Where I Am Less
Knew coming through the door
happy, relaxed, smiling
there would be a price to pay.
Saw the tension on your face
waiting for me to take my place
beside you, where I belong…
on the couch
where I am less.
Went out on my own
played all day with a friend
not depressed, not alone.
daring to smile,
shut off the phone.
foolish woman
I am back home…
on the couch
where I am less.
by Jeanne Marie
Enjoy the waves of peace and happiness while you are riding high.
Soak up the sun and the sweetness so you will be strong when the waves crash down, because they will crash down.
Always have faith and believe that although the waves cannot last, they will rise again…
Waves will lift you up above your brokenness over and over.
That is what waves do.
FATHERS AND DAUGHTERS PIECES OF THE PUZZLE What type of man was your father when you were growing up? According to therapeutic folklore, every choice we make as women, every man we choose to love, stems from our relationship with our father. Whoa boy, if that’s true, then I’m in trouble! How about you? To […]
via Happy Father’s Day Dad, Where Ever You Are — Women Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie
The Princess was sitting in her castle and she swore no man would she let woo.
She turned them all away as she said, no, not you, not you, not you, to myself I will be true.
She danced with her butterflies, she twirled in her flower gardens like when she was two.
She whispered to her flowers, confessing, I love you and you and you.
So happy was this woman that she vowed never to wed and then a Knight in dazzling armor appeared at the castle gates, the sun shining on his head.
She was blinded by his beauty, aura like spun gold and this one Knight she invited to her bed, visions of together growing old.
Prince Charming was his name and wow, that man tickled her fancy with his soft kiss and even if he just walked by, she would stumble and a step she would miss.
Well, we all know about no such thing as happy endings and soon the Princess gave up her other loves, like her writing.
She was busy twisting and turning and bending to keep the Prince happy, looking in her mirror-mirror and often sitting there silently for hours.
The Prince started kissing her less and less often and his voice for her…he no longer softened.
Many nights she cried herself to sleep, under so many full moons…she would weep and weep and weep.
Many moons later, she came to her senses, had the guards toss the Prince out and around her old gardens she built stronger fences.
This is a true story and you know it’s true, because I was the Princess and you, you were the Knight I gave my heart too.
Silly Princess, Stupid Boy, hard lessons, me and you.
Butterflies flit around my face
morning does not stay
minutes turns to hours
as I duel with weeds and play.
I go out front and gasp
stock-still, in awe I stand
loving flowers of every hue
petals are caressed with hand.
Sun sets, splashing orange
and yellow across the sky
stunning, breathtaking
fiery colors fast-slipping by.
“Dear God, is this all just for me?”
“Child of nature, thumbs of green
butterfly whisperer, home garden queen,
send your pictures to other’s eyes
and they will bless all who see.
by Jeanne Marie
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Commercials of women
Floating so sensuously
Through fields of daisies
Makes me feel old
Because I don’t dream
Floating dreams anymore.
My feet are on the ground
Set deep in reality, while
Gray runs through my hair.
I drifted in mid-air for a time
Until life and maturity
Caught me and I came down.
Swirling, endless descent
No daisies to sweeten
My head-first fall.
I wish that life were a commercial
And that I had a choice
Before I sponsored this show.
I can bring the rain when there is a drought.
I can change the color of the clouds
using the sun to turn them inside out.
I can change the leaves on an orange tree
turn them to red in shades of fifty-three.
But, I can’t make you love me.
Sometimes I get lost inside my own mind
My body becomes just a shell
I forget who I am and where I wanted to go
I know it’s awful for you to watch me
Trapped inside myself, my blackness is hell.
My mind and my heart feel empty
With echoes of the past all that I can hear
I don’t mean to leave you to sit alone
But sometimes I’m just not here.
I don’t know where I go, yet it feels familiar.
I close my eyes and I fall down into sleep
Waves of calm wash through my bones, my mind
There. Now I don’t have to decide, feel or think.
I know I was broken, brain, soul and spirit
And there is no extra sticky glue
No modern pill or magic potion
That could bring me back,
Mended, to you.
If only I had known how sad
Together would turn out to be,
After you cut open my heart,
I would have walked away
And one of us would have been free.
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 no refreshments but the cats don’t seem to mind
stray cats are used to hunger, thirst, cold tea bags
and cigarette butts in the trash can-food that they find.
I’d set out milk and cookies if the cats were inviting
but although a stray myself, their yellow glares
remind me, I don’t belong. I’m not their kind.
The whining, mewling voices grow louder
anger colored by painful memories obviously arises.
Entranced, I listen in silence from my porch until
the meeting is adjourned, ending with screams of rage.
The strays go their separate ways, running,
running to the four corners of my fields.
One mangy calico remains at post beneath my window
to plead their case, to keep the vigil.
