Category: Rivers

Summertime in the City. {Poetry}

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She ran to the edge of the city,
stopped, &

turned back,

wandering along the sidewalks,
under the tapestries of loving
and living

where people,
flesh and blood
moved
with feet,
not in shiny boxes turned by wheels,

where smiles
shared were returned
easily
along with the change
from buying a local bunch of beets,

where laughter
echoed along
the creek,
flowing through the city’s center,

where children played in the fountain,
splashing purple polka dots
of water
on their mother’s blue dress,

where old men sat
reading a paper,
sipping a coffee,
talking politics,
and maybe even about the way
their old lovers
kissed them good-bye,

where she leaned back
on the cobblestones,
barefeet,
at the edge of the creek,
head back,
eyes closed,
sunlight darting through,
shape shifting the dots into bright images
of the light of stars,
of the universe,
of the beauty of loving
and living
in this city.

Copyright 2016 © Jesi Zanita

Stop Feeding the Monkey Mind.

The monkey mind arrived as I slathered peanut butter onto my bagel while the hiss of the kettle turned into a whistle.

It was the Sunday morning at the end of break, and I had all of those “what didn’t I get done” thoughts starting to flood my morning calm.

So I stopped spreading the peanut butter, holding the spoon in my hand, as I realized the truth: what about all the things that I did accomplish over this “break?”

Sure, I didn’t clean out that closet with a few boxes of moldly Mendo memories and keepsakes from when my sons were babies, but I lived some new memories:

I spent hours with my family and my sons having more laughs than upsets.

I ate the most amazing gluten-free desserts created by my sister, my mom, and my brother’s wife. They are goddesses at gluten-free treats!

I started an ocean painting.

I wrote without deadlines or constraints.

I doodled pictures with my nieces and nephew.

I watched my almost 11-year old son fix the slightly broken vacuum cleaner (it was like taking apart a giant Lego creation for him). The belt had slipped off.

I fine-tuned one of my novels-in-progress, crumpling up a few pieces of paper.

I hand-delivered my newly self-published novel (written under a pen name) to my mom who loved it, and she gave me honest feedback.

I listened to coyotes howling under cold starry skies.

I barely breathed when I drove through my childhood area where the Butte Fire burned the mountainsides as familiar as the back of my hand. I saw the way fire alters a community, and it’s—well, I’m still “groking” this one.

I stomped through a fine layer of snow in my brother’s woods as we searched for a Christmas cedar for my home. (His woods needed to be thinned, especially after seeing the damage of the nearby fire.)

I stuffed the “organic, free-range, and shade-grown cedar” (under the Ponderosa Pines) into my son’s sleeping bag, so it made for a comfy ride home, as well as a ton of giggles.

I didn’t buy anything on Black Friday, but watched a gorgeous orange crimson sunset glow from behind my favorite mountain.

I almost finished crocheting a hat for my niece.

I wrote poetry.

I began planning a new poetry chapbook.

And, most importantly, I took some time to take a break—daydreaming like a cat in the afternoon sunlight on a cold November day.

The list of all that I didn’t do remained on my fridge—I stared at it while licking the peanut butter off my spoon, but I wasn’t so overwhelmed.

My monkey mind had scampered off to the canopy, so I could write these words with the comfort that I’ll cross off the stuff on the list starting tomorrow.

Copyright 2015 © Jessie Wright