NaPoWriMo 2023 Day 24


Photo Credit: Zoltan Tasi

I’ve missed a couple of days this month, but life has a way of sneaking up on me. The marking period ended and grades had to be entered and finalized. I’m preparing for all the year end activities—concerts and shows and oh yeah, my baby graduating is graduating eighth grade.


My baby is graduating eight grade.


He’s off to high school next year and new big adventures. Leaving mama in his dust and growing to be such an amazing human.

Now I’ve probably got you thinking I wrote a poem about the Little Wonder. Not yet, but I can promise you one is brewing. That kid is one of a kind. A child I begged God for—one that nearly cost me my life but worth every bit of everything.

Any way I digress…

The prompt for today had us start off by reading Arvind Krishna Mehrotra’s “Lockdown Garden.” Then we had to try to write a poem of our own that has multiple numbered sections. The goal was to attempt to have each section be in dialogue with the others, like a song where a different person sings each verse, giving a different point of view. Finally I was to set the poem in a specific place that I used to spend a lot of time in but don’t spend time in anymore.

As always, the poem started with me having an intention of direction, and the poem (wild and untamed beast that it is) went its own way. I’m not sure it met the prompt, but as always, it met me where I needed to be. Enjoy!

Blood Moon 

The water understands;
sound stirring
the light loosens
unraveling fingers
into the dark night.

There is loneliness
in my glass bowl—
hands folded behind,
waiting and wondering
when blue and green
will bring on the birds.

Circles slacken
fan and wrinkle;
four corners unite
under the roll
of lapping waves.

The sky looms
a vessel become void.
How does water
siphoned, fill the fissures
below the surface?

I turn around,
turn toward the ripe
red berry rising;
night has darkened—
only lingering light
haunts me.

—Carla Jeanne

NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 24 Of Certainty


Thanks and shoutout to Tim Marshall for making this image available for free on Unsplash.

Dedicated to my dear friend who has so graciously allowed others to experience with her how she has processed the religious environment in which she was raised. She is smart and witty and writes so articulately about how she has grown and changed through the years.

I was also raised in this sort of religious environment and can relate on many levels to her story of deconstruction and reconstruction. It is here I find myself in wild-waters, the waters difficult to navigate with grace.

All the stages of grief live in this space of deconstructing and reconstructing—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. They don’t follow a natural progression and sometimes even after I think that acceptance has settled over my bones, denial and anger can revisit.

You know, just for old times sake.

I didn’t follow a prompt today, instead I let my spirit wander over words until they settled into a poem. This poem and life is a process of growth. My only hope is that I continue to grow and change until I take my last breath.

Of Certainty

She looked as certain
as the sky without a cloud
never questioning life,
never doubting God.
Her life was as settled
as her eternity,
and she liked it that way—
without a glimmer of mystery
and brimming with the loveliest
of certainties. After all,
on what could she rely
if not that certainty?

She found out unexpectedly
that it wasn’t the destination.
it was the journey
that mattered most.
When the unthinkable happened,.
the restorative property
of a palliative remedy
moderated more than mere words.
In the middle of her misgiving,
she plucked some half-dead daisies
and put them in her favorite vase
while she quietly waited for certainty.

She found instead the pull
of the undertow was so much stronger
than the weight of her will. In the end
it was the absence of nothing
and everything that was the final blow
to her certainty. It seemed
the questions came, all at once,
wrenching and pulling her apart
before slowly reconstructing her heart.
All that remained certain
was the presence of uncertainty
and a lingering regret for years lost.


Rest Trumps Tired


Thanks to Clément Falize @centelm for making this photo available freely on Unsplash 🎁

A “golden shovel” poem is a poem within a poem—like a puzzle or a mystery. Oh and puzzles and mysteries are challenges that I love.

A poem within a poem? How does that even work? I’m so glad you asked.

First I had to choose a poem to “hide” inside my poem. I chose David Whyte’s poem “Enough” because I love it.

You can check out my “golden shovel” like this: first, read my poem as a complete unit. Then read it again using only the last word from each line and you will read David Whyte’s beautiful poem, “Enough”.

After the week (or three) we’ve been experiencing over here I really felt the need for rest because somehow I can never seem to get enough rest.

Trace is walking really well. We are both amazed at how straight her shoulders have become. She can raise both arms straight up high (she hasn’t been able to do that in years) and her shoulders are even and no longer slumped.

Another benefit since surgery is that her CRPS foot pain has subsided a little. She is so grateful for that!

