Writing words on the page
can often feel like a hen
in a hunt and peck.
Or maybe rather, I am at the table
arranging the Scrabble letters.
Tiles I’ve been dealt
to see what word I might find
or that might emerge.
Feels I am looking
for something though,
as of late. Though,
I am not sure of what,
except that words
can and do fall like clues.
Like breadcrumbs
dropped along the path,
we follow with a magnifier
glass in hand,
one step and then another
until finally we come to some
inevitable end; our purpose.
Perhaps even the very reason
we were willed into
E.X.I.S.T.E.N.C.E.
Jennifer Lenhardt
Artist . Writer . Poet
Something For The Holidays
So guess what I just dropped in the Kindle store for the next five days? My little holiday story that I wrote nearly twenty years ago (yes, twenty!) and it’s FREE to read for the next five days only.
“Something for the Holidays,” is the quirky, clementine-scented, mannequin-toppling Christmas story I never thought would see the light of day… until I realized the world could probably use a few more naked mannequins and accidental love stories this December.
So from now until Sunday at midnight (December 14th], you can grab it for zero pennies, zero guilt, and 100% holiday cheer at: https://a.co/d/axq4a2y Merry Christmas!!
And if you read it and smile even once, do me a favor and tell a friend—or leave a quick review when you’re done. Those little stars are the best present an author can get.
Happy holidays, happy reading, and may all your mannequins fall in the right direction. Just click on the book below!
—Jennifer
Just A Thought Or A Quick Note
I’ve decided I’m gonna start posting little updates on my WordPress blog from here on out. I’ve had this blog (whoo-hoo!) for geez, how long now? Going on about 15 years I think, but I kinda want to start using it for everything. It’s the one place I feel I actually can use it for everything; my poetry, art, writing, and god knows what else might pop into my brain, and the one place that hopefully doesn’t gate keep. It seems like a lot of social media these days is “pay to play”, am I right? and It never use to be that way, but I guess the gazillionaires aren’t making enough money (insert eye roll here). Anyway, I look forward to sharing consistently whatever I’m working on, older works too, and connecting with others here, so say “hi!” As for me, I think I’ve been a bit quiet for too long. Yeah, we need to outgrow our boxes.
On The Inside
Feelings unfound
in a word search,
like an itch
from the inside,
all the parts
we’ll try to hide,
because
how often do
we want to hide?
Too often
and too many times.
Up or down
or left or right?
Nine letters across
spell… what?
Dynamite? No,
that’s only eight,
so that’s not right,
but the fuse is lit,
how the sparks do fly!
When feelings stay
buried
on the inside.
Here
Float me for a bit,
in the buoyancy of water
I can stretch out
as though
on a bed of stars;
Orion at my feet,
the moon as my pillow,
and shall I sleep here?
resting in hands
that have always held me,
unafraid of the deep,
where darkness surely
lives and lurks but cannot,
and will never touch me.
Small
Sometimes we can be small,
estatic quiet twitching,
like the tiny pink nose of a mouse,
ears restless listening,
“Cheese? Did someone say, cheese?”
“Yes, please!”
For what would the world be
without cheese?
For how little the mouse truly needs,
to simply be – and be happy.
Hand Over Fist
I read a poem (someone else’s),
and the words start to fill in my head
as if I am taking them in
hand over fist!
Am I this hungry?
I must be – for something,
that can speak to me in euphemisms,
mystic unstraight lines zigzagging
like a ball bouncing off the inside
confines of a pinball machine.
You drop another quarter in,
look at me (because when it comes
to the words, honey, it is always you
who looks at me), and grin.
The Thin Line of Illusion
I sit in the quiet still of nothingness
and try to let go –
of what though?
I cannot see, nor am I sure
of what I hang on to
or what – is hanging on to me?
So I repeat, “let go, let go of me,”
this misunderstanding.
For who understands so perfectly,
another or even themselves,
in this capsule of impermanent flesh
for it is impossible and incomplete.
Where here within the
thin line of illusion
truth is always bent,
though not imperfect,
but always perceived
imperfectly.
So in this still of nothingness – sit –
for here, you will have nothing more than
mere belief – but it is belief – of learning.
