Poetry and personal blog – Spilling my guts to strangers

Posts tagged ‘poem’

seasonal madness

as i sit at my desk
the autumn sunlight
swirls through the window
bright then dim

i imagine my thoughts
are validated then called into question
throughout the day
by such dimming and shining

as the days pass
and november lies dying
the light is ever weaker
and i wonder if that weakness reflects
the paucity of my current thoughts
or simply the changing seasons

i worry come the gray days of winter
how i’ll know which thoughts
are worth thinking

© Sweepy Jean and Sweepy Jean Explores the (Webby) World, 2013


(the rotating earth)
clouds raked over the blue sky and
one after one are
spun into fine white threads
(above the strands) a
sun defies the eye
yet is the source of color is
the reason for rain
–we are the light–

© Sweepy Jean and Sweepy Jean Explores the (Webby) World, 2013

The Poetry Workshop (poem)

I venture out to the poetry workshop.
I sit in the meeting room
At a long rectangular table
Crowded with poets.
I wonder if the others notice
That I am naked,
As transparent as the picture windows
On the wall opposite me
Blasting the white glare of autumn sunlight.
I listen quietly.

The instructor–warm, wise,
Who knows something of life–
Tells us about the crow
Who sits on our shoulder
Holding us back from writing honestly.
She says we have to knock the crow
Off our shoulders.

She says, “Write a poem
About something you are afraid to say.”

I feel the crow’s weight
And think,
“My crow is a vulture
Who eats me alive every day.
We live symbiotically.
He is my identity.
He looks like my ex.”

I tell myself, “I can survive.”
But I should say,
“I can do without that damn vulture.
We don’t have to be joined at the shoulder.”

I should knock him to the ground
And eat him for dinner,
And not worry about
Who would I be without him.

© Sweepy Jean and Sweepy Jean Explores the (Webby) World, 2012

Like. Love. Hate. (the ebook)

First there was the blog post, then the poem. Now Like. Love. Hate. is an ebook of four poems!

The poem “Like Love Hate” that originally appeared on this blog is included in the ebook, of course. I revised it a bit but it still retains its flavor.

There is something about this poem that keeps me coming back to it as a source of inspiration. Using “Like Love Hate” as a starting point for the ebook, I included other poems that further explore these emotions.

The other three poems in the collection are making their public debut in this new ebook:

“Victoria’s Dress” represents like
“the buddha of questions” represents love
“The Beginning and the End” represents hate

I created the cover art. The green background and flower design relates to the storyline of one of the poems in the collection.

The poems in Like. Love. Hate. cut a little deeper than anything I’ve shared so far, and still, this is just a beginning. Buy it and as always, let me know what you think!

The ebook is available at Amazon.com and Smashwords. If you can, please leave a  review.

© Sweepy Jean and Sweepy Jean Explores the (Webby) World, 2012

when she walks

when  she walks,
her twisting hips,  a pestle,
grind a secret
between her thighs.

how must that feel—

her face pressed to the sun,
a flower reaching;

her skin washed in satin waves of air;

her spirit tickled long and slow;

her feet,
the crash of cymbals
on the pavement.

how does that feel?

like the still between tremors,

like breathing color,

like the order of the universe.

© Sweepy Jean and Sweepy Jean Explores the (Webby) World, 2012

at the ends

you are at earth’s end
walking in the park,
caught in drenching rain–
shirt and pants
cold and clinging, shoes
squelching at every step.

you stop for shelter
under an oak,
the sound of rain
like breaking glass.

at earth’s opposite end–
air hot and still–
i sit on a park bench,
umbrella open.
humidity clutches me
like a frightened child.

in unbroken waves,
heat rises from the path.
i close my eyes
and wish for rain.

© Sweepy Jean and Sweepy Jean Explores the (Webby) World, 2012

Confessional Poet

Many first-time visitors make mention of the subtitle of this blog with regard to spilling my guts to strangers. And spill I do. I’ve talked about how I’m trying to overcome indoctrination in the code of silence, how race has played a part in my life, and my issues with abandonment. Probably what plagues me most right now are my issues surrounding my marriage, with my latest gut spill taking place right before I began the poem-a-day challenge last month.

When I think about the kind of poet I want to be, I immediately think of (more…)

The (a poem)

This year is next year’s
The year that was
Bookended by
The cut of ice.
The crystalline
Days draw blood
As they pass through us.

Like last year,
Tragedies disseminate
Myth and history.
Just as dark-eyed prophesy
Apprehends those who hide,
The dry pain of loss
Surprises us, again.

Astounding, too,
Is the birth of
Flowers in the public
Garden (rosebuds, tulip
Bulbs, truth on their
Newborn faces as
Clear as that on
The newly dead).

We envy summer,
Which belongs
Only to itself.

But now is the happiest
Moment ever–
A memory soon hoarded
Among the cooling embers,
Sorted by the eventualities
That override it,
Smothered by the weight of
Planning to be without.
We promise
The fire next time,
Or do we?

A half-remembered
Cloud of hot breath
Fades against
A cold sky.
Leaves float on the wind
(Yellow, red).
Ice cuts the air and
The old becomes the new
Becomes the trend becomes
The trite becomes the

[A version of this poem appears on the Blognostics website.]

© Sweepy Jean and Sweepy Jean Explores the (Webby) World, 2012

A. D. Joyce Has Gone Hollywood

The title of this post refers to my reading of my poem “The” that I recorded, which was subsequently made into the awesome video you see below. The video was created by the creative powers that be at Blognostics–or BN as we insiders like to call it! BN is a cool community for poets, fiction writers, and visual artists, so check them out.

In other news, look for more readings from me and maybe even  a Vlog in the future. For the most part, though, I’m going to keep my nose to the grindstone for the next few weeks trying to finish a poetry project I’ve been working on forever.

In April, I intend to participate in the NaPoWriMo challenge again and post a poem a day. I hope to get through it and learn as much about myself this year as I did last year.


© Sweepy Jean and Sweepy Jean Explores the (Webby) World, 2012.

A Writer’s Writerly Habits

Today, I’d like to re-post a piece I wrote in March of 2010 that talks about some of my writing habits.

But first, I wanted to point you toward two bloggers who were kind enough to read my ebook. Check out their reviews at:

intense sensations
Bound & Determined to Find a Good Read

The following re-post is a good companion piece to a guest post I wrote for poet Mark Stratton’s blog, Aggaspletch. For his ongoing series, I describe my writing space–that is, where I do my writing. Here, I describe what I write with and on.

Do you have any rituals that you perform when you sit down to write, whether it’s your masterpiece book or a blog post?

Odds and Ends

Longhand is the only way I can write poetry.  Longhand feels more organic to me than typing does, I feel more connected to the words. I hate pencils, but if there is nothing else around I’ll use one. Otherwise, any decent ball point will do if it slides across the paper smoothly. A roller ball is fun because it is wet, sloppy, and smudgy.

Whether with pen or pencil, I cross out all mistakes, never erase, and when I’m thinking, I draw a box around the crossed out words and fill them in really dark. Sometimes if I have to think for a long time, I tear the page from coloring in too much.

I have tons of notebooks to write in. However, my preferred practice is to grab some paper that is going to be thrown out anyway–like a bill stub, an opened envelope, or a computer printout–and write on the empty side. I usually keep pretty good track but over time I’ve lost a couple of poems, one of them I mourn as my best. I think about it a lot but I don’t know if I can write that one again.

When I do write in a notebook,  I never (more…)

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