Christmas In Progress

Snow falling silently in the dark winters night,
electric candles gracing windows,
flickering light,
old St. Nicklehause passing the lamp post with little care.
To leave oranges and nuts in our shoes left there.
Big picture windows, framing the first snow.
Watching time pass as we grow.

Red rover, red rover, let childhood come over.

Silent snow decorating for Christmas
on a cold winters night,
electric candles in windows with flickering light,
long warm coats to cover dresses and suits,
little hands tearing paper to uncover the loot.
Large colorful bulbs, and huge green and red wreaths.
The click clack of heels on the old wood floor,
the cold smell that rushes in as you open the door.
Mother’s morning of drinking coffee and reading on couches,
as the large picture windows frame the first snow.
Nikelhause’s horse knocks over lampposts,
completing the rounds of oranges and nuts left in shoes.

Jenny Miller

A Little Halloween Before Christmas

I don't know where this came from in me. I was looking at a blog and saw a picture of an antique dresser and into my head it came right through my hands and onto the keyboard. Brruuuhaha!

Surely she is haunted,
just look at her old cracks–
her foreboding presence.
Open her drawers, see what’s inside?
Old spirits. They each have a different smell.
They whisper too, especially when you have lost something
in her labyrinth of compartments.
Have they hidden it, or have you just misplaced it?
Brruhahaha!
They yell. Their ancestors watch on as they have their fun.
Naughty spirits who hang out with dressers, pianos,
couches, cabinets and more.
Furniture that creaks and fizzles,
wafts a cold air and mystery asking,
guess where I have been?
Guess what old ships I have traveled on from Transylvania?
Guess what countesses house I belonged to?
Guess what window I sat by as the leafless tress banged
against the picture window on a shawdowed Autumn night?

Jenny Miller

December 16th

Welcome, welcome,
you are loved just for being born,
I saw Jesus in a dream last night,
pass in front of the brightest light,
just the back of his head I saw,
but maybe the light was you,
coming to us all.

Big Sur & Take Me To Your Jack Kerouac

I just finished reading Big Sur. Jack Kerouac is one of my favorite authors. But Big Sur is very different from his other writings. It was written years after On The Road was published (the book that sent him into instant fame as The King of The Beats). Everyone wanted to be around him after that--strangers would come to his mothers house and knock on the door, hoop and holler looking for their "hero". For a sensitive introvert, this was all too much for him. He escaped to the West Coast to stay in a cabin in Big Sur, but insanity took him over and his longing for bright lights and good times proved to be too much in his tender soul. So he set out to hitch hike to Frisco, it was the last time Jack ever hitch hiked, with no ride, things were different, instead of flat bed trucks stopping to pick him and his bottle up on an open prairie under the stars like in On The Road, droves of station wagons with nice little vacationing families afraid of axe murderers passed him by. This resulted in bleeding blisters and agony, until a pickup truck had mercy on him and took him to the bus stop in Monterey. But he alternates between the wild times of the city and returning to the cabin. In each chapter he constantly foreshadows going insane, completely loosing it. It's very sad. And you want to reach through the book and shake him, and ask him, can't you see Jack? It is you, you who are allowing yourself to go insane, by what you are doing, you need to sit with the agony, pen it down, let it break like a fever--then you will be ok and go on to write something so grand that makes us smile again.

I recently got a rejection letter from The Atlantic Monthly for five poems I had sent in. It was very upsetting at first. But I have to remember that Robert Frost got rejected by The Atlantic several times before getting published. I found an article in their magazine on-line that talked about new authors. They said that you cannot teach writing, you are either born with the gift or are not. They talked about writing more slowly though, of mulling over your work. I found myself the last few years trying to write like Jack, just going at it and not caring so much about taking it slow with intention. So I'm taking that advice now--trying to write slowly, to change words, capitalise, punctuate, to be gentle with laying down what it is that I have to say. Like all things worth undertaking in this world, writers must evolve too--and learn the rules and grow.

