First Sight (Vega’s Narrative)

When I glance     back
      to see      whose footsteps are
nearing–

I see a boy      both
     dark      and
bright.

Striding       in
     a quiet       confidence,

his rich brown wings       enfolded        behind him.

He’s      coming
      closer.

Mercury (the Broad-Winged Hawk)

 

cury curous curious.

everything is made of wood:
benches and buildings and platforms and tables and, all the while,
hemmed in by wood

the sky, even:
blue-grained wood,
knots swirled white

he quicksilvers right through,
wings bark-brown and then ivory

–can’t seem to find any animal tracks in the dirt–

     What’s your name, again?

carved out under the tallest red trees, beam-bleached plume curls,
then eyes crisp like the tip of a feather quill

     Artemis–and yours?

his gaze holds still, fixed within fluid movement,
a reflective luster when the gold licks through the branches

cury curous curious.

     Mercury.

ensuing, his timbre hums to the tune of thinly-veiled self-amusement.

Keeping Faith While In Despair

Hey all! I received the privilege of publishing an article on Self Talk the Gospel, an online writing community that I had been interning with as a Content Curator during the previous six months. I wrote a guest post for their Impressed Series, in which their writers describe an experience with a piece of literature that left a lasting impression.

For my article “Keeping Faith While in Despair,” I chose to write about Soren Kierkegaard’s book Fear and Trembling (even a year since graduation, my humanities classes are still ringing in my ears), along with my experience of faith and spiritual depression. Here’s a snippet:

Finally. I had finally encountered a fellow lover of wisdom and member of the Christian faith who told me that the authenticity of my faith doesn’t depend on how I feel before I go to bed at night, or how I feel during worship at church. That my choosing faith is what matters, as opposed to depending on whether or not I feel like I have faith.

You can read the rest of the article by following the link here. If you’re curious about topics of Kierkegaard, the nuances of spirituality and faith, despair, and/or my writing in general, check it out!

Enjoy,
-Jennifer

Caught

caught

in the sensation of
“i miss you, dammit.”

and that’s really all the courage i have to say;
i can’t just give away those words about how i think you might be a little different,
in a different way than i am different,
but how i still miss hearing the river sound of your voice,
as you would talk and talk way too much about the things you care about while i would drift
away into the pattern…

all i know is that you had a habit of caring about me and i had a habit of picking up strays.
not sure if that’s changed.

so, what sort of rooftops do you like to climb these days?
cat got your tongue?

“it’s like watching a lion cry,” you said,
while i was busy cutting myself down to size in front of you.
i’ve still got some salt in my mane.

is this the natural progression of things?
when i think about how you softly fell asleep next to my feet one night
while we were sitting together on the couch,

i remember that it all seemed strangely natural.

Nightfall, or simply falling

.

the right word never arrives when you need it but i’m not sure i actually knew it in the first place.

the functional ability to balance resides in the vestibular system,
and mine laughed at me while i teetered on a boat dock in the middle of the night.

perhaps scorned that i tried to call it ‘the limbic system,’
the ironic Captain Memory,
or perhaps because i let go of its hand on purpose.

nightfall / simply falling / falling asleep

most everyone at some time or another
jolts out of sleep,
seized by the sensation of falling.

but that night i swear — my heart pounded so hard — i was buckling into a bottomless void at such a violent speed…

well i have my own theories,
considering the potential terror induced by the occupation of the inner-ear,
suddenly reconnected
out of context.

still haunted by what you said about falling.

it’s funny how we think that gravity is spiteful in the way it makes us keel and collapse,
when really we’re the ones trying to leave its constant embrace — only to find ourselves yanked back into its arms.

neither you nor anyone i’ve ever met has loved like gravity,
and i still wonder whether or not i should count myself fortunate.
some days i find myself envious; that attempt to hike Half Dome inflicted a day-long plague of thoughts about how much i wanted to hold your hand.

and when you did on the rainy streets of San Francisco — i could barely talk about it,
could barely talk about how sad all the art made me feel,
could barely talk about why i just needed to sit in the upper room of the bookstore and read poetry about coping with the death of loved ones.

nightfall / rainfall / or simply falling asleep

i just wanted to tell you that — every once in a while — i’ll fall asleep with the tears,
remembering the hollow withering i felt as i sat at his bedside and watched him die.

and i just wanted to tell you that — three years after the fact — the right words finally arrived.