A Gentleman Silhouette

 

15232271_10208309508360732_5270859951231576226_n

Damp leaves fallen everywhere 
Silently he who stands in prayer
Somewhere ~ pondering, “Elsewhere?
Could I have come from?” In despair,
He looks thinking, “is this a nightmare?”
Unrecognizing the odors and the auras
Alone, by the park bench now worn
Etched in wood were cursive initials
Swollen wet wood had but erased them
And there he stands, once debonaire
Only now, merely a ghost carrying an umbrella
The parallel alliance, the romantic bond
Passed into independent realms
Perhaps, time and measurements
Will lock into the same grid
But, until then, he just stands
Silently pondering the else-wheres.
Haunting the bench 
Amidst fallen wet leaves
Stands a gentleman silhouette

 

 

BJ K♣️©2016 Bonnie Jennings. All Rights Reserved

 

Image from A Poets Haven

Passages: Time is a Thief 🌹

William Wordsworth, 1770 – 1850 (an excerpt)

“What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind.”

Reflections on Family

 

My Family/families are my Valentines. ❤️

 

 

Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

William Wordsworth1770 – 1850 (an excerpt)

 

“What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind.”

 

 

IMG_0112img_04641918058_1061183027059_1121161_n_fotorimage

 
 

Time is a Thief

 
 
 

14322460_1751462878451894_2530780771470008311_n

Fleeting ~ Time

Left are memories of the children voices
 Left are the visions of sand castles

Time is a thief ~ so subtly it steals
 The moments thought unimportant and harried

If only for a moment ~ my mother and father
 We could gather at the playground together

Instead of doing my own thing
 Would look only at you and carefully listen

Because truly ~ Time is a thief

BJ

 

13095829_886498838139009_7154066332895641571_n

 

 

Hidden from sight the old trees still protect
 As if intruders enter out of disrespect 
 Inside the castle tucked deeply far away
 Is a beating heart who yearns for their play
 When they visit again and all will be restored
 To the time and place where the children roared
 The dogs barked when visitors approached
 And all was well, once upon a day
BJ

 

13892284_1734666053464910_6310233795199438250_n

 
 
The laughter of voices of children are still heard
 Looking at the image seeing what once was
 And nothing will bring back the innocent days
 Moving time forward, can never return



And the cycle of voices of children presently heard
  Are the ones who'll whisper in future playgrounds
  And the cycle goes on and on and on perpetually turning

Making the maddening cycle stop
  Takes fortitude, strength, courage and truth
  That the voices of children stay presently in your heart

BJ

 

 

15032800_1030726717049553_6819790305208393100_n

 

 

 Her Mysteries

 
 

Ascending an abandoned staircase stood once gloried and adored

 Still remains inside a crumbling castle’s walls ~ yet still lovely
She held secrets no one had explored, she waited to share
The mysteries, now ghosts, of people who once were
Back, caught in time, and the twirling vacuum of memories

Went ~ Swept away. But the antique staircase could bring them back ~

If only a wandering visitor came to stay.

 
 
 
BJ
 
 
 
 
14937273_1024688090986749_873828385385486532_n

 

“Please, whisper. As you enter a sacred place, be reverent. It is the granite that shields her heart, and the only way to enter is in quiet solitude.”







Thank you for reading

 

 

 

K♣️

©2016 Bonnie Jennings. All Rights Reserved

 

 

 

Haven Dreaming

10421450_1101803833180828_7406199936711052169_n

 

Drifting weightlessly awhile dreaming lucidly seeing

Floating through halls of granite having huge columns 

Touching cold stone walls filled with ancient lights

Knew momentarily, I was transported somewhere else

I studied the writings and carved pictures on the walls

Reading a story of humans caught within an earthen warp

But, here a palatial ruin, not foreboding, and oddly grand

Felt pleasure and comfort, felt familiarly, as if, I was home

The temple held temples, spirits ~ awaiting souls

A ride through the cosmos in order to find their own

And meanwhile awaiting the catalyst who transports

Watched myself drifting in this palatial mausoleum space

Recognizing old ~ old character beings, I’ve known

In another place for certain; however, this was our womb

Until the time of birthing thus taking flight combusting into life

Here we gathered, quietly awaiting, until our mother said

And this cold monumental temple is our place

I recognized the carvings and the silent grace

And one day, will return and unite with my family

A peaceful dream experienced, finding my haven 

©2016 Bonnie jennings All Rights Reserved

Imaginative Children, Are They Future Authors? Does your child change Medusa?