"Desolation Angel"

Ah what happened to the On The Road Days...
Why so desolate Jack? What did they do to your mind man?
Did you get tired of them following you through your private life?
Did they sabotage your tender moments...your cat...your sweet ma?
They used you, so tossed and turned you, some broke your heart,
with the uglinesses that can exist in life, the ones you and I
would rather not see. We would like to think of them
as fictional creatures, like the Loch ness monster, or Big Foot.
They do not exist or reside in the souls of men, they are only in our minds,
right Jack? Right?
But it broke you into sweating in that sleeping bag.
Sweating out your poor insanity of all the years after The Road.
I know it broke the bottle in your belly.
Like I said, I woulda given you a ride on that lonely road
from Big Sur to Monterey,
but seems to me maybe we could all use a ride ourselves,
and should leave you alone for a change.

--Jenny Miller

Nestling

Now is the time to snuggle in,

sink in deep,

in the fluffy ocean of blankets.

The darkness comes earlier,

and that means so too does the light.

Contentment is the greatest prized possesion,

saught after by all the world.

His hands with holes in them offers it to me,

little by little everyday,

as a revelation,

as an I'm so sorry,

As an, I never payed you for this,

please, let me pay you now,

with interest.

Seeing the vulnerable beauty in you,

and you, and loving it,

oh loving it as it has never been loved before.

Snuggle in your beds, nestle on your couches,

and let go to the smokiness,

the coldness, the warmths, the baking,

the love, and the guy with the holes in his hands,

that offers something so good.

-Jenny Miller

It's Pippi!

After Pippi moves into the big yellow house, the mean Miss Prysliss who has every intention of hauling her off to the children's home asks her what her name is. As she turns round and round on her stool she replies--

"Pippilotta Delicatessa Windowshade Mackrelmint Efraim's Daughter Longstocking"

What's your Pippi name? Filled with things you love, or words that you simply like the sound of?

I think today mine is:

Pippilotta Cracker Pie Mercedes French Fries with Ranch Thomas's Daughter Miller

(I recently came across some recipes for Cracker Pie on the Internet--I had no idea such a thing existed--I will probably never make one, but I love the sound of the words--Cracker Pie)

Smog Check Redemption

Will I pass?
Will I find the place?
Opening the door the peaceful bell jingles,
the Asian man with compassionate almond eyes,
sits you down and asks if you have been here before,
explains everything thoroughly,
he is a god, a guru, a saint.
Mary’s statue sits in the corner, the picture of Jesus hangs on the wall.
They say, as the wind chimes over the door gently blow and tinkle,
"come sit with us a while, come spend some time."
Fifteen minutes of sanctuary, Fifteen minutes of bliss.
A stack of old Ladies Home Journals.
"Please–have a seat, relax, there are some magazines for you to read
while you wait" as he disappears and takes care of everything,
takes such good care of you.
Maybe the whole place disappears as you drive away,
until 2011, when you are invited to return.
The smallest kindnesses can comfort unknown broken hearts,
remember this when you deal with people everyday.

–Jenny Miller

Dreaming In A Big House

I had a dream last night about massaging dogs,

a father who was a Cello player and constantly wore sunglasses,

and boy scouts.

All good omens,

I think.

--Jenny Miller

The Edge of The Universe

What if we lye in God’s heart,
literally?
What if we are floating around here in this universe,
that is inside his heart.
He’s carrying us around everyday,
from the time he wakes up to make coffee,
to the moment he goes to bed.
I hope he is not lonely.

