Tanka (Creative Snapwrites)

In the heavy crush
Of the first hug shared in months
The body melted,
Sealed the emotion tight as
A letter’s envelope flap.


Love, and hopes, and dreams,
The basis of everything
Real and exciting,
These call us back from deep sleep
Revive our lives, living greet.


Some days writing is
All the wishes coming true,
Sweet answered prayer,
Others its works are gummed
With nails, staples, super glue.


I have lived such dreams
Of you that it only seems
Right, here together,
I give because loving you
Makes mine a much better life.

2020.05.27 Butterfly Totem

I am so pleased with the way my computer works now. I had limited my use of it because of slowness. Not anymore. I took the above photo at Callaway Gardens in between rainstorms during that day.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan


Nothing here, notice,
No heart, breaking for others
Do not believe
In the magic of what we
Evidently understand.
These mountains
We have climbed higher,
Than we need, want, wish,
To ever onward go, on,
The stars light our eyes,
We cannot blink, weep,
Because it might disappear,
Caught on the mighty whirlwind
That seeks only, destruction,
But finds us invulnerable.
We souled out, brought
In intense emotional warfare
Showing our weakness, stronger
Again, than even ever before.
As capable wings above
Those toppings we struggled
Nests, homes, defended like
Fortresses soldiered with courage,
We became us, and more
We believed creation carried in it
To share; for LOVE,
We knew it bigger,
Unscripted, available anywhere.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan


Unspecific Thoughts*

There are days when writing feels like the first day in a new school, dressed in homemade clothes, and being beaten up when we arrived at the bus stop. It is not easy to walk into the big crowded room and have a tallish stranger direct us to a seat, sometimes with the warmth of a December snowfall.

We take out our notebook, the same one we used two years running already, but the paper is new, even if our Moms tell us that we should more often erase instead of beginning new pages. Some of the kids make signs at us like we are monkeys at the zoo, and others just smirk and focus on their desks.

We settle in to learn, knowing it is why we must be humiliated like this again and again.

Ah, forward, today we approach the page, and we grovel humbly seeking a word, subject, name, anything to give us a start. We know we can do it because we have written countless times before, but nerves may set in reminding us, no one has to like it. We try to smile, it does not matter, but who does not love adulation? Do not all of us want our spot in the bright lights with waves of applause?

Maybe we dart outside the lines and try to go out of bounds, to preserve the effort, to stop the clock. The clock that often yells, “Time is running down. Will we busy ourselves figuring out all the things we must?” New methods, forms, addresses, compatriots, styles, genres, and we are so overwhelmed, the words hide in the mental caverns and will not show up.

Today, we would skip, paint, cook, vacuum, scrub tile, anything to avoid writing because even when we leave it, running away, the work is us. We cannot divorce ourselves because we were born to it. It is as real as our birthday and will follow us to the moment of death. Writing is inside, outside, besides, over, under, around, everywhere, everyone, how, what, when, who, where, if, but, and by now, it should be known, writing never lets us go. It may be unwilling to care for us, but it is inevitable, we shall care for it, and there will be no escape.

Celebrate, celebrate those lines we drew out of the well, ones we harnessed that they mean our meaning and present our thought. It is hard, words are obscure, can be obnoxious in their games of hide-&-seek. Every line, sentence, is a victory, a hard-fought battle won.

Never Give Up! Allow no gags around our thoughts. Never drown our heads in buckets of apathy. Show up, dig deep, overcome obstacles, persist, because the world needs the words of the thinkers, poets, novelists, biographers, memoirists, journalists, artists, those who are attentive beyond the surface and dance with the indivisible invisible. Conscious thought is in high demand throughout the world, in our land. We must be courageous and keep going even when our hearts become frosted with feelings of cold. Light the fire and go, go, be the ones who experience, hear, know, see, and stand forever for freedom for even the least. Lift love a banner of work, over every land, and all peoples. Be a voice, authentic and meaningful, in this and all times.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

20170214_Lady with Cancer Tattoo_Pastels

No Advice

It is not another’s to tell us
How to live our lives
The things we should do,
But facts attest that love
Is a gift which makes
Everything easier to survive.
When there is a hand
To hold in stormy weather
We stand more resolute,
Stronger than when walking
Through troubled days alone.
Maybe no one can carry
All the burdens we bear,
But conversation sometimes
Helps explore facets of reality
We need to more clearly see.
Love supports us every second
Transports our hopes, prayers;
Friends, family, those who know us
Best, help us nurture our dreams
Reach for the achievements
Which bring us to the places
Where we accomplish those
Wonders accepted with amazing
Gratitude because we recognize
Without those standing near
We could never get anywhere.
The great love we receive
Our hearts on our lonesome
Cannot begin to feel or reveal,
So should LOVE come a fresh-faced
Hello, though it is a smile riddled
By surrounding lines of years,
Or smooth as a freshly painted layer,
Remember the bodily wrappings
Are a matter much less than
The tender gift of a heart
Timely in approach and giving.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

2020.05.24 Flowers from Sams edited

Poems, Life, Being

What use have we of
Which can only describe,
But cannot bring life
To any desolate space
Or without our hearts.
Is it the beauty
In our language, the word,
Which compels writing
Or is it more
How creation fulfills us?
None of us is wed
To syllable expression,
Formed in meter,
Words cast in settings of rhyme,
Still, poets reach for the
We root among those
Sentiments, some
From bygone times when
We were loved, happy, and
To be the selves we wanted.
Often we glory
In what wonders discovered
Or actions achieved
A lyric of love,
However we may find it.
The poem is not
Necessary but neither
Perhaps are such as we.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

2020.05.23 Paradise Plant

Reading Grammars of Creation by George Steiner has set me thinking. Such brilliance in print. Do you have a favorite book at this time? Would you share it?

I went out into the world today. So much change in how we as people relate to one another. Such discomfort wearing a mask. I felt like I had entered a science fiction horror tale. One of my long time close acquaintances gave me a hug. He said he just had a birthday. I asked how old he said 36; I said oh, I am 56, 20 years older. The sweetheart said, no, you can only be 40. Made my day, even if it was only flattery.

I hope life is treating you well. Please create something. With all the world running amok, what you make could be a lifeline for you or someone else. Remember, in whatever you do that kindness is a salve for those who are hurting, Love, Love, Love!