The Fleeting Seconds
How time passes,
and at first
I wanted to say
how much I
loathe seeing
the fleeting seconds,
as if on a train
speeding to its
final destination.
and how fast, fast
it flashes by –
all scenes
from the outside,
a whizzing blur,
one hardly has breath
to take in
such momentum,
only captured now
in fading photographs,
one barely has
chance to grasp
how fast it all goes
and is –
until looking back.
On Dove’s Wings
True, to think of you
is such a rarity of sorts, nowadays,
that I cannot help but be surprised at
the intensity of your arrival.
For how many years
have passed, have flown away
as though on dove’s wings
and gone –
in a fast and windswept fluttering?
And yet, still, here as I read,
a poem such as this,
it is the memory of you
who comes rushing back to me,
as though you are
somewhere between the lines.
For “I like for you to be still:
it is as though you were absent,
and you hear me from far away
and my voice does not touch you.”
But I know this could never be true,
for my voice will always reach you
as sure as the ocean reaches
for the shining light of the moon,
and yet, still, will never have her.
And so silently I will put away the lines,
I will close the book,
and try to forget again,
the sound of rushing wings,
of crashing waves,
and simply hear the sound – of quiet’s passing.
Iris
You don’t need eyes to see, do you?
Or is the world too big?
With some 70% of it covered in water
and yet, somehow a jellyfish,
it sill manages,
bobbing about, or is it
with directional purpose?
Perhaps it’s both.
To swim as needed,
or to float with the currents.
Because you don’t need eyes to see, do you?
When the heart can see far more
than the depth of an iris.
Swimming
I think I forgot the words
or how to write them,
when art goes swimming
through the mind,
I snorkel at the surface
and watch as words,
like a school of fish
collectively move in unison,
not wanting to reach out,
not wanting to attempt
to catch even one of them,
I’m sure, would slip
through my fingers.
Just This Morning
I have stacked the teacups in the cupboard,
and saw a painting, just this morning, of the same.
Three teacups on one saucer,
and I am sure you see it now too, in your minds eye.
And I admire the limited amount of brushstrokes
it took the Artist to create such a picture.
A painting, which is nothing more than
a trick of the eye, really, and with one simple flick of the wrist!
Which I too must have needed to see
and just this morning, so that I also might be reminded
that teacups are meant for tea.
Footsteps
There is the noise of asphalt
and the “zoom, zoom,” go the cars,
as the rain falls
and continuously behind them,
behind all their wheels.
“So where are they all the going,
and where have they all been?”
In so much of a rush,
in so much of a hurry.
“That don’t you just wish sometimes?”
Because I do. I wish all the time,
for silence of still,
for the silence of quiet,
and for the soft sound of nothing more
then happy, happy footsteps.
Wheels Of Eternity
Let me go about
spinning, here,
in the wheels
of eternity.
Lost again,
then found we go
round and round.
in dizzying spells
cast, then recast,
called to this world.
For how many times,
have we trapesed
this globe? Till finally,
land on another;
another world,
another realm,
when sometimes
wheels cross at
intersect, so jump
we might, to the next.
Here
Come now,
as my hand
reaches for yours,
oh, clasp it,
clasp it,
ever so tightly,
as if I’ve been found
and finally,
oh, never ever
let me go,
but take me,
take me, to the wild,
to those places
where I with you
will always run
and run together
but separate,
together but free,
and here, here
love me.
Water
Am I easy going,
in temperment, in attitude,
like the slow meandering river
or the placid glass
upon the lake
the morning mist
rises over
till disipates?
Or am I tempestuous,
and restless?
like the river running
rapids, in leaps, it bounds
down sides of mountians,
or the sea that churns itself
to fight the wind
in all its movements?
Or am I both:
the quiet still,
the roaring laughter,
the sound of rain
that’s sometimes soft,
but sometimes louder?
I must be then
all things, the water.
Lust of Men
Men, in clown faces
dance
with pretty topless
can can girls
who twirl
in pirouettes,
squeal and laugh,
at all of life’s
antidotes that squell
the lust of men.
Jennifer Lenhardt 