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Joli's Journal


Joli's Journal

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5 entries this month
 

16:34 Oct 24 2009
Times Read: 693




My shame ever lies in the words I did not speak.

COMMENTS

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22:54 Oct 22 2009
Times Read: 732




You are why words aspire to be paintbrushes.

COMMENTS

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Angelus
Angelus
16:16 Oct 29 2009

.. because they try to paint such accurate pictures and becuase of .. yeah well, if he don't understand, he never will.





 

Between the Cracks

19:46 Oct 22 2009
Times Read: 746





Thin and frail,

A weathered picket

From a long-forgotten fence

In an overgrown world.

She is stitched together

With nothing but vapors,

Leaning on the arm

Of her tired sweetheart.

Grateful for a bit of food

And fuel enough for the journey

To a strange new bed,

In an an antiseptic room

Where she will be swallowed whole

And her sweetheart will return alone.

I have to lean close to hear.

"Angel."

It is a moment before I understand;

She means me,

And I have never felt less angelic

Than when she waves good bye.

COMMENTS

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BLOODLIFE
BLOODLIFE
20:06 Oct 22 2009

Maybe you caught me in a melancholy moment, or I just may have something in my eye! Whichever it is, you never fail to stir an emotion in me.





Beastt17
Beastt17
06:23 Oct 24 2009

In a few lines you completely captured the moment, almost beyond the level that most of us could even experience it. This should be printed, framed and hung on the wall, next to that strange bed in the antiseptic room. You're amazing and your work will, without doubt, live beyond you and bring your sight to people for centuries to come.





Theban
Theban
10:49 Nov 07 2009

It was very windy today when I read this...inside with all the windows shut...wow!





Become
Become
18:32 Dec 28 2009

well spoken! you've a gift for words.





 

PRIVATE ENTRY

13:07 Oct 01 2009
Times Read: 808


• • • • PRIVATE JOURNAL ENTRY • • • •


 

Now I Long For Yesterday

06:07 Oct 01 2009
Times Read: 809




He has artist hands,

Rough and surprising,

But not to me.

Your early days smelled of laundry

Pinned to a line in the southern sun

Where bedsheets billowed

Like sails on the horizon,

Always coming in for you, my sunny boy.


But my childhood was fragranced

With the fumes of mineral spirits

And the sweat of concentration

That made me breathe deep

And scurry on little girl legs to his elbow

Where I could watch for hours

In the warmth of his indulgence.

My father dipped his brush in shadow

And buttered the edges of my life in light,

Dappling the world in a mystery of fallen leaves.

And beneath it all, a right triangle motif

Quantified my center of gravity

There at his elbow, in the wake of creation

Where I would search for myself for hours

In the masterstroke of his grace,

Knowing myself blessed to belong to him

Even when he swirled the skies with storm clouds,

Rusting the anvil of a long-dead blacksmith

I dared to see in the slanting angles

Of my father’s unpeopled scenes.


He has artist hands,

Rough from wooden frames

Designed to stretch canvas with care

That he may gesso the weave,

Preparing it to receive a dream,

Reflecting forever a piece of his soul.

I long to be as free as the cloth

Beneath my father’s touch.

COMMENTS

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birra
birra
15:07 Oct 01 2009

Amazingly artistic memoir of your youth… you have taken your father’s artistry and painted new pictures with words.



And I am sure, with the depth of your writings, there is most likely a poem to compliment every painting he created. You’ve honored him with your talent, your creativity, your wisdom, your life, your heart and the magnificent person you have grown to be.



I feel in my heart how proud he must be of his little girl.





Joli
Joli
15:26 Oct 01 2009

Oh wow, thank you. That was an amazing thing to say.





Irony
Irony
01:32 Oct 03 2009

That is incredibly beautiful... I guess I will be calling my dad tomorrow now.





NocturnalMistress
NocturnalMistress
23:47 Oct 07 2009

This poem, it has touched me deeply.



It makes me reflect on my father and everything he has taught me and every single thing he as made for me.



My father creates things with his hands, most of the furniture in my bedroom was made by him. Most of the pictures on my walls and on my dressers are in pictures frames he made himself.



You are a wonderful writer. I am glad I read this, it made me smile and makes me appreciate my father even more.



Thank you.








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