 

From Pinterest Images

Imaginative Children, Are They Future Authors?

So, it’s been said, regarding the odds of becoming a famous writer that, “4 out of 5 people, want to write a New York Times best seller, book.” Clearly, the odds of becoming a famous author are stacked against every writer. It maybe easier to win the many lotteries, which have a winner every day, somewhere.

Looking at the traits of many writers when younger, we will find a child who had/has/have an incredible imagination.

To watch for a potential child writer, one should notice and observe traits.  The traits vary, and these traits, I’ve listed, are certainly not (all) the characteristics of (all) young writers. But, these are a sampling or examples of some observations a parent may see in their youngster or youngsters.

Does the child change the story/stories that a parent reads them? Do they have another ending? And to add about this trait, it may occur at very young age. Perhaps, even before, age 2 or 3 and on up. It depends on how early the child was exposed to books and stories.

Does your child love stories? Do they open a book (often) without prompting by a parent? “Here, please, read this to me.” And, “No, that’s not how it ends, mommy/daddy!” They clearly change the setting, plot and characters…

Does your 7, 8 or 9 year old love to write poems and do they keep a diary or journal?

Has anyone accused your child of “not telling the truth?” Or, have they been accused of “lying?” Many times a young writer will suffer punishment for being creative. The parent may not understand, nor their teacher. Perhaps, the person who will/or has recognized this gift, in a child is someone who is also gifted… After all, as it’s said, “It takes one to know one.” Non creative people often become frustrated with the creative child. The parent or teacher is unable to understand the trait, they simply don’t resonate with a child who is unlike their self or themselves … They can’t.

On to the characteristics: Does your child make up better endings of stories, or more violent scenes, or change any part of their world that is unsatisfactory, as well as stories? Does your child perhaps change Medusa? I laugh at this statement, because this is what I did when I was a child. I made my mother change the snakes to dragons or horses, and my mother, always obliged me… She was a creator, as well.

Does your child pretend a lot? Do they have imaginary friends? Do they talk to themselves? Can they entertain themselves with fantasy for long periods of time? Are they as happy to be with themselves, rather than, being with friends?

Do they want to know historical facts? Are they obsessed with hearing other stories over and over again? Do they have foresight? Are they intuitive?

Do they live in a dream world? Do they daydream? Has the teacher at school gotten on your child for, “Not paying attention?” Perhaps, your child is partially listening, but is making the explanation better or more interesting… ?

Has your child been treated for a psychiatric disorder? Did they put your child on medications to clear up delusions, hallucinations or mental illness? Does your child have nightmares? Do they see things at night or day? Do they think the boogie-man is truly under their beds?

Now, please understand, there are mental disorders that do need to be treated. However, a consideration for imagination vs psychiatric diagnosis, must be clarified. Asking and verifying, are these behaviors an active imagination or symptoms of a psychiatric illness? (is absolutely necessary)

If your child is surely not suffering from psychosis or a mental illness, then it maybe a good idea to have your child placed in a group of young writers, poets, lyricists and artists. Often artists do suffer from some sadness like other non creative people do, but creativity plus sadness often is interpreted as mental illness. (Very sad face). The equation is not 1 + 1 = 2 …  It is merely 1, you have a creative child and 2, the child is depressed (like many uncreative humans). Too often, the 1 + 1 = 2 means a psych diagnosis, medications and a label that follows a child the rest of their lives. (very sad face, again).

