Poem: Hunted/Hunter

Well, here now, bet you did not expect me back. I took a nap. It is the best way to reset my destructive urges when I am being pursued by suicidal thoughts. Trust me, depression is no ally. However, in my crenelated state, mania also sets about to usher me away, over-taking walls that can never fence me in. Always a battle, forever a war, victory nevermore. Anyway…

Hunted/Hunter

There is a dichotomy
Built into our lives,
A perceived separation
More akin to a lie.
We are every one
A hunted, running
For survival and to
Be claimed a trophy
To ornament some
People’s idea of who
We should become.
Also, each a hunter,
Aching for forever love
Chasing illusions, dreams,
Whatever seems a goal,
Thinking accomplishment,
Wealth, reputation, will
Finally, make us whole.
Reality is our hearts
Are vessels circulating love,
What we wish to attain
Lies within us to share,
Give away, making love
All of the world
And throughout
Every moment of history.
The hunted/hunter is
A celebration of creation
Begun with a word,
To continue for eternity
The Beloved we serve,
The Beloved we are.

Yeah, that just came like a hurricane out of nowhere, the only thing I had was the words, Hunted/Hunter. Oh, dears, that is the first draft. I usually only write first drafts of poems. 

As a prompt: Create something about a dichotomy you feel presents itself in life.

I am safe, by the way. I just get agitated. The damnable disease is a horrible thing, but it has its gifts too. I am not sure I would be so wildly creative did I not face the struggle.

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© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

Elsewhere

The novel I should be writing, because I have many pages, is titled Otherwise Entertained. Should you have an interest, you can visit, Chronicles, and find most of it. I do not recall the exact locations at this moment, but I think it is mostly in 2012’s NaNoWriMo month, and then scattered about a bit. I was doing my first Creativity Project around then, a whole year and a half.

My novel presents a scene that is elsewhere, and yet, a part of that story at the same time. It is a problem. I know what to write, I just know it will stretch beyond plausibility, and I know the story cannot move without it. Plus, I procrastinate, I am the best at it.

Elsewhere

It is where I go
When the world becomes too hard
For my tired desire,
I wrap myself in mysteries,
Fancy creativity;
Search within for love
Enough to carry me on
Into cruel hard times,
When my mind becomes a pool
All dangerous, dark, obscure.
Impossible now,
Escape an imaginative
Dream, when I am lost
To whoever I may be,
But I come winning again.
Steal me sweet Elsewhere,
Take me wherever then set
Me firm so I can succeed
In this, every reality,
Let Love minister to me,
Healing this wounded soul as
Freedom becomes, Elsewhere, mine.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

By the way, these entries, unless denoted differently, are being written in real-time on the date of appearance. The goal of the Creativity Project is to make things each day, not present pre-created works. Some of the photos are, however, from other times.

As a prompt: What is your elsewhere, where do you find strength? Create something that shows it or what it does.

I am grateful to be done proofing, although I could use more funds. I think tomorrow I may take some time away from here.

All you be careful, create, love, celebrate the pure joy of life. Thank you for visiting Haphazard Creative. I hope you found something that inspired you. Follow the site or come back when you can. God Bless and Keep You, Always, and Forever.

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Poet, I Am, and Will Be

DSC02886I see halos around you, you, you,
Even you, I always have, they terrify;
Cause, why when I see me, is there none?
All of you have a purpose; I have words.
A mind that stumbles, breaks, into rhyme,
Alex calls me out, says to quit reading his mind –
Cause my lips sync his words ahead of time;
Evidently, my brain does predictive scripts
Without my joining, permission, or volition.
I asked, “Only you?” He replied, “No, everyone.”

Being a poet reaches unto nothingness,
Letting whispers, not with clarity, but full-intention,
Slide words, like low lying fog, catching
On the page to travel, ephemeral to readers
Unknown, without rules, to spark imagination
And perhaps engage creativity, so my disappearing
With the vital verbal storm is matched within
The one who pages reads, and captures
The essence of whoever I am, or whoever is me.

Categorically I am uncertain, my life a mess, abnormal,
But there is the thing, undeniable, I, on Mother Goose,
And the right King James Bible raised, became at
A ripe early age, a poet, and have all my days
Chased after what is afar beyond this ordinary hour.
The tempest cannot derail my longing for the words
Of love and perfect yearning, clinging in the sparks
Electric that light up fragile shadowed gray spaces,
Bringing life, cherished faces, thoughts enthused,
Unruly, set free from prison to in freedom roam,
And give, oh now, give silence, nothingness, a pristine home.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

Remember, we, literary creatures, poets, all features, are subject to interpretation, not always realistically rendered, and partial to artifice. There is truth, then there is life. I will not insult your intelligence with meaning, because if I said I knew, I would be deceiving. The words flew, I caught a few. Now, you have them, do as you will do.

Hearken Silence

The silence, it hides,
Yet is felt, a blankness,
A disintegration,
Reality’s fabric disrupted
In an annihilation;
Never to be rectified.
Yet, left here, this moment
The splintered, frayed ends
Of this tenuous life – rope;
Must be navigated, searched,
For a reason in the unreasoning
Unfairness of this lonely evolution.
The dew still blankets the grass,
Sun again blooms warming mornings,
Dust collects, and meals are required;
But even as the fond lyrics play
The silence sneaks into the heart,
Divvying up those parts unscathed.
Tragic dislocation, lack of elocution,
Undone echolocation, because
The missing piece will not be found,
Those who inhabit the memory
Lend no voice, make no comforting sound,
But the partition cannot forever
Hold, life is brash, bold, it breaks
Down barriers and behold,
Beginnings filter in and silence lesser grows,
What leads to overcoming, becomes
This moment, hour, day;
Building begins life victorious
Makes a new, wholesome way,
The silence dims, the shadow fades,
Love finds a fortunate home,
On a new arriving day.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

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Droplets Caught, Let Shine

Sleeping is a cave
An exploring behind eyes
Where brain waves transmit
Weird echos and crazy bits
Washed from our unconsciousnesses.

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Why here? Why now – this?
Is confusion a wonder?
We walk such borders;
Love is a mystery, sold,
But True Love is Light and Free.

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We do things for years,
Clockwork on marked calendars,
Do we know or see?
These lives across all nations,
Are we who we wish to be?

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The pens write black ink,
Black – the absence of lightness,
Are our words, darkness?
Who should we implore for more?
We know God, in Him, we are.

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When the shelves are bare
We ache with hunger to fill
Need never sated,
We will not whisper, grumble,
For the wolves wait just outside.

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Folded in wrinkles
Like coiled fabrics, unsightly,
Interior hidden,
All of us, misunderstanding,
The divine mystery – mind.

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If we do not see
Is existence then failure?
Are we competent
To make a final judgment?
We who waste a world, and time.

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I should stop. I have so much today, but there may be editing to do. I wish you all liked some of my longer work, but that is okay too.

Find pleasure as you can. Do your best. Be well.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan