Rising

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Last day of seventh grade.

What a ride it’s been!

Self-discovery.

Maturity.

So much growth.

Rising

The wind picks up
swirling bits of cut grass,
blowing dew-laden petals,
calling out for all things living

to lift their heads
toward the sun.
Listen to the warmth
and growth and new life.

The earth tilts on its axis,
shifting the seasons,
reveling in the dance
of summer solstice.

All is change.
All is cyclical.
All is growth.
All is good.

Even the dying
decomposes into
nutritious soil—
sufficient and alive.

Beauty rising up
like my Phoenix,
my bright and brilliant star,
my rising eighth grader.

—cjpjordan

NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 29 The Origin of Bees

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Photo Credit: Aaron Burden on Unsplash.
The Origin of Bees

A significant factor
in the origin of bees
and my relationship
with them
is the nonstop
hum of fear
immured within me
by the bonnie buzzing
of their wee wings.
Mama always said
Grandma made me afraid
because she was afraid,
and so I learned
to be afraid.
She and Daddy said
I was overreacting,
repeating what I saw.
Just stop, they said,
as if fear was a faucet
I could control
with strength of will.
But when I found
myself grown
and at last alone
with the bees,
instead of running,
all I could do
was stop
and wonder
at the nonstop
hum of life itself.

—by cjpjordan (a draft)

NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 28 My Trees

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Photo by veeterzy on Unsplash.

Hello again! I can’t believe that there are only two more days of this year’s NaPoWriMo. I’m sad to say the least. Today’s prompt was to write a concrete poem. Like acrostic poems, concrete poems are a favorite for grade-school writing assignments, so this may not be a first time at the concrete-poem rodeo.

In brief, a concrete poem is one in which the lines are shaped in a way that mimics the topic of the poem. For example, May Swenson’s poem “Women” mimics curves, reinforcing the poem’s references to motion, rocking horses, and even the shape of a woman’s body. George Starbuck’s “Sonnet in the Shape of a Potted Christmas Tree” is – you guessed it – a sonnet in the shape of a potted Christmas tree.

So, my concrete poem proved difficult to post without the shape shifting when previewed via mobile phone or desktop. What you will find is that I have posted an image of my poem for those reading from mobile apps and a regular copy for those reading from a laptop or desktop. Either way you are reading it, I hope you will be able to detect my “tree” form.

Happy reading!

                                                                     My Trees


                                                                   My                                                      childhood
                                                                                                                   memories
                                                         are                                               full     of 
                                                 trees                                         like the
                                          giant                                      willow
                                    who                                      grew 
                          in the                                      middle
                    of the                               little grove 
             of trees                          hidden 
         behind                      the new 
     condo            development
    It was            there that
I dreamed  of spending 
my adult life
chain-smoking 
cigarettes and 
clacking the keys of 
my old typewriter 
as I cranked out
my next best-selling
novel. Then there was 
the colossal oak on the 
playground--the one whose 
ground roots held me like a 
comforting mother as I watched 
the other children run and play 
together from a disassociated 
distance. The oak was my friend—
my best friend—and I loved her.   
In later years, there was the young
sapling who gave its life to save mine.
It happened when the canoe tipped over,
I slipped quietly into the swirling river, and 
I thought I was dead at sixteen--until I spotted 
my father uprooting a small sapling from the bank.
He held the tree across the river and told me to grab on;
It was then I knew I was safe in the strength of the tree and
my father.        Safe in my childhood memories         safe in the arms       of    trees.  

--cjpjordan

NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 27 That Day

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Thank you and shoutout to Silas Baisch who made this image available for free on Unsplash.

Today’s prompt was the challenge to write a “duplex.” A “duplex” is a variation on the sonnet, developed by the poet Jericho Brown. Here’s one of his first “Duplex” poems, and here is a duplex written by the poet I.S. Jones.

Like a typical sonnet, a duplex has fourteen lines. It’s organized into seven, two-line stanzas. The second line of the first stanza is echoed by (but not identical to) the first line of the second stanza, the second line of the second stanza is echoed by (but not identical to) the first line of the third stanza, and so on. The last line (or two) of the poem is the same as the first.

This is based on a true story. One day, if the mood seems right, over coffee and croissants, I will share the rest of the story with you.

Come on by and let’s make a date for coffee.

