1. songs
    fell in drops of rain
    pooling together
    in a hand print
    holding the form
    of love cupped
    with the sweat of palms
    tears held back
    before given
    to generosity
    rhyme schemes
    propelled on musky
    rhythms
    floating on air
    levitate
    dense bass beats
    up from hot cores
    boiling beneath fingers
    meeting to keep
    their reach
    strong

    thirty three songs
    fell in drops of rain
    each a grateful hymn
    written in years
    blood rings
    out
    "you were born"

    Tagged #poetry #jillc
     

  2. sometimes i think of you
    in unfair terms

    sometimes i think of you
    at odd turns

    sometimes i think of you
    on the long road

    sometimes i think of you
    crossing my path home

    sometimes i think of you
    and pretend we are dancing

    sometimes i think of you
    more than simply in passing

    sometimes i think of you
    when i am sure you are thinking of me, too
    but mostly not

    sometimes i think of you
    on the day before your birthday

    sometimes i think of you
    tired with dark eyes frayed

    sometimes i think of you
    swimming in my wine

    sometimes i think of you
    too often, but never
    as mine

    Tagged #poetry #jillc
     

  3. indigo tinfoil crinkle
    blue sheet of silvery
    evening lake

    grass green afghan
    blanketing yellow firefly fringe
    woven in

    thick brushed suede
    grey cotton batting
    sky darkening

    my mind’s eye trained
    on the world you make
    me think with you
    in it

     

  4. thinly speaking

    what slice lies between
    the unspoken and the deceptive

    what cleavage wrenches
    absence from attention

    where does intention
    register and in contrast fail
    to count

    how many digits missing
    in the equation that figures
    your account

    of the story or
    is it truth

    which one, then
    when and how
    often

    is there an algorithm
    for exactly the right mixture
    of all the realities riding the edge
    of and edging out what stands in for
    the genuine meaning attaching
    me to you

     

  5. flown coops

    all sad eyes
    heavy sighs
    napping sprawled
    out on his side
    flanks

    my dog tried
    to stow away
    with the boys
    when the company
    departed the mutinous
    little fur ball
    piece of shit

    house blown
    from full on
    riot
    to quiet
    in an instant

    i need him
    {at least}
    to stay put

    Tagged #poetry #jillc
     

  6. pleased & thank-you

    honey from the cypress vine
    stealing mead from the bees

    spiral notebook paper blue
    lined with red inked cursive

    slanted to the left and smudged
    stains damp curling corners

    round memories of wet rings
    treat our covers left sweating

    against glasses and in favor
    of all the pretty men and women

    i have fallen in with
    the thinkers
    tied with makers
    ideas bound to creators

    mother,
    you must send money

    Tagged #poetry #jillc
     

  7. silly tears & a neck

    the place and time
    someone last
    fell asleep while
    leaning into you

    the smile that escaped
    your tired resolved
    lips right beneath
    the nose of your very
    eyes

    the nerve of your
    tongue clucking
    over swallows
    hard and heartfelt

    the juicy sound
    and smell of us all
    coming nearer
    and nearer it

    Tagged #poetry #jillc
     

  8. shushing

    i don’t like a house so big there might be things lurking in the corners too far away for me to see them, i sometimes feel the rhythm of the words the way they sound spoken in the tapping of the keys underneath, my fingers. My fingers keeping, time. No echo welcome. If I give you my secrets, will you keep yours. To yourself. A toast or a close chest, tight knit but not the opposite of open. Simply held, but not just, rather indulgent. In love drunk with your quiet. sssshhhhh. 

    so like a cymbal. not at all like a symbol. pleasing. 

    Tagged #prose #jillc
     

  9. drip

    trenchant apothecary
    weak poison
    susceptible disposition

    all is well here
    fondly toward
    the end

    biting teeth
    sucking tongue
    melting confection

    all is well here
    fondly toward
    good ends

    sharp knives
    dull fingers
    bleeding flesh

    all is well here
    fondly toward
    sweet endings

    and gravity
    always
    wins

     

  10. silken

    With all those legs you might think a spider would have less wisdom. You might think she’d draw a blueprint, beforehand and hold it up in two of them for all her own eyes to see. But she doesn’t.