–Jenny Miller

Friend Ships

Friendship
what does this word really mean?
The synonym of harmony, accord, understanding, rapport.
Ships are meant for journeys, come and sail with me.
People should not be thrown overboard, otherwise it would be called
an enemy ship.
You should not die of scurvy here.
Or be over-run by rats.
You should sail to distant islands,
visit new lands, obtain treasures along the way.
With you at the bow, and me at the sails,
a common cord of mutual admiration,
and guardianship. Instilling love where there is none.
Hope where it is needed. A bucket for your tears.
A beautiful mirage of a pirate ship,
that has pillaged, raped, and caused the passengers
to continually walk the plank, under the false guise
that we are in the middle of the ocean and there is no
other way home.
The friendship is full of rainbows and helping hands.
Reaching into the water saying, here take this,
come on board, you are safe here, you do not have to get
back up on that other ship and walk the plank again,
you can sail with us.
Friendships are filled with Tommys, Annika’s and Pippis galore.

–Jenny Miller

The Mirror

Look into the mirror,
what do you see?
Do you see beautiful trees with pink blossoms,
against a Fall sky?
Do you see your greatness and your potential?
Do you hear the music of Rachmaninoff
as he comes out of his writers block?
Do you hear God whispering to you?
Do you mirror this into the world,
do you see yourself as you really are,
and your responsibility to be that?
Do not let others cloud the image,
with their jealousy, strife, bad wishes,
and own darkness.
Let the reflection show true until
you see it, until you see your true self,
everywhere you look in the world,
reflect it unto others, like ribbons streaming out
to embrace them all in beauty and love.
Bring and give something good.
The world will thank you in it’s own quiet way.

Jenny Miller.

Corinthians

"Love is patient, love is kind" she thought,
as she closed her front door, those words,
had flown out the window.
What happened to the framed meaning of love,
she never hung it on the wall when she moved in.
Maybe, she should have.
But did it help before, when it was in her face everyday?
No.
That is not something that gets hung on a wall,
it needs to be hung in the heart.

--J.Miller


1 Corinthians 13
Love
1 If I speak in the tongues[a] of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. 2If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. 3If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames,[b] but have not love, I gain nothing.
4 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Oceans & Dreams

I had a dream that I was in an orchestra,
there was row after row of pianos and keyboards.
I was put in the back to play by myself.
I couldn’t figure out the right keys.
I sat in front of the piano trying to read the music.
Maybe I was not ready.
The conductor was angry.
I tried to put her in the back, and then realized,
that conductors belong up front.

I had a dream that I had a big blue boat,
with mermaids and seashells decorating the sides.
It smelled of salt water.
But it was parked on the street,
and I wasn’t sure where I was going.

–Jennifer Miller

People's of The World

Ahh..people’s of the world...you are so beautiful.

Kidnap me in Samoa, make me a princess and give me a tattoo.

Knit me a hat in Machu Picchu, take me to the sacred heights.

Lead me to your Buddha in Japan.

All you, who are indigenous, gorgeous, mysterious–

take me there–let me feel, see, taste, touch–show me your secrets.

Teach me your balance.

Shine on us your love of life–

and the orbs that so happily glow from mother earth.

–Jennifer Miller
(prayers and love to people of Samoa and Indonesia after the tsunami and earthquakes this week)

BEcoming a nOn-SeRious aRtisT

"In my experience, it is not the act of making art that is painful. It is the desire to make something and not acting on it that causes pain. "--Julia Cameron

I went to Barnes & Noble on my lunch hour in search of "Floor Sample" by Julia Cameron. At first, the nice woman at the reference desk could not locate it. I said a quiet prayer as she checked the tables up front. The Universe (God) is good--she found it on the bargain shelf--that works for me. I put down Paulo Coehlo's "The Witch of Portebello" and agonized over Julia's "The Vein of Gold". "Floor Sample" to my surprise is a pretty thick book and should take a while to get through (I'm a slow reader) and will do just fine for now. I can't wait to start reading it---tonight. I found this great article by Julia Cameron that really speaks to my heart.

http://colveyco.com/gallery-annex/reading/cameron.html

I am on a journey to find myself--to find out what it truly means to be a human, to be me, without outside impressions, judgements, or distractions. I have asked myself many tough questions in the last few days, and am in search of answers. The answers are always provided when we are seeking. I whole heartily believe this. I am looking forward to creating as a non-serious artist--but I am definitely an artist, none the less. I am so curious to see if I can set aside my "suffering" and tap into a place of beauty, hope, peace and discovery and see what kind of art and writing comes out. My sister katydiddys introduced me to "The Artist's Way" years ago. I bought the book, but never read it, I guess I just wasn't ready---but she helped me to begin my journey through encouragement and exposing me to resources to become the writer and artist I am today.