That Day

What I remember most is the ocean releasing—
crisp, cool breezes and a bevy of blues.

You left me there by the stony beach—blues
and greens assault my senses, I cannot look away

A way off in the distance your boat lurches
But not as much as my heart when she slips

Slips slowly under the water, eyes wide open
Open arms floating just beneath the surface

The surface of the water explodes
With my crazed frenzy. Panic rising

Rising until bile is all I taste, but somehow, somehow…
My memory is blurred but I remember—

crisp, cool breezes and a bevy of blues;
what I remember most is the ocean.

—cjpjordan


NaPoWriMo 2022 Our Lady of the Garden

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Hummingbird right: Photo by Kelly Colgan Azar/flickr/CC.

Today’s prompt was based on the aisling, a poetic form that developed in Ireland. An aisling recounts a dream or vision featuring a woman who represents the land or country on/in which the poet lives, and who speaks to the poet about it.

Today’s challenge was to write a poem that recounts a dream or vision, and in which a woman appears who represents or reflects the area in which I live.

We shall see how this goes today. We shall see what form my dream-visitor takes.

Happy reading!

Our Lady of the Garden

In the garden
a tiny, perfect
bird landed
on my shoulder.

Jewel-toned
and stunning,
the bird
morphed into a
beautiful woman
right before
my eyes.

The trumpet vines
flashing brilliant
orange flowers
shone in the sun
like a halo
around her head.

My angel with
her flaming crown,
and delicate hands,
she felt
born of spirit,
born of dream.

Sing, she told me
Sing of the Universe.
Sing of the beauty
of the earth.


In my dream-state
I sing her song.

I see in her
the land and sky;
she connects me
to water and earth.
The waves roll
in her laughter;
the plants flourish
under her hands.

From my heart
I sing of us.

We become
a tapestry,
woven together—
garden and bird,
woman and earth.

When I wake,
it is daylight.
I look out
my window
and see
a hummingbird—
wings whirling
without resting—
sipping nectar
from flaming goblets
shaped like
trumpet flowers.

—cjpjordan




NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 22 The Owl Sees

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Thank you and shoutout to Richard Lee for making this beautiful photo available for free on Unsplash.

The prompt for today was in honor of today being the 22nd day of Na/GloPoWriMo 2022, and they challenged me to write a poem that used repetition. I was invited to repeat a sound, a word, a phrase, or an image, or any combination of things.

So, here you go fellow poetry loving friends. Not as repetitious as some poems I’ve written, but there is that element throughout.

Happy Weekend to you!

The Owl Sees

Where the mind ends, the owl sees—
through Ominous golden eyes
It breathes in stealth and exhales
darkness gliding through blue-black skies.
Underneath the fern unfurls,
shivers in the windy wake.

Where the mind ends, the owl sees—
with certainty of vision
and a clarity of mind;
she free falls into the darkness,
her mournful cry resounding
into the boundless cosmos.

Where the mind ends, the owl sees—
the wilderness unconstrained,
the weeping child whose wailing
seeps into the warping twilight.
Inside echos of sadness
the owl and child grieve as one.

—cjpjordan

NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 20 The Blossom

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Thanks to Eleni Trapp @elenies for making this photo available freely on Unsplash.

Today’s prompt challenged me to write a poem that anthropomorphizes a kind of food. I’m not sure I really accomplished this, but I certainly managed an idea to the cherry blossom.

Can you tell I’m longing for spring?

My bones miss the energy of the warm sun on my skin. Each morning they beg for mercy from the chill of frost and bitter wind.

My nose misses that honey sweet scent mixed with the musty wet earth that accompanies the spring blooms.

Please come quickly!

The Blossom

Born in boggy sorrow, blossoms
billowing in the breeze after
the harrow of heavy spring rains.

Sunshine and spring leave their stamp on
stained fingers and lips sealed with a
kiss of ruby goodness. Juicy

life carefully cultivated
from the bitterness of winter—
the making of a miracle.

I raise my cupped hands to drink in
sweet almond and honey fragrance—
so delicate that it’s nearly

indiscernible. The secrets
of spring in a solitary
word: cherries are a metaphor

for life—the taste is tart, the scent
is sweet, the process leaves its mark
lingering on our skin for days.

