rising still in my chest, ten years later.

School psychologist. Notorious. Don’t tell me he couldn’t see what this was.

Must have recognized

For Maire and Diane: Poem 1 of 30 for National Poetry Month/ 2018

Last night I sat here, in my recliner, like I am sitting here now

Comfortably watching time evaporate when I lifted my chin and noted

The light to my daughter. “Look, Emma, the light…”

and continued reading, aiming for the completion of my endless to-do list

I almost didn’t translate

almost missed the invitation - the curling come hither finger of dusk, the finite time of blessed transition

reconnecting me to my

Four-year-old fear of lightning bugs

My willful thirteen-year-old insistence it was

Perfectly acceptable to try out my mother’s Virginia slims in the upstairs bathroom

My grieving twenty-eight-year-old walking into the light,

praying please god for something to change this outcome

It never occurred to me to care about

The inner workings of what makes the cereal bowl

being released from the bowels of the dishwasher sparkling clean

or why when I turn the key to my almost sentient Mazda the

engine rises up, singing, without complaint.

Why is it at 3:44 am I awaken and decide to google “worm holes” so I might come to understand the unfathomable nature of the depths of space even the most brilliant minds can’t deciper?

Neither outer space nor inner abyssal are tangible to me.

Both need artificial light and tools to touch them.

If I was honest, I would confess I really don’t care until

I hear… well, the mist of the question floods the crest of my shoulders in solicitation –

In the looping intersection between the highest note of the mourning dove’s song and the middle of the universe’s wormhole, the miles away train whistle abrupts the still ocean waters of the unreachable aqua pits and the gentle force of the sun saying her daily goodbye  pushes me to lift my body from its resting position into this revelatory moment -

This is where it taps my heartbeat,

Oh yes, my God

My abba

My infinite

We are all connected

 

 

 

 

Does anyone have a spare - Poem Created Via Facebook Post, Etc

I posted the plea that birthed this poem  on Facebook in early December.  Many people responded. I read through the suggestions and felt a sense of poetry in the collection of words/advice/compassion/finger wagging/caring.

I first read about writing poems using social media reading Poetry Magazine a couple years ago. I've never done so until today. I decided it was about time! 

 

Does anyone have a spare dose of motivation I may tap into... please?!

Of course I do how much would you like or need?

Friends may always be counted on

I've gotten down to lumps of anger-dusted fear with an adrenaline dipping sauce. I can spare a few, if you'd like.

Even when they’re running on empty

I am right there with you.

Although advice without a pat on the shoulder gets wearisome

 Keep on keeping on. Don't forget your second wind. Power nap

Get out into nature if you can. That makes almost everyone feel better.

To me, anyway….

I need that IV too...

Compassion. The best.

If you lived close, I'd have you over and make you an espresso!

Cups of Coffee and tea, always welcome….

It's the season I just keep moving forward cause stopping makes me blue

When I feel orange, it simply isn’t….

You can have some of mine!

Pollyanna is my sister.

 Make mine a double

Sarcasm is my brother.

sorry....i have posted 'have you seen...?' posters around town in case anyone finds mine, wandering, cold, lonely....down by the river....

Friends have had real crises this year.

(dancing dancing dancing emoji’s)

Replay redux, even if those words don’t make sense

A good night's sleep and a day off, maybe a car ride or a trip to the antique mall. Based on your posts, you have been working long and hard hours. Take care 

Mom artists know these things, even when marginalized

What do you need accountability buddy? You can do it!! I'm here for you! Can't wait to see that website!

Too fast, I panic

Too slow, I stagnate

Too…. Too… Two

Want to borrow my cape?

Is it purple?

Just be....don’t push

Julie I love you and I picture every cell of your being filled with motivation and inspiration to do whatever it is you are hoping and praying to do. I love you and I believe in you and I send you motivation❤

Ahhh, Beloved.

 

If you find any extra, send it my way.

Naturally.

Meeeeeeee

You!

Love you!

Me, too!

I'll keep you in my thoughts dear sister. Good night, and may you soar above mountains and oceans in your dreams tonight. ❤

I can’t remember if I did or I didn’t….

From the front cover of the LA Times, Friday Morning, June 6, 1930 😊

From the LA Times, June 1903

 just sent most of mine I had laying around, hope it helps

It did, love. Thank you!