D And The Clowns

I watch her sort through the box of clowns.
She carefully lifts each one out of the pink tissue paper.
They are the remnants of the other half of her legacy.
A family that abandoned her.
They are her father.
She tells me about each one. I feel honored.
"These are the babies" she says,
"These ones look like acrobats, dont' you think?"
"This one is cute, he's my favorite, but this one looks kind of creepy"
and "this one is very breakable."
just like your heart, I think to myself.
little does she know, that in years to come,
she will have to sort through the box of clowns many times.
but not alone.

--Jennifer Miller

"Send In The Clowns"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BnwJ5KIcKX4

God Save The Queen

(Anne Boleyn In The Tower by Edouard Cibot)

God save the queen

and her magistrates

as well.

Keep her from the hand basket

that's on it's way to hell.

Call out every guard,

joker and knight.

May he keep her safe

and set her straight

on her royal plight.

Lock the castle doors--

seal the town walls

raise the drawbridge,

sound the call.

Summon the prince to rush to her side.

"All is well"

the town crier cried.

~~Jennifer Miller

The Limping Goddess: She-Who-Survives by Pesha Joyce Gertler

(I did not write this, but I'm "feelin' it". It's by Pesha Joyce Gertler. I found it in the 2010 We'Moon Datebook I am reveiwing at work. I just had to share it with my fellow Goddesses.)

She limps into the room
bent with the cargo of rape, battering
single-parent mothering and bureaucratic neglect
if she is fat or gay or nonwhite or Jewish
the pains multiply;
she has carried them all.

Her lotus feet have trudged this planet
for aeons; torn tennis shoes tell
how far she's traveled. She hunches
against the winter wind, her second-hand
coat like a blanket she wraps around
her golden body. Occasionally, she flies
over buildings, lands on tree tops,
is mistaken for a fat bird.

And occasionally, she falls,
intensifying her limp. But make no mistake;
that golden skin was mined in the black earth,
her feet, though limping and calloused,
are the lotus feet of She-Who-Survives.
A broken yet shining forgotten deity
returning, and there are millions
like her, multi-colored, limping
Goddesses returning to lay down our cargo
and reclaim our own.
--Pesha Joyce Gertler 1983

Zen Again

"Pardon me sir," she said as she tapped on the world's round shoulder.

"I would like to be discovered....if it's not too much to ask."

He was silent.

---Jennifer Miller

Ghost

Will she be at every funeral?
Will she be at the wedding?
Will she stand up in protest?
Even the living, breathing dead-
should be left in the grave.
Does she carry your mark?
Can she ever stop haunting us?
And move into the light?
Can she allow the living, to have their time?
Her's has come and gone.
Yet, she will not go.
Just when it seems that she has been exorcised--
Her spirit, her presence returns.
You call her back, you encourage her to stay.
In my heart I ask her to go.
You deny that there is a spirit at all,
I show you the glimpses, I show you
her shadow, it is everywhere.
You do not see, or you see and do not
want to see, because then, you would have to ask her to go.
You deny her to me, but not to yourself.
All the while she will wake me in the night.
She will be there with my unborn children.
I feel she will be there untill you take your last breath.
She will be there and you will give your sorrow to her,
and not me.
She is a ghost......

