Writer + Poet 

A poem is never the whole story;

It is an invitation to witness

the wound as it heals,


the heart between beats,


the body growing into itself,


and the spirit as it makes a home on the page.

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Thank You Earth

Earth is alive

in her crown

of flowers

 

and there is power

in the root 

down deep

 

Sacred mother, 

divine feminine

rises again

 

in vivid color

Barefoot soul, 

the soil

touching

a lifeline,

the divine

spark

 

Thank you Earth

for the light,

for the dark,

 

for holding this body
in your sunlit arms,
for brilliant petals—

the ruby and emerald

shades of your love

 

Whether we see it

or not,

 

whether we feel it

or not,

 

you are always

there for us

 

Thank you Earth

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Expansion
Open your heart.
It needs to breathe
to believe
in miracles.

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Open your mind.
It needs space
to grace
new dimensions.

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Open your eyes.
They need light
for sight
beyond your horizon.

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Open your box.
It’s time for locks
to tumble.

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Growing Pain

I grow
as the earth did once,

from cosmic dust.
I feel her turning
moods — the joy, the hurt,

the journey
that words can’t say;

The growing pain
as I push the boundaries
and allow the lessons
she teaches me:

 

How to breathe like the tide,
never worrying about the next time
I touch the shoreline

because

I will.

 

To see like the eagle,
spreading the sky
with my wings
because
I can.

 

And love — it is there
because
it is there.
It is

 

a ray of sun

through the trees
at the nexus
of spirit and body.

 

It is 
a wandering map,
a lost compass,
a metronome keeping time
in a box 
where, for a brief moment,
the soul resides.

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Music

is how time holds you
in its arms
like velvet.
It is how the heart reaches you
in space,
in this moment.

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It unsticks the soul—
gives it freedom
to stretch,
to expresses
every rise and fall
in your chest;
what makes you weep
with joy or with sorrow
or both.

It is a voice
for the voiceless,
a dream
for the dreamless,
a lighthouse
for the lost.
And for all of us,
a warmth
and a comfort
for the long, long road.

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Clock
I live where the minute hand
meets the second hand, between ticks
I’ve found breath—a way to keep
what must be kept, forget
what is swept away, and measure
the rest.
 

I wonder if it will unwind—
our hair’s breadth
on the tapestry.
 

I wonder if we can measure a clock
by a clock itself or perhaps if only
in the absence of a clock
do we really know it.
 

The rhythms feel new
but familiar. I sense
what is coming but I can’t say
for certain if the space I cover
is space I’ve never been,
or if what feels new is really
a different fold
in the same old fabric.
 

I’ve been here before—
this bed, this house, this neighborhood.
I’ve been here before, perched
between worlds, a wristwatch
to my ear,
counting.

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Midnight, Full Moon

I tiptoe to the roof

to be temporarily away

from the droning day-to-day.

Alone, one can easily slip 

out the back door

without being missed.

Alone, one can easily spend 

a lifetime in orbit
around a dream 
that unravels to the night
like angel hair
to hold you,
to trap you
in golden threads.

 

You can beat your wings
against a celestial web,

but you’ll never take flight.

 

There, above my neighborhood,
like a wounded bird
I cursed the sky into which I could not soar. 

I envied the sea — 

the tide’s persistent pull
and how the shore never wants
for the current’s kiss,

would always feel its return,

would never hold footprints
for too long.

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Moonrise​

Silver spring night:
The river of life 

descending

like a sunset

on the violet horizon

where crystal clouds of rose
catch the shooting stars

and return them to heaven
before they touch the ground.

Sometimes it’s sad
to be earthbound

where fear carries my body
from shore to shore,

day to day,
street to street
where the red light 

stops me.

So I turn
to the path less worn,
heaviness in my step—
burden to burden
to burden and then

 

Moonrise.

Full and sweet
and close enough

to touch.

Tonight she is nearer

than she ever was;

as if she is leaning in

to kiss a lost love,

as if she is pulling the stars 

with her

and I could reach out

and catch a wish 

in my palm.

