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Showing posts from 2014

I tried to name this post, but they all sounded like Nicholas Sparks book/movie titles...

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(Seriously, I tried to come up with a good name for this post, but they all started to sound like Nicholas Sparks book/movie titles..."a walk in their shoes", "a mile in his shoes", "a walk to remember", etc.) So, there is that famous saying, "until you walk a mile in someone else's shoes," or some variation thereof. I have done that. Literally. Many moons ago, my baby brother outgrew a pair of Chuck Taylors. He outgrew them in less than a year so they were still in pretty good shape. Being the kind and gentle giant he is, he gave them to his big sister. At the time, he was 10 and I was 25. Now, I'm 31 and the shoes have started to quite literally fall apart. The bends around the toe area (you know where they crease when you walk?) have split apart. Threads are coming undone at the seams and are starting to fray. The black trim around the shoes has left for parts unknown. Every time I take them off, I need to dump out the little pie

If I've said it once, I've said it ten times

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I found a writing prompt generator on the interwebs and the prompt it spat out at me was, "write a poem of 10 lines, each line starting with I say ". Sometimes it's just as simple as that. (When I say "simple" I actually mean the exact opposite.) This took me far longer than it should have. I just couldn't seem to make the words fit together on the page. It's was like trying to solve a tangram with one of the shapes missing. (Don't know what a tangram is? Google it.) So, without further ado, here is my "I say" poem. I say things that make you laugh I say things I don’t mean I say that sometimes life is plain shitty I say that sometimes life is as shitty as you make it I say what I feel more often that what I think I say white lies are contagious and necessary I say I won’t be mad, but I really will I say you listen but you don’t hear me I say I love you every morning and every night I say you are my favorite person because I mean

Upon remembering what it was like to be 18

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I literally just finished reading Fangirl , by Rainbow Rowell. Seriously, I read the last page about 15 minutes ago. I'm not going to launch into a review of the book here (BTW, I thought it was fantastic) but I can tell you that it made me feel all the feels. It made me remember what it was like to be 18. Made me remember all of the horror and glory. So now that I've got the feels and caffeine coursing through my system - - here's the start of a poem. I'm sure there is much more to this buried underneath 13 years of brain stuff, but this is what I've got right now... Golden Delicious Feeling my way through the pieces of yesterday. Some of them are smooth like a worry stone in your pocket. Others are jagged and painful like a chipped front tooth. My voice is singing old songs. Lips and tongue moving on auto pilot. I can smell the second hand smoke. I can taste the cold Pad Thai mixed with lukewarm coffee. Makes me think of all the times I wouldn't take your ha

Well, it was so nice, I did it twice!

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Yup. I did it again. I put my poetry in the UNL Staff Art Show. AGAIN. I know that last year I was a nervous wreck at the First Friday reception for the university staff art show, and this year wasn't any easier. It was almost worse because I knew what to expect this time. I knew there would be a guest book where strangers could leave notes about the pieces on display and there was no way I could not look at the book. Like a moth to a flame I started flipping through the pages to see if anyone had anything to say about my stuff. Well, they did. AND IT WAS LOVELY!! I was beyond elated. These two folks took the time to jot down their thoughts and it made me feel so good inside. Totally worth the nausea and sweaty palms. There is no need to reiterate to you all that I am by no means an artist by definition. Sure, I like to make things and try new artsy stuff that I see on DIY blogs - - but I am a writer. That's my sweet spot. Sometimes I like to display my writi

In the middle of nowhere, but I have everything.

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Occasionally, my emotions are so overwhelming it seems like I could stop time and actually touch my feelings; like they are tangible things I could hold in my hands and rotate, look at, and dissect. This weekend we (me, my husband, and my daughter) loaded up in our old Chevy truck and drove out to my mother's house in rural Nebraska for dinner. It was early evening, the sun was bright, the breeze was cool, the windows were down, and the radio was up. The three of us didn't have to talk to fill the gaps between us on the bench seat. We were comfortable just singing along with the Top 40 country songs coming through the speakers. As we drove along, I felt...well, I just felt. I felt strong, loved, and perfectly perfect. It was one of those rare moments-in-time when all is right in the world. There really wasn't anything extra special about the day, the drive, or the song. We've driven that stretch of highway countless times together. But that moment was special - the

A picture is worth a thousand poems.

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Though it pains me to admit this, there are times that I get insanely jealous of those people who can draw and paint and bring things to life in that way. Instead of letting jealousy eat away at my insides, I do what comes naturally and use my words to tell a story. I give a voice to those people captured in portraits and paintings. And you know what? There is merit in that, too. Take this as an example of "art skills that make Jenn jealous": You can buy this. You should. It's stunning.   http://society6.com/ObedRaimundo/Soft-Skin_Print#1=45 How could I not get lost in her? How could I not think about what she's feeling and what put that look on her face? After I waded through my initial reaction to this piece, I took the next logical step and told my version of her story. The words came pouring out almost faster than I could write. (Thank God for computers, auto-saving, and spell check.) Admittedly, there is a little of my story in there. Maybe a little of my