Lizi is still struggling with pain and trapped gas in her body from the surgery. We are praying it is absorbed into her body or released out one way or another. Ev has been staying with her to help with Little E, and she has been really grateful for his help.

The dogs are finally home, and we are continuing on with their training.

As for me…well…

I. Am. Exhausted.

Sometimes overwhelmed.


Well, you get the idea.

Perhaps you feel the same?

It’s ok to not be ok.

It’s ok to decide to rest.


I find it enough.
moments like these
when sounds are few
and fewer still are words
these moments are

no space for what if
or worries about what not
to do or say. Yes, in these
moments I find soul words,
I find space within this
time to catch my breath.

if only, if
only this time were not
just like this
life--a fading breath

if only this
space for sitting
for being here
and present in this
life of wondrous opening
would allow me to
receive the
joy of living life
in the present. we
know the places we have
said no--where we refused
to live again;
where we struggle and
strive again.

I find it enough until
pressures of the now
rage against the still; until
again I rest in the still now.

—Carla Jeanne Picklo Jordan

Walking in the Light


Today Trace was moved to inpatient therapy in Rochester. She will have three hours of therapy per day, and unfortunately can only have one non-clergy visitor per day.

Because children are not allowed, I am not able to go and visit her with Evan, so we are counting on some friends to head over and cheer her on.

This is a hard season.

But we’ve been here before, and we know how to do hard things.

So sweep away the clouds and let the sun shine in.

On another note, I completed my take on a Trijan Refrain form poem today with the final and third stanza. You can read it in its entirety below.

Peace to all of you, you have been so very encouraging to us over these last days.

walking in the light

friendship unpacks a history
rich with joy and sorrow,
and days unfold with mystery—-
surprise of tomorrow.
walk in the light when days grow dark
and life seems bleak and rather stark.
walk in the light
walk in the light
rejoicing in each tender spark.

friendship unpacks a new season
that’s not at all thrilling;
I know things happen with reason
without our request or willing—
walk in the light when times get tough;
walk in the light when times are rough.
walk in the light
walk in the light
finding hope when life seems enough.

friendship unpacks love at the root,
the core of each new bud;
love is the base—the root absolute—
an overwhelming flood.
walk in the light hold your head high
love carries the weight of your cry.
walk in the light
walk in the light
sweep the clouds out of the sky.

—by Carla Jeanne Picklo Jordan

The Waiting Game


Thanks to Wim van ‘t Einde @wimvanteinde for making this photo available freely on Unsplash 🎁


This is where we remain.

We wait for RIM approval.

We wait for Blue Care approval.

The waiting is the constant.

On the upside, Trace was able to be given a shower of sorts today. First one in a week, and boy did she feel better.

Keep praying for the miracle of RIM to open up.

walking in the light 

friendship unpacks a history
rich with joy and sorrow
and days unfold with mystery
where twists and turns abound
walk in the light when days grow dark
and life seems bleak and rather stark
walk in the light
walk in the light
rejoicing in each tender spark.

—a work in progress by Carla Picklo Jordan

Trust the Wait


Today is surgery day. I am still in the surgery waiting room and she’s been in there for four hours already. To distract myself from the bile creeping up into my throat, I wrote.

It’s what writers do.

It’s what poets do.

It’s certainly what I do.

I will keep you all posted as soon as I know something.

Trust The Wait

There’s a breathless expectancy
in the hospital waiting room.
I feel it in the man in blue
speaking nervously on his phone;

I feel it in the woman dressed
in coral slacks and matching bag
as she rushes past with purpose—
a faint hint of lillies wafting.

Trust the wait; live in the question—
beauty is becoming in us.

Doctors and nurses bustle by
eyes cast downward even as I
earnestly hope one brings me news.
The darkness of waiting covers

me like a cocoon; I hate this.
I hate the persistent nagging
of worry, the lingering doubt—
the waiting and the not knowing.

Trust the wait; live in the question—
beauty is becoming in us.

I am longing for this darkness
to burst into glorious light;
I am waiting for certainty
in the middle of misgivings.

So I will close my eyes and long
for days when sunshine kissed the waves,
and I will set foreboding fears
aside to dream of unknown shores.

Trust the wait; live in the question—
beauty is becoming in us.

Denial? Perhaps there is some;
I prefer resigning to rest.
Not dispassionate, but rather
prepossessed to my pact with peace.

Trust the wait; live in the question—
beauty is becoming in us.

—a draft by Carla Jeanne Picklo Jordan