see also.....

check out: http://www.voicesinwartime.org/voicesinwartime/
for more new poetry by Jillian Rood.

lost and looking

I didn't know where I was
when I woke from my last dream.
I can barely hold together
what is fraying at the seams.
And I want to find a place to sleep
where chilling winds won't find me.
Where ghosts of memories have no more
power to remind me
where magic in the air will carry
the thoughts born in my head
to warm your lonely body
shivering in it's lonely bed.
And while the pain I'm feeling
calls out for reliefe,
dams show signs of spilling
from the pressure of my grief.
I walk softly in the aftermath,
the ground has turned to mud.
The only thing that's messier
is the status of my love.
And I don't know what I'm doing
or which direction's up.
The words I need to live have drown
in the bottom of my coffee cup.
And I'm looking for the strength to rise
to lead my own resistance.
But when clouds block the light from finding my eyes
I can't even be sure of my own existance.
And I might just up and leave this place.
if I do, don't be surprised.
I'll rest my bones untill my soul
has finally been re-energized.
And when I emerge from the wood work
with something that will blow your mind,
finally you'll realize
we're two of the same kind.
And as our bodies disintigrate
we're approaching our own death,
we'll shake the earth with every step
make wind with every breath.
And we'll find the beauty of our lives
from here until the grave
not in the things that we took from this world,
but in the love and the art that our two hearts gave.

not just a man.

So on it goes
with a thought and a spin
weaving a yarn
just to write ourselves in
and our dreams are the lives
we put upon our pages
and whispered spells of fantasies
to summon our internal mages.....
Don't make light of me lover
because you know as well as I do
the fires that you need to burn
ignite from the things that inspire you
things that leave traces
like golden thread on pillows
a strain in your head
my sweet scent in your bed
it's in my nature to desire you.
I won't apologize for what's there
lurking in my heart
but the love that you betrayed must end
if this love is to start
and I think it might be plain to see
our spirits that are suffering
just might find something together
that we couldn't find apart.

what do you want?

So I was standing in my kitchen this morning relating a current romantic fantasy to an ex lover. I can't say how the conversation got to where it did... but he looked at me and asked me, "so is that what you really want?" When I couldn't answer a firm positive, he scoffed and muttered something about how women never really know what they want. What I'm not convinced of, is that "what do you really want" is a fair question. To answer such a question firmly means that there is one outcome to your current set of circumstances that you would find most favorable. One situation that would make you happy, and an infinity of regretful ones. If I don't know what I want it is because I have come to understand that getting to what you most desire in life is a process. There is no instant gratification. Genuine fulfilment takes effort. I also know that getting closer to realizing your dreams is a long journey, and journeys are designed to change us along the way. I know that the things I desire most will change as my journey brings me closer to them. If I don't know what I want, it's because the context of the question contrasts so deeply with the perspective of the ultimate answer. The only place to go from here is to accept being lost and take joy in it. I'd rather be lost in a forest than find myself in a prison. And lost people can often find themselves in one another. Let's all change our assosiations. Lost, found... free or bound. What will it be Jack?

sitting down to write a eulogy

With all the death I have experienced in my life, I have still never writen a eulogy that has satisfied me. No set of words arranged in some particular order have ever been able to convey what I feel inside when I loose someone I love. I've written plenty about broken hearts, but those heal with time, and writing about them is just part of that process. But you never really heal from death...... at least I never have.

There are two people inside me looking out at the world and often staring intently at one another. There is the writer, and the emotional self. The writer has been guilty more than once of subjecting the emotional self to people or situations that will be difficult for her to endure for the sake of good material. In fact the writers exploitation of the emotional self is at times almost criminal. Still, the emotional self is not defenseless. In the most extreme of circumstances, the emotional self has mastered the art of denial. She simply refuses to feel the emotions that give the writer her sense of depth and ritchness. The writer is unable to perform without access to these feelings, so when the emotional self shuts down, the writer becomes weak and helpless.
But without the writer, those tender feelings have no voice. She may close up out of stubborness, but ultimately she knows that she must open up to the writer again if she ever is to heal. For as much as they battle one another at times, ultimately they find they need one another. In fact, their co-dependancy has served as a terrible example for my own relationships.

We can see it taking place as I write.
I sat down to write a eulogy for my dog Angie who was put down due to severe suffering on Friday. I meant to write it that day. I meant to write it the next day. I intended to write it now.
But when I sat down, I realized that all I have access to are memories of her, but no feelings. I know she deserves better than this. I know my father deserved better than that horrible patchwork of moments and dull sentiment that I read at his funeral. I know my friend mojo deserved better than that half-assed poem I read to a room full of half drunk college kids. Ed's suicide left me with nothing but a bad metaphore about a train ride. The writer is now asking herself "what the fuck is wrong with me?"

So I intervene. I ask that the two make ammends and learn to be good for one another. But the emotional self is wounded and has trouble trusting the writer. At last she recognizes that the exchange could be a good release for her, and says that the writer should start with the memories, and perhaps some sentiment will be attached.
The writer is understanding, being fully aware of the pain she has created. She bows in acceptance of anything the emotional self is willing to give.


to be continued. ...........