Posted in Gracie's Glimmer, Poetry From A Woman Who Thinks Too Much

Sand. Love. Time and me…

Playing in the waves for an hour, letting the beach rock me
lying on my back in the embryonic, turquoise water.
Practicing letting go and trusting God.
Floating in the ocean, trusting that even if the water gets rough,
He will keep me safe.
When I feel the stress melt away, I walk out of the ocean.
I spread the blanket and lay down and reach for a handful of sand.
As soon as I fill my hand, the grains slip through my fingers.
So, you know I had to try again and again to hold a handful of sand.
I hold handful after handful of pure white sand and
no matter how tightly I squeeze, it quickly slips away.
Nothing stays but a few tiny grains of the stunning white crystals.
Time and love are so similar to sand.
I could only hold the sand with my hand open.
I hold our love in my hands and I hold on tightly, trying not to let it slip away.
But always, I am left with nothing but a few lovely grains of what was once
a sandcastle full of hopes and dreams…and the memories of that which was us.
Time and love slip through my hands even faster than grains of sand.
Some things were never meant to be restrained.
They lose their luster if you try to own them.
Sand. Love. Time and me…

Advertisements
Posted in Gracie's Glimmer, Poetry From A Woman Who Thinks Too Much

Not Beaten After All

Women Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie

IMAG1054
This yellow hibiscus
has been rained on
and it has been beaten
senseless by the wind.
It has been bent
almost to the ground
and it fought storms
to stand back up again.
It stands proud and
yes, it stands tall.
It was shaken
and it was bruised
But not beaten after all.

View original post

Posted in Gracie's Glimmer, Poetry From A Woman Who Thinks Too Much

Wildflowers

11

The breeze in my face is sweet
and it tastes like the ocean in my lungs
although it’s not.
Then again, it really is because
that’s what it tastes like to me.
Freedom is a wildflower growing
where ever the wind blows her seeds,
in a garden or in an empty field.
Freedom tastes like the ocean
and looks like wildflowers
and freedom…she dances
with the confidence of seventeen.

Jeanne Marie, 2019

Posted in Gracie's Glimmer, Poetry From A Woman Who Thinks Too Much, Wrestling Codependency

Not Today

Your energy is so very heavy
and as you spill it all over me,
I withdraw, I stumble from the weight
and before the negative mudslide
completely smothers me, I run.
I’m not healthy enough to deflect
your darkness. No, I absorb it.
Removal from your presence is
the only way I know to break free.
Perhaps, someday I will be stronger
holding my own under your heaviness
brave enough to resist your magic show
your slight of hand that captures my light
killing me slowly to feed your hungry soul.
But, not today my love, not today.

Posted in Gracie's Glimmer, Poetry From A Woman Who Thinks Too Much, Wrestling Codependency

Arms Wrapped Tight

Arms wrapped tight
around my waist.
Grasping skin and bones
squeezing, pinching, holding
don’t let go, don’t let go!
Everything will fall out
all this grief
all this pain
it will spill
on the floor
and then…
I won’t be
me anymore.
Arms wrapped tight
around my waist.

Posted in Gracie's Glimmer, Poetry From A Woman Who Thinks Too Much

Memorial To A Worm

What kind of a person
paints over a helpless worm?
How long could it have taken
to throw it back into the yard?
Painted to the wall with
no way to pull its tiny, body free
smothered in the paint.
What kind of person gets upset
over the murder of a worm?
Me.
Me and this grasshopper.
He came to the memorial
But he couldn’t stay long.

Posted in Gracie's Glimmer, Poetry From A Woman Who Thinks Too Much

I Cannot Sleep. The Cats Are Crying.

Women Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie


On my garage stoop the cats are gathered
crying into the damp, dark mist that rises before dawn.
Sitting in a circle, they howl and whine and mew
like old women with a dilemma to ponder anew.
Another stray arrives but softly cries outside the circle
whimpering as he pleads for admission to the klatch.
The cats howl and whine and mew among themselves
and one fat grey cat snarls his veto. He is out-voted.
The sitting cats become silent and look into each
other’s glowing eyes, then, as one, they turn
their sullen eyes to gaze upon the stranger.
Their silence is inviting so the tenderfoot softly
pads into the circle and sits submissive.
The conversation resumes.
Cold air turning warm breath into smoke and eerie whispers
forming smoky words which crawl into my veins, raising hairs,
fears that have no name, foundation for terror that blooms.
There are…

View original post 337 more words