Children will need to have this gift of imagination developed by the right person. It is a parental responsibility to help cultivate an imaginative child and to teach the child when to turn the fantasy off and when to create… After all, an imaginative child will create ALL THE TIME… that’s their gift, just like a vocalist or an artist of pictures …  Writers create worlds, kingdoms, magical places and wonderful stories if we nurture them, understand them, and assist them. For an example, if you forbade a writer or creator from mentally creating, they would not/could not stop imagining. It is as natural as a natural born vocalist. Writers are intuitive manifest-ors. They will need positive instruction and direction from someone who is also creative. They will need direction from a positive influence.

I don’t know about becoming a famous author, screenwriter, lyricists or poet, but I do know, from being a creative child, they will thrive in a protective, supportive environment and who knows what anyones future might be… Except the little author… Oh, they can create their world… It’s as far as their imaginations can venture…

Happy writing little ones…

 

Please feel free to write your experiences or your child’s character traits of being a writer… I would love to know yours…

The Truth: The Innocent and The Abusers

IMG_1904

It became clear to me after suffering about my children. After a night of despair, the realization about how cruel life is, and is possibly hell, came to me. And to add, making the plight of despair worse, is the fact that every 3 posts on FB profess to we humans that we must always be thankful. Well, my thankfulness card vanished awhile back and my Pollyanna spirit dissolved, too. That is because, after considering the mother and child relationship, the mathematics follow a general pattern. Parents raise them for 17 to 18 years and the world has them an avg. (age of death 72)-18 years with parents = roughly 54 years the child is owned and captured by the world and only 17 to 18 years with the parents.

There are 2 types of people in the world and they are users and abusers and the naive and the innocent. Keeping in mind the second group, the naive and the innocent, will eventually become the user and abuser. That is because the law of action and reaction is the basics for the survival of the child and you.
Horridly stating, someone in the world is going to poison your child. Someone is going to lure them, touch them, corrupt them. They are your children, your offspring, that you did so well, hovering over, like a hawk. But, when your not looking and unaware, there right under your roof and under your nose someone is waiting to use and abuse your child. Sadly, when your child becomes their prey, often, they enjoy the harm done to them even though they feel guilty about the assault. In fact, more times than not, the crossing over of boundaries and space by the broacher, is not recognized by the child until many years later. Also more disheartening, your precious child has already joined the dark side and has abused and used, as well.
On the planet Earth, there are no innocent adult people. Non. We are in a cycle that is hard to break and stops at death. If they’re are the innocent than they are the infants who have not encountered the abuser or user yet. But, assuredly, as soon as the child or victim is left alone long enough, an abuser and user will find them. They always show up. There is no escape from them on his planet.
One last idea, the actual abuse was never mentioned in this story. Your mind created and saw the crime completed and perhaps you saw and knew the assault because it was done to you or perhaps you are now doing it to another human… The reason you now know this in your mind, was it was explained earlier in this story. It happened to you, too. The cycle never stops.

Earning the wings that I wear

wpid-IMG_0782_20130319175056422.jpg

Earning the wings that I wear, 

Dutiful battles and wars not disbarring, 

The sight of suffering and smell of stench, 

The roads we’ve traveled often forgotten, 

The hunger for home, not resenting, 

The survival fought for mankind, 

My wings though grey with dirt, 

The fight has passed my thirst, 

But we continue forward, 

As soldiers do, 

Commanded by the Lord, 

Until we’re through.