 

Full moon 

in Virgo, healer 

of the physical body,
purifier of mind,
where my spirit
rises. And it is like
a gift from God

to witness
her fullness

and everlasting youth;

more beautiful

for every crater

that scars her.

She helps us remember 

the mother

is also the child.

I am stopped
in my tracks

by a smile:
A silver stretch
of ancient skin

to light the path

of darkness.

 

And for a moment
of transcendence
I am no longer
my body—I am

that angel of the night;

an ancient white whisper

of heavenly silver 

ascending.

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Output of Loneliness

I forget to breathe.
I forget the sun is rising.
The space between my heartbeats
is filling everything 

​

until the wound is so wide
I’m forced to fall inside
its tenderness. 

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This is the artist’s way.
Our tools are crafted from pain.
Our blood is paint, our soul
stretched on the canvas. 

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It’s madness to understand this
but there’s no other escape
from the obsessive, persistent urge
to create, create, create! 

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I must make love to the page,
undress my heart in two dimensions,
build myself from the ashes
of what defines me. 

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This is the job of the artist—
to chase the muse,
forget the rest.
This is the pain of the artist—
it is always an output
of loneliness.

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Morning Dove

I wake in lonely light 

as the morning is veiling

our sorrows in song

 

She comes to my window

and there is less loneliness

in music and in company,

even of birds

 

Even of trees as their highest boughs

receive the song and lift it

higher, away

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And I feel it too, the desire

to go

away

 

I feel it too, the softest

coo

not unlike
something
I’d sing

​

because sorrow 

doesn’t burn 

out

 

just because 

the sun 

is rising

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Singularity

There was a time

when we 

were one.

The sky, 

the moon,

the sun 

was only

energy.

No body

to hold

anything

because everything

was everything

when we 

were so deliciously

together.

Do you remember

how we savored

the moment

because

there was only 

one.

Forever,

compressed

so closely

to the center

until we were 

the center.

Over 

and over

we became

the cosmos

and the stars.

Do you remember.

The heart

that beat there

was ours.​​​

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Reflection

I’ve heard of love 

pure 

as evening snow—

when the crystals

stay in tact below
the moon’s pale glow—

untouched

but for the softest

whisper:

 

a sparkle only known

by some

and I’ve seen 

the ones

who see it—

a reflection

is how
I’ve seen it—

a whisper

 

in their full moon eyes:

something behind

the iris shines,

like a million suns 

reflecting from

a secret temple:

 

a whisper 

so powerful

only the soul

can hear—

in the center

of our circle

and outside

of fear

 

there is

the life-giver

spinning 

the wheel,

making the stars

real

and burning

 

This 

is the source

of its turning,

the light

in the light

that nobody 

can see

head-on

 

but for a reflection

embodied

as we are

embodied,

yearning

for more

than a glimpse

of the sun

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Ode to Autumn

Autumn is an invitation

to let go, release, unravel

the brilliant seams

of orange and red

and gold,

to watch them mingle

in the final fertile kiss

of another bygone summer.

 

Autumn is an invitation

to let loose 

our tethered hearts,

to be 

unburdened

of the expectation

that summer days

should last forever,

that any days

should be this or that

 

To take a quiet breath

and give it back, 

preparing for the sacred days

of winter, snow-capped

crystal quiet

Can you hear it?

 

Mother earth

 

speaks

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Ascension

Ascension

happens

from the ground

up.

Your feet

must be firm

on the earth

because
it was her

who held you

first.

 

It is her

who pushes

your ground

skyward.

 

It is her

who builds

the mountain

you climb.

It is her

who raises

your arms

to the sky, 

 

lifts
your heart

to the air

above it.

 

It is her

who gives you

the strength

to fly

 

as you train

your gaze

to that diamond

summit.

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Satori

The mind 

without

ripples

No thoughts,

no stones

sunk in the sea

making

the surface

wavy;

Satori,

a moment

of presence

when you see

the light 

reflecting

cleanly 

from your own

ocean, your own

pure heart

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© Jacqueline Ann

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