The Song. {poetry}

The Song.

Crickets sing-song
like a heartbeat
pulsing
rapidly
as if you heard
the first crack of thunder,

saw the zig-zag of lightning,
bursting,
illuminating an oak
on a hill
as the first rain drops
fall heavy,
and suddenly,

as if someone
dumped a bucket of water
over your head,

but they didn’t,
and it’s dry, here,
where there hasn’t been rain
since June, maybe July,

here where the golden grasses
of California
smell like
a scent that can never be bottled

because

the only way
to breathe in this perfume
is
to be here
just after sunset
when purples and blues fade into black
and the first cooling breeze
rolls over
the golden hills,

calling

the song
out of the crickets.

Copyright 2016 © Jessie Zanita Wright

Painting by Jessie Zanita Wright {reuse only with my permission, please.}

Wild & Free. {Poetry}

 

Oh, 102 degrees,

I remember you,
we’d pile in the rust red Ford Maverick
windows wide open
wind rolling through
our hair

we took the curves to the river,

wild and free,
or so we thought it would be
to the place
under the bridge,
we’d follow the path
down the rocky hill

on a dusty trail once made by deer,
or bears, a mountain lion or two

as they walked to the river,
cool waters in which I’d jump
in,

swim,

blend into the current,

until I found the spot
in the middle of the river
where I could place my feet
upon an underwater rock,
like coral,
rough edges of granite smoothed by centuries of water,
currents flowing,
feeling weightless
in the river,

reclining on that rock
on those days
back when I knew 102 degrees
without the comforts of air conditioning,
& the cool waters of the river
became my summer home.

copyright 2016 © Jessie Wright

 

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

The Sensual Strong Woman.

 

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A woman in a tight fitting rose-colored dress and black heels walked gracefully down the sidewalk in front of me.

Her long dark thick hair hung down her back, as she sashayed from side-to-side.

A sensual strong woman.

“She embodies the word Gorgeous,” I playfully punched my guy friend’s shoulder. We were walking to get a slice of pizza. He laughed, agreeing, but said my bottom was a little more shapely (because that’s what our friends do, right)?

We headed toward a pizza shop in this mellow college town in northern California. A place where people are more likely to wear flip-flops or running shoes than black high heels. She represented an anomaly of style and grace.

Right before the pizza shop, she stopped to put her bags in the trunk of her black Mini Cooper.

I told my friend that I’d love to be like that, especially after all these years of being a mom, and feeling less than glamorous (particularly on the days/weeks/months that I’ve had to “debate” special education services for my sons—see aren’t you tired from reading that sentence—so you can see why this Sensual Strong Woman caught my inner wild woman’s attention).

It wasn’t envy so much as it was admiration: she seemed so strong with her perfectly curved calf muscles and so sexy in the ownership of her own self. She gracefully held her space in the world.

As she opened the front door of her black Mini, I finally saw her face, and then I knew why she embodied a sensual strong confident woman because she grew into that space.

She created—over time—who she wanted to become, and even though time barely showed as wrinkles on her face, I could see that she was at least ten, or maybe, fifteen years older than me, and she embraced beauty.

The kind of beauty that comes with the wisdom of living.

In that brief moment, I knew nothing about her life, her struggles, her triumphs, her loses, or her, but I did know that she reminded me to keep being a Sensual Strong Woman as I grow wiser in my years.

She wasn’t some image photoshopped and posted on Instagram or in some magazine, but a real life breathing Sensual Strong Woman who embraced being herself.

And that is beautiful!

 

Copyright 2016 © Jes Wright

Photo Credit:  Takazart/Pixabay

 

The Art of Water.

 

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“Droplets of water
carry the sea green into the blue waves,
the paintbrush guides
the bleeding of two colors
into one
wild
ocean of love.” ~ Jes Wright

The Art of Water isn’t overwhelming or exhausting, but fluid in its transformation of dry pigments into a seascape.

The water’s clarity becomes a transfusion of mindfulness, as our hand guides the creation while our jumble of thoughts grow still.

In a way, watercolor is one of the more healing forms of art.

The nature of movement—in the way the water droplets roll over the paper—is gentle. It holds the connection between the core of nature and ourselves, as we can easily fall into the grace of water rolling colors into colors like miniature waves.

We fall into the Flow, getting submerged in the meditative way that a wet paintbrush can easily “erase” layers of golds and blues that ended up being too vivid for the seascape.

We slow down into the now of water as the medium, even as much as we think it’s the colors that matter the most, but it’s not. The blank spaces left in between the ultramarine blues & leaf green create a balance between what we see & what we think we see, as can be the same in our relationships.

The shine of emptiness adds and subtracts from our shadowy sides.

So do we look for the things that are left unsaid—the blank spaces—as flecks of gold? As a potential for creating more beautiful art in the daily waters of our world? Or do we take the remaining spaces, let the beads of water roll over them, blending the crimson with the Prussian blues? Each of us will come to that decision with the practice of art (& of relationships).

And, this blog, yes, this one has morphed into a rambling, but that is the nature of watercolor, beads of color bleed into other beads of pink or sea green until the paper becomes the art of water.

 

Copyright 2016 © Jes Wright

painting by jes.

Free Write. {Poetry}

image

words

hold no weight
except the pressure of your pen
against blank page,

turning nothing

into words from your mind, as
emotions captured
& transformed
into
a handful
of
coins to toss

 into 

 the wishing fountain,
silver turns
into possibilities

that ripple, or maybe,
they go “kaw-plump”
into water
like a satisfied trout

falling back
into
the river after capturing
a few flies,

and you watch
from the river bank
toes tucked under sand warmed
by the mid-day sun,

& you’d like to teleport
to the ocean,
see

the uncontrollable waves

breaking against sandstone cliffs
for a brief second
& watch

as the ravens
glide off the cliffs,

weightless

black wings against blue sky
in a stiff breeze,
reminding you
why

you write,

freely.

~

Copyright 2016 © Jes Wright

Photo Credit: Mysticsartdesign/Pixabay

To be a writer…

To be a writer…

Means feeling inspired by rambling thoughts as you awake in the cold morning air, but still you get up, and pull pen across the blank pages, as the steam from the coffee warms your lips, so you mumble an occasional word out loud before it hits the page.

To be a writer requires a single ounce of courage that rises up from the smallest and darkest corners of your body, and floods through your whole soul by the time you’ve finished putting on your makeup.

To be a writer embraces the absolutely crazy because you share your most private thoughts with complete strangers in an attempt to lighten or brighten their world, too.

To be a writer involves loving in the most wildest ways as there’s no other greater task than sharing beauty in this world so filled with pain and hatred.

To be a writer is seeing the teeny tiny things that others forget to look for in the busyness of living, as they’re too caught up in their phones.

To be a writer is feeling too much and too little in all the right and wrong moments of the day until you finally had enough, & write it all out into the world like a feather in the breeze.

To be a writer is the ultimate task of being, as there is no other way to be once you become a writer.

{And, yes, that is my last name…for real!}

Copyright 2016 © Jes Wright