Just when I think I’m spent
Given up my last penny
Can’t take one more breath
Fingernails broken scraped
down the sides of the tub
Not getting fished out of the drain
Along it comes
This damnable thing called hope.
@2012 Jennie Olson Six

Awake (Wednesday morning poetry)

Perchance to not dream.
What if what appears is
An illusion created?
Fear molded complicity
Fables taught as facts
Perceptions as reality
All lies.
Waking up to dream:
As, what is appearance,
Creation of false reality,
Sparks the light inside
Emerging to awaken the flame
Of our collective consciousness
And set our souls on fire.
@2012 Jennie Olson Six

Paper Stars

Paper Stars
We were making paper stars:
 Some were almost perfect. 
Others reflected the unsteadiness
 of 8 year old wobbly hands with child-safe scissors. 
And with each imperfection the delight of the task slowly faded. 
We would not have perfection.
We would have almost good enough,
A chip away at a much bigger idea.
The idea of not good enough. 
In these years of living there
That idea became a mantra of
Disappointment turned inward
Of it’s ok and shouldn’t have expected so much
Turning dark on the inside
And waiting for something better to happen
That never did
In the light of imperfection
Everyone seems happier than you.
But no one needs to point out
8 year old imperfections
Only delights and beauty and wonder
Of how these things come to be
The perfection of being imperfect
in the creation of anything
for the delight and enjoyment of creation.
For where would we be if we did not look up and wonder
And then create reflections of what we have seen.
@2012 Jennie Olson Six


In my mom’s friend’s backyard
Tall weeds
Unfinished construction
Dirty rusted nail in wood
Now in my foot
Tetanus shot
Cockroach infested kitchen
We bond with each other
Over bloody feet
Circumstances into which we’re born
Methods we used to cope
Until that turned to addictions
Without the benefit of recovery
Taking new lives down the same paths
Of unclean
Impoverished realities
Recreating circumstances
As if there were nothing else available
When we know the truth
There are other times
When we have walked
Clean grass under feet
Smell of crisp wet summer
Without shame
 @jennieolsonsix 2012


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I just got started:
Community college class-load
Part-time employed
Starving student vegetable rice dinners
Cheap tennis-shoes
Growing out dyed hair
Retro-fied hippy wardrobe
Minimum payment on maxed out credit cards
Running slippery rain hills
Boyfriend at the 4-year university
Push start Volkswagon Super-beetle.
I went on to waste my time in various ways,
70’s disco themed parties,
Hippy to office appropriate to yoga culture
Moving states,
Changing boyfriends and bedroom furniture
and jobs and careers,
Having choices.
You no longer have choices:
Ended in dirty lands
Filthy wounds
Too soon is a fucking understatement and a crime to say.
As I saw your name and age
Amongst the list
Of 33, 31, and places like Idaho
Hunting, Simi Valley
Families never getting their prayers answered
Hopes smashed
Dreams of college education
What happens to that money that should have gone
To community college class-loads
Vegetable rice dinners
And cheap tennis-shoes to run in
Slippery rain hills?
Your names now on a list
That is far too long
And too often forgotten
When we can’t be pulled away long enough
From being entertained
To recognize the sacrifice
The loss of dreams
The elimination of choice
So we can still think we have one. 

#POETRY "To the Maidens"

To the Maidens;
You less than skinny,
stockings runned, pock-marked, less than perfect beauties
You who can not compete with airbrushed lies
But live full out in your speckled skin wonder
Worsened by the unknown chemicals in food
Supposed to feed but poisoning us.
Those earned feathery eyes
Sparkling behind oceans of tears,
Shed in moments of pain or joy
They do not compare
To the soft weather of your hands
Worked to keep mouths full
Of sunshine and hope
Tired, oh yes,
 but in those moments of wondering,
 Whether to ball into rage or comfort, you make choices
To laugh,
To breath,
in spite of polluted air and better beauty products
made only to consume what has already been consumed
hips made to sway
lips made to smile
cracked open you are and you run anyway
on feet bounding through blistered dreams
cause this, girls, is what it is to dance
and this, is what it means to live
in a world that doesn’t believe you’re worth saving
Hair, wild, burning through forests of
Doctors making surgical options
To make a better you,
And politicians making god-like decisions
That they were never hired to do,
And believers so lost in their own pollution
They forgot the holy words left by their savior’s blood.
But these are stitched into your fingernails
Hollowed into your marrow
Gray mattered gospel it can’t be broken
They try to erase you and yet the angels sing praises in your name,
The vibration of their voices shake them all awake
Crumbling institutions that can not save,
Because we knew that already.
Holding onto pieces doesn’t put them back together
It just makes us stronger.
These tree-trunk legs were made to work
And dance and hold ourselves up when no one else did.
This, you fire-dancer, keeper of the down-trodden, lover of the beast, speaker of the truth, shoulder-crier, breathless rebounder, giver of all you have got and then some more,
you are what makes this world bearable. 

a blog post a little #POETRY

My thoughts for the day:  I still stick my foot in my mouth, I just have learned not to chew on it.  This pretty much applies every day.  And it’s a little atrocious sometimes.  But I’ve also learned to keep my mouth shut and THAT actually helps.  A LOT.    Now here’s the Poetry, I’m behind 2 days so it’s 2 days worth:

Update on the Psychosis
I didn’t feel like
Writing shitty poetry
so here’s to crappy….
51 degrees
Light rain
Bus stop
No umbrella
Useless shoes
Ruined hair
Sopping wet
Bad cell reception
Missed call
Cancelled date
Wasted bus fare
Thunder claps
Lightening flash
Seek cover
Puddle rivers
Storm drain tsunamis
Lost shoe
Frigid toes
Coffee comfort
Card declined
No shoes
No service
Bus early
Kind eyes
Deep breaths
Kind offers
Wiped tears
Warm cup of tea
Grateful hands
Phone Frenzy
Sympathetic ears
Rescuer coming
Many thanks
Cold wait
Warm car
Comfort heat
Safety net
Homeward bound

#POETRY Happy Easter

Candy-filled, hollow chocolate bunny, peeps, rabbit-poop jelly beans.
Easter outfit. 
New shoes.  Dress. Usually floral.  Sometimes white.
Easter Hats.  New outfits.  Long sermons.  Boredom. 
Maybe sun.
Maybe rain.
Easter Egg Hunt.  Pretty hard boiled yuck.  Plastic-filled goodness.
Japanese Cherry-Blossoms.  Daffodils.  Pansies.  Easter-Lily.
Ham.  Potatoes.  Salad.  Easter candy dessert.
Childhood. Family. Rituals.
Liberation.  Freedom. Relief.
Forgiveness.  Release.  Absolve.
Into Something Else.
Phone Calls
I am not sure about you.
Nor sure why you are really calling.
But it is good to hear your voice.
But I hesitate. 
Blood relations are complicated.
And non-blood history makes it ever so twisted. 
But still, it is good to hear your voice.
Phone calls make it convienient for those who
Do not wish to traverse miles to see one another
And for those who can’t really bring themselves
Face to Face with their failings.