Confession

PSX_20200628_050742-1.jpgA lot of things that are happening in the world at present are hard for me to parse. Things seem to have gone quite mad, and I am often afraid. I do not feel much belonging in reality because it has become ferocious. I worry.

If, by your constitution, you sometimes tend to live your life as a character in your own story, things can become a bit bizarre. Since poetry is one of my significant forms of communication, there is some validity to a concept recently divulged by someone dear on the nature of my existence. He calls me an Agent of Spiralling Chaos and has had things to get in order, so I have been in exile.

Though he is a recent, but not so recent addition to my life, I do not react to exile well and have been fighting the negative states, as you may have noticed.

He allowed me access to his realm for a few hours, which resulted in my missing my deadline for posting a significant piece last evening. So pictorial documentation came into play.

We had been shopping because I needed to go, but I am now quite terrified to go alone. The truth is dealing with reality has become increasingly difficult. I now have a supply of Diet Coke and Gatorade Zero, which should help me survive until next, I see him.

A funny thing recently is I have noticed the poetry seems to slip into my natural conversation, especially in the form of rhymes. It is not that surprising because of how much poetry I have written this year, but it is still interesting to me. Rhymes were never that much a part of my forms. It has become apparent as I worked this year that poems with rhyme are more likely to garner likes.

To be honest, I am bewildered about what I should do to entertain my audience. You guys are hard to figure out, and with a significant portion of my interaction with the world being through a screen, it would be so edifying if I understood how to please you over there on your side. Since I do not have a crystal ball or a fortune teller to inform me, there are times, I hate to say, but I just do it because I promised myself that I would make at least one post a day this year, 2020. When I made that vow, I had no idea what we, as a planet, would be getting into.

I do not watch TV, and though I have some subscriptions, I rarely read articles beyond headlines. Sometimes my Facebook feed is overrun with politics, but I am an expert on the scroll. When I come here with him, I get caught up on things out there. It hurts my heart and scares my mind. It is not unusual for me to cry. I never thought the world could become what it is at present.

I cannot understand the present. I only hope that we all reach a point where love is the overriding and guiding force leading all our dealings, interactions, and relationships.

I hope the Wookie has not destroyed things again. I think I minimized her range, but she is an unpredictable article. I did put all the shoes away, the Amope, and my foot care stuff. I am so fortunate I had a spare Amope. Mom blessed me with that, as so much. All the doors are shut, so it should be interesting. I really did not expect her to act so puppyishly; if the shelter was correct, she should be over three by now. She has always been rather destructive, though it was most commonly to me as a person.

I should be sleeping, but it seems when I do not have time for my personal pursuits because I am otherwise entertained (did my stalwart fans catch the reference?), I will catch up in the after-midnight hours. Those you may surmise are a comfort zone anyway.

Agent of Spiralling Chaos, complete distraction, I guess it fits, though it is nothing I attempt to be. I think we are mutual Agents of Survival. Time will tell, and we shall see.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

 

Foundling

The destination
Never was physical space;
Place is simple, time’s
Variable unknowable
Where existence is or not.

Hidden deep within
The drowning dark pleasure,
Breath, a sigh again;
Fear accursed pushed away,
Courage forced reality.

Soul dispersed, tangled
In webs suddenly affixed,
Loosely captured bound,
Silken syllables spoken
Whispers increasing repeat.

Hope born in hours
Without counting, unminded,
Where brokenness can
Never mend, but somehow less
Becomes if given peace, love.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

2020.06.26 Cones edit

Fashion

It is life, mundane,
Being fitted over her,
Like she is the shine
When truth must concede that we
Are the main attraction, stars.
The color of life
We share it in helping style,
The jeans, shorts, shirts,
We present her to the world,
Charming, disarming, oui, oui.
A dress, dressing up
What they compliment, extreme,
We clothes do perform
With the boldest statements, grace,
Then cast aside, shame her pride.
When she dotes, and preens,
It is the magic we bring
How fashion delights,
No figure, no notice, is
Such we lack miracle dreams.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

I am doing laundry and laundry. I tried a persona poem. After fighting with tangles, I needed to say something.