Literary Games

I became a reader and writer simultaneously at age three. I quickly began to employ color and text and illustration together. I found in poetry a heart like unto my own and have written it continuously. I guess my hope to be a publisher was born on my mother’s knees or perhaps in the floorboard of the Buick with the dash lighting shining down on my pages.

The dreams persist.

Reading is my favorite form of entertainment, with my rarely watching television. I usually steer away from series, but I have been drawn into a few lately. The idea is commendable, but the execution leaves much to be desired. I am one who becomes immersed in a book or books. It is most disappointing to be prepared for the continuation of a tale and find that it will be a year before you can learn the rest of the story. Not an easy acceptance for a poet who must complete a whole composition in the space of a page or a bit more.

Sometimes I will circumvent the imposition by waiting until all the volumes are complete to read them, but with current works, that is hardly possible. I lately did this with Tolkien’s masterpieces again. Someday I will open the shrink-wrap and dive into Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, I suppose. I begin to wonder about it because I have had those books over a decade. There is also The Game of Thrones, which I have in series and read two volumes from the library, but have yet to break the shrink-wrap on the collector’s edition.

Bibliophiles can be characters. My family tries to encourage me to dispense with some of my literary collection, and I blatantly refuse. I find my books are comforting, and the possibilities they contain, make me feel life is still an adventure. The missives from other minds are great consolation when the world becomes difficult.

I should think with fifty-four years at the vocation, I would have some idea of how to relate to readers, but I often wonder that others must be so unlike myself. Even so, I continue. I write every day and read a wide variety. I have thought l should make some provision to get out into the world and find some worthy subjects for photographic composition. I tend to be dull and remain close to home, which may not be the worst thing with a worldwide pandemic. My dogs and I are company and family.

The Vine Witch and The Glamourist by Luanne G. Smith have me wishing The Conjurer was not to be released next year. The Library of the Unwritten by A. J. Hackwith is another I am considering following up.

I wonder, those of you who are readers, what do you like? Are you a series person? Writers, have you been at the craft for years, or are you new with beginner mind?

World symmetry
Captured in quaint syllables,
An eagle on wing.

***************

Sheltering in place
The world no more freedom’s space,
Dreams are not contained.

***************

I see you, a smile,
Broad as day, deeper than night,
Come join in delight.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

The Occasion of Becoming 57

Appearance

I am the one who is real
Enough you feel me in the room
Even though I keep a distance
Between the breaths that pulse,
Our lives existing here, this time.
My lightness rimmed in shadow
Hard to comprehend, understand,
Left alone, a ringing voice, clear
Crystal, like water reverb, falling,
Tinkling clarion bells announcing
Events to which everyone is welcome.
The sweet aroma on the fresh breeze
Being myself, almost, yet not me
Because the well is deeper, wider,
I know not how to plunge, emerge,
I reach the stars and still soaring
Never come home to be housed,
I walk the spaces, other embracing places
Of times disremembered, unrecorded,
In the echo caverns of my wandering mind.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

Release

Love, if I had it
Like a stone, firey, lit, smoky,
Flowing like a fair fountain
Not accounted with foundation
But a wild gift, surging freedom
Sprightly on a brisk bracing breeze
Never to be captured, kept,
A mystery, calling always
For my energy, all of me
To run unhampered
Over miles with
Reckless
Speed.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

Settle

Should be old enough for calm
Sedate, quiet, unassuming,
Ah, you read me wrong
The race still calls me
I should tarry, but
My muscles ache
To find more
Freedom
And so I am
Now off apace
Quick to find a path
Away into the distance
Where I may surely climb
To heights so far unconquered
Making them finally mine to own.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

Gratitude

It is with a full heart
I come upon this day
Which so often I came
Near missing, slipping
Into the deep silence
That does not ever allow
Voices to relay their thanks.
Another year, and what there
Is to show for the effort
Of survival and the witness
Left of growth, I show,
Many a word, verse, rhyme
And a deed or two of merit,
But most dear friends
The evidence that I remain
Surviving and pleased
I made another revolution
Fruition of enchanted
Love blessed days.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

I guess I will relieve you of the burden of reading further my celebrations, incantations, prayers of being alive at this fine juncture in my personal evolution. Forgive me, for birthdays come but once a year, and God has amply blessed me that I am still here. It is a certifiable miracle, and that is why I cheer.

 

 

Yellow Flowers

The quiet does not always
Speak its mind, but hides
What it guesses in another
Rhyme set among the grasses
Decorated by lovely dandelions
Whose heads are lopped off
By progressive mowers
Who winnow down and control
The growth of pesky weeds
So they may not encroach
On the uniformity of lawns.
The tenders are sanctioned
By the owners who see such
Service as a particular grace
Nature having to be restricted
Or it will capture all, everything,
In its fervid path of degeneracy.
Wildflowers though possessing
A subtle beauty are unwelcome
As opinions that rise unpopular
In a culture of conformity
Where most every sound, note,
Joins the harmonious refrain
Chosen by those who can afford
To pay the cost of player voices
Repeating carefully designed lines
Popularized over hemispheres
To keep the people in their places
Everywhere, all the time.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

2020.07.13 Dandelion for YF rr

Life For Life

A child in womb, life,
The reason to stand and fight,
A separation
Of purpose, but will to bear,
A child brought hopeful through fear.
Always devoted
Despite trials, battles, high costs
Give and give again
Because love is, does, happens,
Believes, continues, best makes.
Some days years later
When despair encroaches, sears
Body, mind leaving,
The child reaches out, calls to
Account, encourages life.
The realization
What is forged together can
Abide all hardship
Be a saving grace, carry
Forth the ones who will remain.
No other heart touches
The willingness to survive
Like one brought to life,
And unbreakably bonded
With endless familial love.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

As a prompt, create something that reflects the dynamic of a significant relationship.

I am struggling with myself over continuing this practice. It seems I have little influence or impact, and despite that usually being a millennial concern, it is mine too. I fail to know if I should keep putting in the effort. I am fighting my crisis mode of retracting from everything.

It has been good being here while it lasted. All the best to all of you. May God bless you with prosperity, good health, and your fondest desires.

2020.07.09 Weeds at Ramp rr

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

 

The Whisper That Shouts

When language preaches
A soul-rending sermon, soft,
Or words get dressed up
To woo and seduce another,
When voices sing of beauty
Or rhyme appears clear
To paint syllables of the sky,
When cursing seems well
Placed, aptly, and fairly done.
Poignant protests raise applause
Revealing there exist, heroes,
Needing appropriate speeches,
Or a tearfully sad story
To be honored and well-told,
When the crowds pay tribute
To those who amaze, astound.
If one jettisons planetary bonds
The left behind, raw, broken wide open
Recite laments to tidy seeping wounds,
When a newborn enterprise
Is begun with much courage and hope,
Or plain and simple
Cries must be made for progress,
If people who feel life
Differently must be given a voice.
Ordinary words cannot address
Every occasion pregnant with love
Or fraught with the lace of fear, doubt,
But call for the gift of poetry,
The whisper that shouts.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

2020.07.08 Converted Rose rr

As a prompt, exploring the meaning or purpose or love of poetry. Should you rather, explore whatever forms of creative expression you most enjoy.