    Wiser, she just builds it. Across rafter triangles small at odd angles around the rusty screw and over the fluff of the moth and past the old abandoned mud daubers’ clump of hive looking like outsized dusty honeycomb. She builds it from the most ragged leaf dangling off the irregular limb of the branch hanging in morning light and so dried from first dew. She attaches it across on the other side, equally jagged.

    She is a master improviser. 

    The web itself always turns out beautiful and so seemingly standard and recognizable in shape but most of all function. It is the graceful junction of use and beauty. Practical artistry like culture. She builds it through work from working gorgeously. 

    Not from a master plan. 

    And then to think of her playing it. Like a harp. In duet with whatever she catches. Reciprocated tugs and snagging snatches against the silk, in concert, a net of twitches equal to song. 

    Not altogether different, I tell myself, from what I am doing as I clean and purge my own humble abode and make an effort to fully declutter my environment. I pick things up and move them, shifty. 

    Some I shift out into the garbage, black plastic bag first and then the pile stacked in the back of the pick-up truck. Some things I clean and find a place for, I place them, then. Others i move to some other room. Some room not yet cleaned and then after the first room, sometimes backward to some room already done. Re-cluttering the already decluttered thus requiring another round of de-decluttering. 

    A dance that alternates between building up the web and tugging it loose again, playing it’s harp strings and preserving the initial structure but improving and accommodating and breaking it and twirling it round.

    I am driving to the landfill, parked on the scale, thinking about the law of conservation of mass, of energy, of everything and all forces. I realize, this decluttering truly is nothing more than shifting that no matter how far I take things, to the next room, to the curb, to the landfill, to the burn, no matter they still exist and they do it in connection with me.

    I feel all the things I’ve ever “owned” or touched or even seen like the harping heart strings that are the spider’s web weaving us all together in a million interlocking little netty netted systems. Conserved, connected, collaborative - forever and inescapably. I feel my place and its roots and its veins and the rain of it all washing us clean off into each other. An ocean of each other from out ourselves. 

    Buoyant bodies shifting up next to each other. Tender images sloshing, I invite you into them at the end of a long strong and gentle armful of fingers tipped soft and curled in welcome. The light weight of the child in waist deep adult water. pulled in easy hands to the chest clinging comfort for both close at heart the warm skin of wet necks to wet shoulders. Grown apart into together. Over and over, never.  

    Tagged #prose #jillc #idk
     

  11. blacks and whites

    the map is to nowhere
    a destination masked in itself
    his protection hidden
    behind silence
    notes cataloged against
    the deceptive
    low price
    of tools and necessary
    equipment
    felt mutes
    mallets and levers
    tuning forks and hammers
    tip wrench and wedge rubber
    his quiet is indulgent
    strings turned and stretched
    to make music
    silvery yet grey
    beautiful ambiguous

    Tagged #poetry #jillc
     

  12. jangling keys & taking calls

    ignore your daddy’s
    lessons they said
    drive off the lot
    as if you stole it

    they said learn
    to flaunt the props
    to claim the power
    to make the date
    and stick to it

    profess they said
    to love them all
    but just a little bit

     

  13. no bigger

    rituals the size
    of the circling
    spiral of our
    ancestors

    each with
    a guest

    or seven

     

  14. paper machete
    dead soldiers
    made of empty beer cans
    stacked and
    envelope paper
    and spit
    tell no tales
    but they do sing
    in the wind
    like chimes
    and light
    chains

    Tagged #poetry #jillc
     

  15. boating aimed in
    to the storm
    raising flags
    held high like arms
    with cups up
    toasting
    the effeminate raging wind
    sails down she is
    freed
    riding face to face against her
    in attempts to make lee
    to wish to hope for
    a wash upon a shore
    with old bottles full
    of trapped fairies
    with messages carried
    like me, over
    seas under skies
    dark in approaching