 

The Healers in Ecuador

I dedicate this poem to someone that I admire beyond words…

To Ingrid Naiman

Ingrid’s blog and link to her, out of this world, knowledge of healing…

http://astrologyofhealing.com/ingrid_path/ingrid_naiman_Hawaii.html

 

The intricate beauty of god's love

The Healers in Ecuador
Ecuador lush greens, and iguanas galore
The smell of the Hibiscus so sweet they implore
The hunches of folk maidens found in books
Adventures in paradise; listening to brooks
Healing the soul from whence it came
Releasing the bondages from deadly games
The essence of breath found in the jungle untamed.
The healers explored vast botany ignored
Within the person the pilgrims restored
Instead of a pharmacy excepting a bribe
Drops from lush plants heal souls that subscribe
And, hope soars as the eagles proclaim,
The Boehme folk maidens brushed them and gently lay claim
Healing for anyone without any shame
Thanking The Earth for royal bounties it shares
Requesting in return to replenish its’ ware

By Bonnie Jennings

 

K♣️

©2015 Bonnie Jennings. All Rights Reserved

The Essence of Old Lace, Grandmother’s and Moth Balls

My grandmother
My grandmother, “Bigmother.”

The abandoned home of my grandmother’s bred too many spiders.

But, hiding on the window seal were her Earthly treasures.

And, going to the alter, of her lasting thoughts,

I placed one hand on her Bible and the other on my heart.

Closing my eyes and feeling that time, knew we were not apart…

My grandmother then spoke to me, and said, “I’m so proud of you, as you are, a work of art.”

So, I breathed the moment in reverence of her lovely essence

And departed with a smile knowing ~ She was supernaturally present…

Soulmates Found in Other Times

Deadwood or reinvention
Deadwood or reinvention

Soulmates Found in Other Times

By Bonnie Jennings 2015

the greens of spring vibrate abundance
on the distant flight of winter
The chirping and sounds of life continued
among the living of this planet
The deer graze without hunger
on the meadows of rolling mountains
Awe the aromas of the forest
that invite us into enchanting stories
holding her sweetly amidst the flowers
kissing her gently the ghostly lovers
who perished in memories within her sorrows

Jo Jo, My Sweet Love…

Jo Jo

(I realize this wasn’t written very well, but I wrote it when I was so sad about my Jo, so I’m keeping it as it is. Maybe oneway, I will clean it up, but for now, it stays like this. Perhaps, i will trash it just because))

10897745_382182471963616_1970957772271283883_n

And this is my little dog, JoJo and he is sick.

Today is Saturday 4/11/15.

After working a 12 hour night and having a 1 hour and 30 mins commute to get to him,

I returned home to a very sick doggy child.

Knowing that you had to be by yourself during this time,

Saddens me, but I’m here now.

IMG_0602

Those of us who love our pets know their suffering hurts tremendously.

An empty void grows in our hearts.

Tears come and they will surely go,

And, glimpses of their childhood memories cause us guttural sobbing.

Letting go is the least selfish act I can do.

I know I must help you to fly.

And I give you permission though I will miss you.

IMG_0825

Why do these furry friends make us so happy?

At times we ignore them and push them away.

But, they never leave our sides.

Perhaps that is why they’re named dogs.

If turned backwards spells God.

IMG_0130

Your whiskers are so scruffy.

You smell a little too.

But, you’re worth all the world to me.

Even though, you once chewed my shoes.

A shaggy puppy are you.

And human love, can’t be compared.

You’re the best friend, of all my friends,

cause you are always, so willing

to be there ~

Even when I’m blue.

You never make it about yourself.

No, you turn everything back to me.

And, you lick my feet when they’re stinky.

You lick my sour breath too.

And how many friends that are human,

Would dare do the same little kind acts as you?

IMG_0063_2

So, face towards the son my friend.

Where you feel the pleasant gentle breeze,

And the sons-light is eternal

And wait for me there, please.

Receive me when I come home.

It’s just the threshold that we must pass through,

It’s merely the dying and shedding of Earth’s body

That is tough and just like we knew.

~

But, on the other side ~

Wait for me, because I will come.

One day, we shall meet again.

That day, I finally arrive home.

~

And, as the song goes: It will be on a distant shore.

There, in the sweet by in by,

In heaven, we will meet once more.

Even though now, we regretfully sigh.

~

 Before taking the last breath

Lets hug and kiss if you can

But, I’ll not disturb your transition

Because you are my friend.

