We walk through our lives backwards. Too often we have our eyes fixed on the experiences we have already passed, as we go stumbling into unanticipated obstacles heels first. Our mortal selves cannot turn around. We are reliant on our spiritual senses to visualize the clear course through the unseen. Our souls can see what our flesh does not: a path to a future that has already been.
Chalk the long outage up to rather unexpectedly moving. Like, wasn’t really thinking about it, and then BOOM we’re moving. Chaos aside, we are settling in pretty well and there are a lot of great things that have come out of the process.
And now it’s time for a whimsical positivity break.
If you feel like you’re in trouble
I love you, therefore you are lovable
If you feel forgotten and miserable
I see you, therefore you are visible
When you can’t get two and two to make four
Start with four, and then find three and one
Sometimes it’s easier to see what you have
When you know where you’ll be when you’re done
That which forsakes
all it is not
has failed itself.
Dinosaur souls wear smaller clothes
Spirits thrive while bones repose
Where lives shall end Life still grows
In myth and memory juxtaposed
Happy Friday! Here's a poem from the archives - this appears to be one of the first creative things I wrote after we moved from New Hampshire to Montana. Originally drafted October 23, 2008.
Variable intonation -
raw imperfect separation -
inflections of then,
by decisive glee in now, here.
Primarily, the mountain snow
(seeming first dreamed long ago)
calls together friends
of any weather
dismissing every distance, fear.
In humble tribute, autumn's pass
fosters change to cold and glass;
in swirl of sigh
breathe loose the furl
of waving standard, planted near.
Read futures in an ice reflection;
prophetic tones in recollection.
No matter how the
winds will scatter,
the binding brand shows clear.
(c) Jane P. B. Hozier
love at the red roots
hearts suit it, but followed
by the mimicry of scorn
beware: what hope heals
truthless verdict leaves torn
fire and fallen leaves, stunning
glow of a dying day in orange
points the way to rebirth,
recreation, truth unended
unoffended by narrow confusion
that mistakes light for merely illusion
life's gold is the sunlight we taste, swallow whole
yellow flower in power unfolding
we eat of one sun and become fellows in
spirit, the green fulcrum, heart of the arc
where the many stand reflected
and join in hand to
one light in the dark
my soul is a string that sings
in my voice, blue melodies
take up a refrain
and in the echoes our names will remain
cooled in indigo memory
keep yourself in mind
and in still waters find
your ripples rebounded
your meaning expounded
washed up clean on the rock of our
on the cusp of transcendent unseen
in between one word and the next
what connects us to our best selves
when the rest falls away?
let us pray
(c) 2017 Jane P. B. Hozier
...the people who accept your faults with a wisecrack.
...the people who share your love of graph paper and packing tape.
...the people who have gone before, stretching out in a line of unknown names and untold love.
I give thanks.
This week has been dedicated to the production and management of stress. Stress production = big work deadline. Stress management = breathing deeply, getting a professional massage (first time ever, oh man what a treat), and scratching the creativity itch. On that last note, today's post is a continuation from last week. In a burst of "why the heck not" I took the playlist I put together last week, picked one line out of the lyrics for each of the 36 songs, and assembled them together into a lyrics collage (sort of a found poem). Presented here for your enjoyment:
I dream of rain
Rain comes pouring down
Only in dreams could it be this way
I think I see the future
If you only knew what the future holds
Losing it all on my own
At least I can say that I’ve tried
I tried so hard
Nightfall will be comin’ soon
The sun goes down alone
and the way is dark
There’s a world outside every darkened door
Just go ahead, now
Like a Sunday morning Elvis, singing gospel
You remain my power, my pleasure, my pain
I hate when things are over
I never pray but tonight I’m on my knees
I’m gonna watch you plead
Bless your soul
I don’t wanna have to pay for this
I’m just being honest
This is our fate
you better take cover
You look at me and you see your past
Save me from the nothing I’ve become
Come on now, what you waiting for
A little gambling is fun when you’re with me
A new religion that’ll bring you to your knees
Keep that spirit alive
How do you give me so much pleasure
Le bien par le mal
I hope you find your peace
I’m never changing who I am
There’s not a thing that I would change
don’t waste your time
Happy Friday! There may or may not be a post next week, Thanksgiving-dependent.
I occasionally write poems, though much less often than I did in college and before. The subject I always circle back to is language. I've had a longstanding love-hate relationship with words. Here's a poem I wrote in August of 2015. POLITICAL DISCLAIMER: "Every word is a lie" is a poetic turn of phrase that leads somewhere else; it is NOT an endorsement of "alternative facts" AT ALL EVER.
Every word is a lie that tells itself true.
Before we gave it a sound, what color was blue?
Before we said it sang, did the wind have a voice?
What’s the flavor of home, what’s the weight of a choice?
Without words don’t we know what’s right from what’s wrong?
What did we feel before love came along?
These pearls of power, these kernels of truth,
Exist between tongue, lip, throat, jaw, and tooth.
The marks that we make out from mind, eye, and hand,
Spell out the stars, tides and sea, rising land.
Gone, forgotten, the things never given a name…
Yet unspoken, they lived, loved, and died just the same.