Poems by Janette Kennedy 2018

JANETTE KENNEDY, MAEd, MFA frequently dreams of multi-textured colors connecting people. Her poetry has appeared at Mothers Always Write and on the Tiferet Journal community blog. Ever since she wrote her education thesis on using comics in the classroom, she has been fascinated by the intersection of language and visual art. At present, she tutors students with diverse needs and lives with her family in Tennessee.

Wartime

Too much:
The old soldiers disperse
but there is no fooling.
They dapple a midnight vigil
until my valley is almost illness
and even insomnia cannot blink
a dormer.

So what does it signify?
Am I under siege
or simply overcome?

Despite fingers splayed I remain
unconvinced, certain a gun
in every crowd of glories.

Reckless to wade the hollow
while my undead drift among
and lonely sits upon my lips
unspoken,
unmoved.

Night Thoughts

Crepuscular drifts
brush canticles
in wind chimes
and breathy staccato sifts
chill, feather tickles.

Soft hands
add lavender honey
milk warmth
to tall bands
of percussive branches.

The coming storm
wrangles the night
scraping fondant
from a half-baked norm
spread across messy faces.

A New Wand

slices of dew
intricate grass shadows toss
back the daybreak light
and laugh in glinty grins
piercing polka-dots push
against logs, scaly
charred wet ash infiltrates whispers,
she reaches
into yesterday’s waste,
slips a knife along the verge
but leaves a scraggly blackened edge
to honor forging
a new wand.

Sleep, Once and Forever

Sleep done right
zoetrope adventures
through the night
means waking
body light.

Somewhere then
in three slow winks,
a body releases
soul over the brink.
Where does she go
as eternity slinks?

Solo

Solitude
dreams awake
construct visions
of possibility

my feet, deep
in molten rock
my head, in giddy
altitudes

failures fall.
forge forward,
Here is only.
Me.

Haiku by the pond

The fisherman’s arc
flies, then falls, purposely waits,
nourished by death’s grasp.

anticipation

the cut bud lingers
dying slowly in water,
a ghost bloom,
going through the motions
even as petals
fall forward

The Evolution of Play

flip down, spin and swirl
figures lined up just so
scraped knees slide
frustrated cold running
chipped metal on hands
rules to bend, imagine
spectrum blurred reality
bookending school days
the only reason to finish anything
a purpose in life, “what if”
fashioning ways to keep the shadows at bay

restful release
enticing memory—connection
distraction, interaction
fluid norms
contorting hope into purposeful,
meaning
two colors emerge as life
settles into opposing ends
play and work
we totter somewhere in the middle
escaping the shadows
settling into the scratchy safe wool

convergent hurricane glass obscures
a brief oil lamp flicker
the remembrance of divergence
lifts the cage
turn the dial, raise the wick,
grow the flame,
transform the shadows

 

White Clouds
an adapted glosa

I thought those white clouds
were gathered around
some distant peak,
but already
they have risen between us

Ono No Komachi (Translated by Jane Hirshfield and Mariko Aratini in Ink Dark Moon)

with challenged breath
pounding veins
we climbed
where blue sky
hides above
daylight moon unbowed
as if we could fly
over treetops
through the crowds
I thought those white clouds

couldn’t touch us
or the stories
we told in groups
fire lit drum circles
plucking the leaves
of books unbound
shapely quills
spilling eyes
ignoring warning sounds
were gathered around

the night
flicks through open
paths bending wafts
wind sliced fog
sluiced cotton
we seek
in ocean diving
clear water plunge
and banish the meek
to some distant peak

but already

silent creep sunlight
dissolves
spectral dew adapts
flow in rain buckets
drown resting views
white terry cloth washes
collect remnants
of weeping willow walks
the memories coalesce,
they have risen between us.

Geese

mirrors manage
contrast of black and white
into brown

long neck sentry
while another picks,
prods web foot lilting lift
and smack down

Between Jobs

the bits
sporadic
like balloon rain
drops bouncing
off in ecstasy
or
sharp sleet infirmity

the iron shell of a focused train barreling down the well-planned track

unfolds into wings
sails slicing sky,
open-air glider

or maybe
its an ocean
today and I, a clumsy submarine,
negotiate mines
tethered to the ocean floor

grasping for something
to give shape to the space
I travel through

today

roughly hewn beneath sleek stain,
forgotten stories integrated in grain become
my kitchen table

years of drought and plenty
trending the earth’s paths round the sun
support plates, laughter, and work
—the glitterstained glue fingerprint

that now I scrape with a fingernail
cutting my own small scratch
into the silent memory
that gracefully sits
roughly hewn
before me

Opening

Moss covers elbows and scraggly bends of bark
frame raw woodpecker holes. Resilience
grows over scars, branches criss-cross
the sky in a shade covered system.

Such trees don’t fall in just one night, it takes endless
days of rain to overwhelm the roots, persuade them
to release. Crashing splinters
create whole new habitats for earthworms
who had yet to taste the sky.

Chainsaws carve and grind
the stump, but not before we see
the hollows that hide within.

When the last behemoth
bit is flown away, the sun shakes
hands with its old friend, the ground,
germinating new seedlings.

Silence

step off
faces follow
knees bend
I walk on through

that room and the next one
the train has passed
over worn out lines
I lay down the rumble,
and glide on through

my feet flit up
over the uncrushed grass
the clicking beetle feet
preening
I fly on through

Sitting with you
the shadows flow
and before you speak
I catch a glimpse
of you.

 

Lavender Sky

Purple scent murmurs, lost
in blinding summer
cooked tar parking lots
rear-view mirror glare
zing.

I did forget
those whispers,
until a cloud
collapse
smothered the flame
so recently shared,

leaving two
slight figures
left to make the vacant sky
regain its lavender body.

Eddies

Children cascade tumble
down itchy green bluffs,
ear over ear,
squeal over hair,
until alighting
in spins by too close cars zooming down riverside drive.

Breathless races
seek steep slope
again and again.
Dirty hands pull
spiky overgrown
ragweed, crushing
dandelions. Sparkling
eyes glitter the evening air pounding through lung ache.

Golden hues drip
into the river’s welter
whirl bluster of core
currents and side
eddies. Ribbons
whip past open ears carrying the pulse of bicycle clicks.

Loosened breath,
background bass,
attends an ancient
flute song that sees
churning tears
and blood-tinged
mud, growing the goo that festers, not yet rinsed in the sea.

Hairbrush

Sentries,
ready to sink
into yesterday’s old news—
the follicle effusion
of tangled months,
releasing remnants of dreams,
still attached.

How to Build a Wall

away from this dark spring
where angels seek their recompense
where it hurts to heal
and guilty are the oblivious

dig big holes into the ground

“Something hurts” the fires cry,
releasing blood into the sky

set the posts straight and tall

“something hurts” the smokes rise
and we cover our eyes so they don’t tear up
because in the end its all really too much
and everybody hurts anyway

let the cement harden around them

“something hurts” so off we go,
behind the walls to what we know
to shelter in our platitudes
and forget the rectitude
as if its already too late

wielding fire-forged iron nails

too late to cry
too late to look
too late to feel
so all that’s left is really thus:

fasten the wood impenetrable

and wonder why the sun forgot to rain

but if the walls succumb,
your bubble
might pop
you free

Crocodile Dreams

submerged sea blue sunlight entices
me above, water falls and leaves
glistening drops from an indigo surface
buried beneath a molten flame
—the night’s time capsule

I ride a crocodile into the sunrise
in the midst of gold glittery wave-peaks,
grip rough geometry-leathered edges
and face the fiery sky, for it is not the sparkles
but the rough back of the leviathan
that will measure me