~

My heart holds your soul and takes it within.

And, my hands set your spirit free.

Because true love is utter kindness

And, allows The Father’s hands to take you from me.

IMG_2462

Jo Jo as His Glove in Elizabeth Catherine Dubois

(My second novel, but this is not about me. It’s about you, JoJo)

IMG_0319

Angels in Disguise

IMG_0414

One day a sad dog came to my door. There, I opened and my heart was torn because I wanted to take it inside, but instead, I closed the door. I shut the angel out. Years went by and I thought about my action. So, I cried. Thinking about how I could have done this to a poor creature and then asked why I did so. Oh, I made my excuses and there were many. Then many years later I came to realize that sometimes angels aren’t people. But they are lives sent by God who loves us and has met us where we are, and we shun His gifts. And, why people don’t respond to heart aches, not only our own, but of little critters is unanswerable. However, now knowing, God never fails when He sends the angels. So, today when the starving animal approaches your door, remember it is a gift and it was sent from Heaven. Maybe it is for the moment and maybe the dog or cat is there to ask you for food or water or for help finding a permanent shelter and a loving home. Perhaps, it is asking you for help to find it’s way home because it is lost. Just maybe … We can open our hearts and our doors to help in some little way.

How Many More Breaths

My grandmother
My grandmother

Time

tick-tock; tic- tock; tick, tick, tick.

Time.

WHY?

Nursing homes, memory units, family dispersed.

They ran when my hair turned silver and I smelled of urine.

Oh, this is The United States ~ who else in the world would leave?

What, a silly question,  after all, it was us the free-love generation who started this nonsense.

Really, in truth, we were the “me” generation. Misnamed. The irony makes me laugh.

We called our kids this. They were the product of the all consuming need to be free.

Mom and Dad split, time, after time, after time, all for the image of freedom.

“They’ll get over it.”

Yes, they have and assuredly ~

One plus one equals two. And, two times two equals four.

Physical laws don’t change without the atom bomb.

And, now is waiting.

Waiting, on my clock.

Quietly it tick-tocks; tick-tocks, tick, tick, ticks …

God, how many more breaths must I take?

THE FOG

Mimsi Flowers and Notions

The Fog
By Bonnie Jennings
Summer 2012

image

The damp cloud came while sleeping last night
Answering no invitation it rests
Vaguely it lingers until it wants
Dissipating in time; we wait…

Questioning, why did it come?
Science answers.
But, why did it come?
In darkness; found romancers.

Loneliness stabs my heart when come
And truths hidden arise like fog
Here answers are, as I stand
Now knowing; as planned.

It comes to take like Grim Reaper
Lives unsuspecting; for this I shudder
And on a byway blanketed dew
The unsuspecting meets the cue

After it’s claimed living possessions
Dissipating, evaporating it’s gone
Sun rays shine through the dank cloud
And life continues as before

Until the veils shroud again
The circle rolls once begun
Then, the fog’s web laced
But, until then; the river has embraced.

Author Notes
The news came last night. Two dear friends, stand facing terminal illnesses.

View original post

Follow The Firefly

wpid-20130314_184558-2.jpg

The Fireflies yield the way.

The lightening bugs  twinkle.

Their silvery lights uncover the dark..

Leading, by glimmering the astray.

~

Wandering forlorn paths of leaves

Damp from evening dew that had fallen

Cool toes playing on grass

When fall takes summer by weaves

wpid-Screenshot_2013-02-16-13-53-22-1.png

I Kissed the boy on his jowl

Bobbing for apples on equinox

The caramel corn enchanted our sences

But, come winter, the hungry wolves do howl.

~

Cold and dark a gloomy cover

Skies ending, the tales of fall

Covered within a blanket by a fire

Thus relinquishing time and giving foliage a chance to recover

~

Suddenly a green leaf bursts open

Warm sunlight fills the cold dying soul

Rainwater quench their parched thirst

Then, fireflies come with spring’s floral fortunes.