Crying with a newborn baby’s wail to my empty arms
while from the fields, the stray’s cries drift back to my ears.
I cannot sleep. The cats are crying.
I used to let them sleep in the garage but they peed on the racecar
and they crapped on the Snap-On tools.
They had heat, food and water, ladders to climb the rafters
but then, aren’t all stray cats a little rude?
I fed my babies milk and cookies
Nevertheless, I let their innocence die, so who am I to say?
Because in a perfect world they’d be no unwanted
babies, kids or cats called stray.
Babies whose only crime was that they sat on wells of oil
immobilized by a terrorist regime which ruled their world.
Their frightened eyes filled the TV cameras
which sent their pleas out to the masses.
Set them free from the terror we heard every day
so, we sent our sons and husbands and let them die.
War does not set babies free as we were led to believe
It is a power play to reline the coffers of the rich
deadly support for the hungry powers that we feed.
Yes, in a perfect world they’d be no unwanted
babies, kids or cats called stray.
I cannot sleep. The cats are crying.
Went to a funeral the other day, the untied boot girl passed away.
She dared to stride, boots open wide, roaming about the town,
trailing her golden rawhide laces all over the ground.
People let her know, “Hon, your shoes are untied.”
“I know, but I don’t have time.”
She’d laughingly reply as she rushed by,
(Twas the very reason that she died.)
And when she fell, it weren’t no surprise.
“Shoot,” we all said, cause we’d always surmised,
“I knew she was gonna take a fall, didn’t you guys?”
“Don’t care if you don’t, have a nice day,
cause if you trip, it’s you who will pay.”
We’d mumble those words, as she passed by,
can’t say we hadn’t tried, wasn’t our fault
when the untied boot girl died.
Weren’t men, drugs or booze that finally took her down,
just some dumb ‘ol rawhide laces, trailing on the ground.
A rawhide lace knocked her on her ass
wiped the smile off her face
and now, she’s passed.
Once in a while I’d hopefully call out,
“Hon, you need to tie your shoes.”
“If I fall I won’t sue, isn’t that what’s worrying you?”
“Good thing Missy cause you won’t win.”
She’d charge off, on her face a big grin.
The girl simply loved to stroll with her boots open wide.
They say she was strutting about town,
when she fell off her high horse and died.
“Where are her boots now?”
I heard the old man politely ask.
“Well, they buried ’em with her
cause up in Heaven, your neck don’t break
when you fall on your ass.”
Now, I get up each morning and I tie my old shoes,
cause if I go down, I’d prefer men, drugs, or booze.
Sitting on a porch swing
at her country home
I never saw a face
that looked so all alone.
She gazes into space
her eyes are far away
I wonder where she is
she isn’t in today.
I see a little girl
in the woman’s eyes
a hurt and lonely child
I hear her softly cry.
The pain of dreams now lost
the scars that still remain
when I look at her picture
all I can see is pain.
She captures my heart
I want to hold her tight
I run to save the woman
the girl hides in fright.
The girl plagues the present
with all her musty fears
if I could console the girl
I’d end the woman’s tears.
by Jeanne Marie, 1986
Empty spaces
trying to put my life
back together again
but I’m missing
some of the pieces
completely lost them
yes, I do know when.
Empty spaces
jagged edges
used to fit so well
wounds do not heal
pictures once complete
or almost anyway
faces gone, oh hell.
Empty spaces
where dreams fell
through the cracks
lost, in total disarray
chaos rules
blood drips red
suffering with
silent sadness.
Empty spaces
buried hopes lay dead
shivering, icy cold
heart turned to stone
not a thought
left in my head.
Sitting in our living rooms
with wall to wall carpets
imported from China.
Nibbling fruit from Mexico
eating nuts from Brazil.
We watch our Sony TV
but switch off the news.
The world is too scary
movies are much better.
When pictures fall
chills sliver up my spine
I try to catch the frame
before it hits the floor.
Catch it! Catch it!
Don’t let the glass smash
slicing paper memories
from when we believed
that our love would last.
How will I remember
what is supposed
to be mine, unless it’s
hanging in its frame?
Catch it! Catch it!
When pictures fall
memories are shattered
and in tears, I wonder…
why does it take disaster
to make me remember
just how much I love you
after all?
Jeanne Marie, 2014
Barefoot at a bus stop in Delaware
smoking a cigarette even though I quit
if there’s a good week to quit
I just decided…this isn’t it.
Watching the cars on the highway zoom by
wondering if this was a smart choice
now that my back is hurting, I want to cry
and on my face is the showing
if you saw me, you’d agree I think
no, I’m knowing.
The day is birthing and
I am surrounded by pink
my man is gone…
went to get coffee
I hope, I pray, I think…
cause I’d hate to be left
barefoot at a bus stop in Delaware.
Women Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie 
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