Unfortunately just a few crumbs but you are more than welcome to them! ❤❤❤

TTAP

THE BEST! I taste a touch of cinnamon!

Tap!

Tapnik!

Catch!

Anything but a cold!   

 Here ya go!

THANKS!

I sent it via text immediately last night-but I guess it didn't go through. Xo

Oh poo….

 I'll trade you a spare dose of motivation for a spare dose of happiness. <3

I’m known for happiness…

You're alive and walking without assistance

Ah! Some reality! Spoken in Dickensian, pronounced correctly.       

Sending some your way. Some days are like that.

Not too many!

Yes! Stop by and write!

THANK YOU! We all need invitations!

 I loved the days when we did the passionate Friday clean up ... I forget what you called it, but it's memory leaves me with a great feeling.

Oh, thank you thank you thank you thank you, I remember!

Get out into nature if you can. That makes almost everyone feel better.

I dove into my front lawn because of this. Sniffed leaves. Loved it!

Chins up. Smiles on! Wave!

Waving back! Stretching my chins out!

Never before has it seemed so important we help each other. I'm 82, been there done just about all I could dream of, plus seen and felt God's Hand, so you want some free emotional or spiritual counseling email me at two together are always better than one! Peace & Blessings,

Ahhhh, yes. Blessings.

Julie Jordan Scott inspires people to experience artistic rebirth via her programs, playshops, books, performances and simply being herself out in the world.  She is a writer, creative life coach, speaker, performance poet, Mommy-extraordinaire and mixed-media artist  whose Writing Camps and Writing Playgrounds permanently transform people's creative lives. Watch for the announcement of new programs coming soon!

 To contact Julie to schedule a Writing or Creative Life Coaching Session, call or text her at 661.444.2735.

        Check out the links below to follow her on a bunch of different social media channels, especially if you find the idea of a Word-Love Party bus particularly enticing.

       Please stay in touch: Follow me on Twitter: @JulieJordanScot    

        Be sure to "Like" WritingCampwithJJS on Facebook. (Thank you!)

        Follow on Instagram   And naturally, on Pinterest, too!      © 2016

Still here. If I was....(December 9, 2016)

It's been too long since I've written poetry consistently. I don't know why I stopped writing poems but today, like Forrest Gump with his running, I just decided to start writing poetry again. So I did. Perhaps not even a glimpse of craftswomanship, but it is a poem and I did write so therefore, it is good.

(Since I love parenthesis so much I think I'll add this: even as I get ready to call this done, the message from the poem tugs at my sleeve. It's all a rough draft, anyway. It's all a rough draft.)

If I was in the mood to write a romantic poem

I might write, “Your train is pulling away from the station –

and I am still here.”

I’m not in the mood for a romantic poem

If I felt like writing a cranky poem

I might write, “How is anyone so stupid to forget to insert the filter

Into the coffee maker before hitting brew?

Nemesis quips “Get a Keurig” –

Wouldn’t happen with a Keurig and I hate quips and Keurigs, no thanks.

Cranky is annoying, don’t want to write it.

If I was in the mood to write a zen poem I might write

“Coffee. Train.

You quip. I turn to the interior.”

(We’re getting closer)

I notice thinking in poetic  options

Has made my breath steady and light

The half full trash bag in the hall no longer mocks, it waits

My fingers no longer have festering scabs, they’re now healing

And dammit, Pollyanna may stay in place as long as she wants

I feel better when she’s around.

Your train is somewhere between a dairy and a corn field

I sit at my computer. Still here.

Julie Jordan Scott inspires people to experience artistic rebirth via her programs, playshops, books, performances and simply being herself out in the world.  She is a writer, creative life coach, speaker, performance poet, Mommy-extraordinaire and mixed-media artist  whose Writing Camps and Writing Playgrounds permanently transform people's creative lives. Watch for the announcement of new programs coming in soon!

 To contact Julie to schedule a Writing or Creative Life Coaching Session, call or text her at 661.444.2735.

        Check out the links below to follow her on a bunch of different social media channels, especially if you find the idea of a Word-Love Party bus particularly enticing.

       Please stay in touch: Follow me on Twitter: @JulieJordanScot    

        Be sure to "Like" WritingCampwithJJS on Facebook. (Thank you!)

