loose leaf and spiral bound

That's right, my friends. I definitely put my poetry in another art show. This is the third time I have entered my poetry on canvas into the University of Nebraska-Lincoln Staff Art Show. As you might imagine I was once again nervous about doing it, but did it anyway. Once again, I'm glad I did. I kind of like the pressure to perform, knowing that I am working on a deadline with a very public outcome. It certainly freaks me out and gives me more than a little anxiety - but I do kind of like it. This year, the art show is being held in the University library - - Love Library. I mean, what is better than having your art/poetry hung in a library? It's fantastic! Here's my two pieces.  ...and here is what they look like hanging with other pieces.  You may or may not know that my husband is a bow hunter. So, I took one of the deer skulls from his harvest last year and painted the face black and then put some designs in silver on it. Next, I took it outside ...

If you know me at all, you know that I love music. I will shush you in the truck when a good song comes on. I will dance in any Target or grocery store or waiting room if one of my jams comes over the speakers. I have very specific play-lists for happy days, crappy days, melancholy days, etc. Music matters to me in a way that is hard to express. BUT, I have finally found a way to explain it. Sort of. The look on the guy's face at 4:30 in the video below is everything. It's love, it's hope, it's faith, it's happiness...all of it. That's what music does. Whether you are playing music or listening to music, it can be whatever you need it to be. Music never asks you "why" and it doesn't ask for anything in return. (Well, it might ask for $0.99 if you want to download it...) Also, this is what writing does for me. It lets me feel whatever I need to feel. It lets me get out whatever I've been harboring inside. It doesn't ask me why and ...

Growing up, I lived in 15 different houses. I can mark time in my head based on which house I was living in. When I say that I hate moving, I really mean it. Moving makes me physically ill. January 16, 2015 was the ninth anniversary of officially owning my own home. My little family has lived in this little house for nine years -- the most amount of time I have ever lived in one house. On those particular days where I feel defeated by the world, I remind myself that things could certainly be worse and I am so damn lucky to have the life I do. There is a specific kind of comfort in coming home after a shitty day, flopping on your couch, wrapping yourself up burrito style in a quilt your great grandma made, all while fending of slobbery kisses from your dogs, and listening to your husband and child make dinner for you in the kitchen. Because they want to make you happy. Because they care. It's one of the top five best feelings in the universe. Not everyone gets to have this feeling...

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...

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...

I've done it before and I'll do it again. Yes, that's right, I will use the art of others to inspire my own. Creativity begets creativity. Once again Mark Hall , music producer extraordinaire from across the pond, gave me a little writing boost with his track "And the Angels Fell". (You can listen to it here .) So, like the famous song says, "I get by with a little help from my friends". (For what it's worth, I like the Beatles version, but I LOVE the Joe Cocker version.) Something about this particular track of his tugged at me. I was entranced right from the beginning, and then I could feel that slight knife-edge that slides right in. Beautiful disaster. You know the kind that hurts but you can't stop pushing it forward? Something about this track told me the story of a friendship that got twisted along the way. I can't tell if things worked out in the end, but I remain hopeful. Okay, okay, okay. Enough rambling from me. Here's th...

Remember how I told you all about my act of subterfuge ? How I weaseled my poetry into an art show? Well, here's how it went... This is me living out my childhood dream of being a brown haired Vanna White.  So, there was a reception during the April First Friday Artwalk. OF COURSE THERE WAS! That didn't make me anxious at all. (It is one thing to send in poems to journals and writing competitions because those people are faceless and if/when they reject me it doesn't feel personal because I am not staring at their faces making small talk while it happens.) I was absolutely terrified of overhearing someone make fun of my stuff or tear it down to tiny little pieces. I am fairly self-aware and know that I am not a traditional "artist". There were things hanging on those gallery walls that just blew my mind and in no way could I even begin to compare my stuff to theirs. Apples to bowling balls. But guys, nothing horrible happened. In fact, people were so nice ...

Recently, I discovered that Mark Hall is a brilliant music composer and producer. He ever so graciously gave me permission to peruse some of his pieces and use them to jump start my writing flow. Here's the thing - - I love music of every kind. I played the clarinet for 8 years in the school concert band (Yes, I was a band nerd. Hard to believe, right?) and I can associate all of my favorite memories with particular songs. It's just how I'm built. I love listening to movie scores and putting myself in a "mood" and I take my daily play list at work very seriously. With that said, I had never thought to reverse the process and listen to a song first and THEN figure out the story to go with it. But that is exactly what Mark let me do. Thanks for that. (I'm not even being sarcastic. Seriously, thanks.) For reference, track #2 was the inspiration for this poem. I heard the first 30 seconds and knew precisely what was going on in that house. " This hous...