---Jennifer Miller

The Hike

We traveled down the canyon to the place we had both been as teenagers. So much more dangerous then. Willing to take risks. We talked of broken bottles, scraped skin, fear, remembering fear of how high that place was. Scaling cliffs, wanting acceptance at all costs. Hand in hand and separately we went. Stopping at the cliff that used to have water. Now all that was left was the deep and ominous pool we used to watch daredevils and fools slide into off the narrow smooth, high rock, we stood looking down at it silently and spoke of past adventures and stories there, wondering who had put the metal hooks in the steep face of the cliff to swing into the deep pool, and pondered how they had gotten there, from the top--or from the bottom? The sun was shining, the sky so blue with one lonely gratuitous cloud over the mountain--for us. We gathered rocks and threw them into that pool, so far down--so far away now. The loud clunk of their weight and surprisingly loud smack on the surface--to sink down to God knows where. How deep is that pool? We took guesses but neither of us really knows. Down the path it was lush and green, the road that had been broken apart narrowed in what was left of it. you and me. hearing the story from your lips after all these years that there was an earthquake in the '70s--never knowing this as a young girl. That explains the old rusty cars at the bottom of the canyon. The road went somewhere and still does--whats left of it. I realized I was afraid and wanted to turn back, wanting to bring some type of protection to return another day. Protection against what was wild. I wanted deep in my heart something to look forward to. We will go back and we will linger. We will throw rocks off steep cliffs into deep pools of water and wonder how far down they go--you and me. Together.

---Jennifer Miller

Gratitude & Prosperity

I woke up in a really negative frame of mind this morning. I'm struggling financially again. I have been trying to practice prosperity thinking and doing little things here and there the past several months to change my inner and outer beliefs about money. I hate feeling like this and have been trying to pull myself out of this negative mood all morning. Finally after praying for a change of mind and to have all the bad feelings and fear scooped out of me, I was led to a website of an author who has been through a near death experience, and talks about gratitude. Here is what I am grateful for:

I have a boyfriend who loves me very much, who stopped by work to cheer me up.

I have a mother and sister who have exposed me to the world of art (I can go home and work in my art journal, or do another collage. Because of them and the classes they have taken me to, I know how to do these things.)

I have a great apartment to live in with everything I need.

I have a car, that runs like a tank and gets me everywhere I need to go.

I have a job and know that another paycheck is on it's way.

I have a TV, with new and exciting channels, thanks to my converter box, it's like having cable. (I know this is dumb, but it's the simple things that count, like a channel with endless cheesy '70s & 80's movies 24 hours a day, it makes me happy)

I am healthy. I don't have any disabilities that make everyday life more challenging.

My life has amazing potential for growth & miracles.

God is here and loves me.

Today it's too hard to try to practice outwardly all the things I've learned about prosperity, but remembering to be grateful inside is a definite survival tactic, and is taking me to the next place. Pippi may have had a suitcase full of gold coins--but she was generous, grateful and even when she ran out and her Papa asked if she needed more--she said no thanks, they only cause problems--he threw her a new case of coins anyways before he left on his ship, but in that interim, I doubt she worried about how she would pay the rent on Villa Villekulla, or feed Old Man and Mr. Nelson, or cater to Tommy and Anikas whims. These things probably never even crossed her mind--cause she doesn't have fear, she doesn't have fear of having or not having anything--It's all the same to her, maybe that's why she's so prosperous.

So here it is...finally. I've started a blog. A place to express myself artistically and post my writtings and artwork. Things don't get written, life does not get written to just sit on a page, with no one to read it. It wants to be read, out loud or silently. I don't always spell or punctuate the right way. Sometimes I don't like periods where they should be, or to begin a new line where it should be, or have a capitol letter where it should be. See Mr. Kerouac, he will explain everything.

Spilling the donuts

It was summertime
I was young
I picked up donuts
You were next door
at the neighbors
I walked up the side walk to hand you one
and dropped the box
I could see you felt sorry for me
and helped me clean it up
all was not lost
you took one
I don't know if you wanted one
or if you felt bad for me.
I keep dropping donuts
always one short of a dozen
a dozen good intentions
the best of intentions
don't work out
dropping the box
always dropping the box.
I'm still afraid of spilling the donuts.

--Jenny Miller