        Follow on Instagram   And naturally, on Pinterest, too!      © 2016

Uplifting? A Poem of Slanted Light

Slanting light

Held me momentarily

Heavens vapors subtracted moments later

I forgot to take off my shoes….

My soles do not bear the glue of wet soil

("so easily remedied, my love..." says spirit)

=====

Turtleneck, Aubergine (A Three Word Wednesday Inspired Poem)

This poem was born from the inspired words found at ThreeWordWednesday.com and listed below.

I was grateful to have some impetus to continue to process one image that kept playing in my mind: a turtleneck that exists only in my mind and the memory of a man who long ago existed in my life.

Love when words, fiction and slivers of fact intersect.

Jab, verb: poke (someone or something) roughly or quickly, especially with something sharp or pointed; poke someone or something roughly or quickly with (a sharp or pointed object or a part of the body); noun: a quick, sharp blow, especially with the fist, a sharp painful sensation or feeling.

 Labored, adjective: done with great effort and difficulty, (especially of humor or a performance) not spontaneous or fluent.

 Makeshift, adjective: serving as a temporary substitute; sufficient for the time being; noun: a temporary substitute or device.

 Turtleneck, Aubergine

He fancied himself romantic

His neck, bent, just slightly east

Glasses on, to read his poetry

To better gaze deeply into her eyes

(whichever her was handiest)

Perhaps jade green or cocoa brown or slate grey eyes –

His makeshift diploma in all

subjects Rico Suave
hung on his shoulder blade and

Made for a labored viewing

    she sat silenced by the each

unintentioned

    one would hope, anyway

jab, quick throttle, toe kicking lunge

Noo one there knew, in the collage of wordsmiths

What he hadn’t done

Hadn’t attempted

Perhaps hadn’t even crossed his mind

Once upon the last 5,655 days

He had never felt the

Itching of his skin underneath

The visible

The tangible,

the turtleneck, aubergine

=====

 Julie Jordan Scott inspires people to experience artistic rebirth via her programs, playshops, books, performances and simply being herself out in the world.  She is a writer, creative life coach, speaker, performance poet, Mommy-extraordinaire and mixed-media artist  whose Writing Camps and Writing Playgrounds permanently transform people's creative lives. Watch for the announcement of new programs coming in Fall, 2015 and beyond.

 

 Check out the links below to follow her on a bunch of different social media channels, especially if you find the idea of a Word-Love Party bus particularly enticing. 

 Please stay in touch: Follow me on Twitter:   and on Periscope for writing prompt, tips and inspiration daily created to ignite your artistic rebirth. 

 

 Be sure to "Like" WritingCampwithJJS on Facebook. (Thank you!)

 

  Follow on Instagram  And naturally, on Pinterest, too!      © 2015

 

 

Goldfish, in a Bowl, Frowning - A Poem

I look at you from across the table

enjoying this excuse to just gaze without

you noticing me taking in

the snaps on your green, plaid shirt

the smile etched into your forehead

(especially when I know you don’t feel

particularly smiley right now)

I smile anyway in the spying

of your darker eye, darting toward mine

averting back down like a tired

gold fish lumbering to the bottom

of the bowl, finding some lost trinket

I allow my contentment to smooth

over the wrinkles in the formica

between us

for now

/////

Julie Jordan Scott inspires people to experience artistic rebirth via her programs, playshops, books, performances and simply being herself out in the world.  She is a writer, creative life coach, speaker, performance poet, Mommy-extraordinaire and mixed-media artist  whose Writing Camps and Writing Playgrounds permanently transform people's creative lives. Watch for the announcement of new programs coming in Fall, 2015 and beyond.

  To contact Julie to schedule a Writing or Creative Life Coaching Session, call or text her at 661.444.2735.

 

  Check out the links below to follow her on a bunch of different social media channels, especially if you find the idea of a Word-Love Party bus particularly enticing. 

 

 Please stay in touch: Follow me on Twitter:   and on Periscope for writing prompt, tips and inspiration daily created to ignite your artistic rebirth. 

 

 Be sure to "Like" WritingCampwithJJS on Facebook. (Thank you!)

 

  Follow on Instagram  And naturally, on Pinterest, too!      © 2015