I am certain the Cherry knows
the full weight of power possessed
for it returns year after year.

Hope comes alive in each blossom;
otherwise we would waste away
in a world of constant winter.

—cjpjordan

NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 16

Thanks to Greg Rakozy @grakozy for making this photo available freely on Unsplash.

Whew! Today’s prompt was a doozy and just what I needed to recharge my brain.

Today we were challenged to write a curtal sonnet. A curtal sonnet is a variation on the classic 14-line sonnet. The curtal sonnet form was developed by Gerard Manley Hopkins, and he used it for what is probably his most famous poem, “Pied Beauty.”

A curtal sonnet has eleven lines, instead of the usual fourteen, and the last line is shorter than the ten that precede it. The rhyme scheme is 11 lines rhyming abcabc dcbdc or abcabc dbcdc with the last line a tail, or half a line.

There is some mathematical formula Hopkins used to precisely curtail the typical sonnet, but the real cog in the works is the sprung rhythm that breaks away from the traditional iambic pentameter of Shakespeare or Dr. Seuss.

To be completely honest, I have no idea at all what I am doing. I researched and read a number of examples, but each one was different from the other in some critical form/stylistic way.

So, I’m not sure if this is really a curtal sonnet or not, but it is my poem for the day. I chose to use 12 syllable lines and the abcabc dcbdc rhyme scheme.

Happy Saturday!

Mottled Soul

Over all, under and through, the mystery lasts.
Look how I trust and hope even after I rolled
Down the hill with darkness closing in on all sides.
I realize now the truth of how light contrasts
With hope invisible and her friend harrow bold.
Oh the tragedy of how disaster divides!

Loneliness overstays; isolation befriends—
And I am left wondering how the earth provides
For everything missing or lost at the threshold.
Look with wonder at how simplicity amends

and instinct bravely guides.

—cjpjordan

NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 14

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Thanks and shoutout to Annie Spratt who made this luscious lemon photo available for free on Unsplash.

Today’s challenge was an interesting one. I was to write a poem that takes the form of the opening scene of a movie depicting my life.

This year the prompts have all been similar in some ways. There’s not much focus on form. Instead, the focus is just on using words to paint pictures. It’s been a challenge and has tightened my connection with words (or the lack thereof).

I don’t always know where the ideas come from. As I fall asleep, I prick my fingertips and they bleed onto the page. When I wake, the words have formed a poem.

When folks say things like “it’s all about the journey”, believe them. Every word is true.

Here is what I have learned halfway through this month. It is nothing new or even particularly profound, but it is the story of my journey: embrace the past (you can’t escape it), face the future (it’s coming so you might as well face it), and live in the now.

Lemon Groves

I turn off
Main Street
and head south—
top down,
breeze blowing.

I push
my hair back,
and suddenly
I can see.

Behind me
lemon groves
bear fruit;
my trunk
full of lemons
as proof.

With the heat
of midday,
I smell
delicate decisions—
citrus songs,
fermenting fruit.

Intersections
define direction;
not all roads
lead back home.

I suppose
home lives
in the trunk
with the lemons,
fermenting
into luscious
limoncello.


—cjpjordan

NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 12

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Photo Credit: https://abcbirds.org/blog21/amazing-facts-hummingbird-chicks/

Today’s prompt came as no surprise. Yesterday, the challenge was to write a poem about a very large thing. Today, I had to invert my inspiration and write a poem about a very small thing. 

Maybe you’d like to try your hand at poetry. I would love to hear what tiny thing you’d like to write about in your poem. I landed on hummingbird eggs and rather enjoyed the adventure.

 Faerie Eggs

How small they were—teeny tiny—
Like faerie eggs enclosed in spiny
forest foliage—safe and sound.

Mysterious and magical
Protected by the physical
Perhaps I was on Faerie Ground.

And then I saw them fluttering
up and down the trees scuttering
while I stood statue-like, spellbound.

Hummingbirds dipped and dashed; they flew
around my head with quite a crew
of wee guardians duty bound

to protect from the likes of me.
I stepped away so quietly—
slipped like a ghost to the background.

Tiny wings moved faster than light
soon disappearing from my sight;
gathering my wits I glanced around,

And I knew I was all alone
for the forest looked overgrown—
save the twinkling Dust on the ground.

—cjpjordan