It's only been a few months since I did my last Zodiac inspired writing prompt. NO big deal. I haven't been procrastinating -- I've been busy. Yeah. BUSY. So to pick up where I left off, here we go with #8 in the series. I call it " Feral " ,  It started with one dance and we kept it up all summer long It was hot and burned so bright Nothing soft about it -- this was fierce and ferocious You wanted "us" more than anything Growling out your declarations there was nothing tame about your honesty You were so obviously in love with being in love you forgot to love those little pieces that made me Loyal to a fault You wouldn't let go of my arms Couldn't hear me cry Wanted to keep me close But when I started walking away You took of at a dead run I guess when you are done, you're done not even a single look back Now I'll never know if I made you cry My guess is that you haven't forgiven I know you haven't forgo...

If you'll recall, I told you a while back about how my very dear friend was riding his bicycle from California to New York with the purpose of spreading the word about suicide awareness and prevention and the healing power of art. His non-profit organization, RISE , is amazing. You really should check out their site. He and his friend quit their jobs, put all of their worldly possessions in storage and set out to make a difference. ANYWAY, I decided that I was going to do something pretty rad , and I began writing a piece of poetry as they were riding across the United States. It was hard because I couldn't move forward until they did. This was such an important piece for me to write because of the pride I have in those two and what they accomplished and I really don't have a better way to show them other than writing it down. It is sincerely humbling to have friends like these. So here it is. I call this one, "Rising in Three Parts": 1. An Open Letter to a Frie...

Once again, Jimmy Blackwell and I worked on another shared writing prompt. He tackled seeing the light that lives in the dark (which you can read here ) - - and I took on when darkness hides inside the light. I've got to say that this was a tricky prompt for me and gave me more than a few shaky moments. It has honestly taken me waaaaay longer than the allotted two weeks to get this far. This is rough and raw, so be gentle...I am an optimistic person by nature and discussing darkness is tough for me. Makes me go to a place that is uncomfortable to some degree. Like that saying "hurt so good"? Something like that. It's not that I won't go there or don't want to go there - it's just a touch difficult. But good for me. So here it is: Together We looked so damned beautiful together. Friends wanted to be us. Around us at a minimum. Our picture perfectness was awful. Horrible. Intolerable at best. Our bright shiny smiles full of too many white teeth blinded th...

Remember how I went off on a rant about how I hate going back to my "Graveyard" folder and looking through shitty old poems? Well, apparently I challenged myself. A double-dog-dare, if you will. Stupid me. I took three of the poems that were in the The Graveyard and resurrected them. Just plunked all of them "as is" into one document and went to work. This is what happened. My own little Frankenpoem...not sure I love it, but I don't think I hate it. I've titled it, " The Graveyard Revisited ": My broken pride drove me home this morning. The radio massaged into my brain endless lines and lyrics of love songs, until my pain puked me into slumber. Cuddled so close to nightmares of things I could have, would have, should have said. But, you do not know how to operate a touch tone phone. So instead, my confused confidence will hide out in what used to be your spot on the couch. I'll keep sleeping on this couch. It'll keep warm from the te...

It has recently been pointed out to me that I am that terribly annoying person who is constantly looking for the good in every situation. Gag, right? I know. Alas, this is another one of my "things" that I do. Car broke down? No problem, your new adventure will be riding the bus and making all sorts of fun friends. Washed your wool sweater in hot water and it shrunk? Who cares! Now your doggy has some trendy new apparel. The only time this is not my "thing" is when I am reviewing some of my older or unfinished poems that I have relegated to my "Graveyard" file. I have a very hard time going through those old poems already deemed craptacular and finding a solid nugget to work with. This is unfortunate because I write half started/finished poems down all of the time. I enjoy it. I like getting the brainwaves going and the words rolling off of my tongue and there is never a better feeling than knowing you are just absolutely knocking it out of the park and ...

So, while having a quick chat online with Jimmy Blackwell (...go ahead, click on it and check out some of his writing. Do it.) about writing dialogue for fiction pieces, he said/wrote this particular phrase that jumped up and punched me in the throat. He said, " Rather those who possess the skill to tell a captivating story have the power to tame the world ". WHOA! Even though I am total crap at writing dialogue, I know when an opportunity for a poem is knocking on my door. I did what any normal girl would do and proposed that we each take that line and come up with a piece based on it, and then see what happens. We gave ourselves a week. Well, it has been a week and here is my piece titled, The Storyteller: Storyteller. Yes, a story yeller. From the rooftops to the rocking chairs. I am. The believer, doer, knower, feeler. Dream painter, heart healer risk maker, and love taker. I am all of this and so are you. Words falling from my mouth like rain. Catch them on your to...