Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Free Dive

courtesy of jayhem

I’m free diving
letting bubbled liquid
fill my ears
to heavy quiet
but for the tinkling
of sand
sifting
my body
moving
with the rocking sway
of currents

I float
through thick space
maneuvering in the blue
streaming sunlight
that casts holographic hallways
azure passageways
through which
I slowly swim

in the water world
there is weighted silence
and dazzling sights
prisms of light

courtesy of gnews

If I were to open my mouth
to tell you
I would be drinking a salty soup

in this bluish realm
I can only
slowly
make a gesture
toward the essence
of this calm

later will be the surfacing
a gasp for breath
teeth exposed to air in smile
rivulets of salt streaming
to an open mouth
a tongue to tell

courtesy of Shane Watson
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Fishnet Stockings and Fresh-Cut Wood

Finding myself writing more privately in my journal than wanting to publicize every thought through WordPress, I’m wondering where to draw the line.

Like do I mention the image I woke with this morning?  The one that came as a bird’s-eye view while I sifted in that space just between sleeping and waking.

courtesy of Horia Varlan

It was a big sky place, like Wyoming.  Cotton clouds in wide open blue.  An ariel view of the back of a pick up truck.  Half of the truck bed was stacked with fresh-cut wood.  And resting just beside the pile were  legs, one bent at the knee, reclining freely in black, fishnet stockings.

This may be more information than anyone needs to know.  Freud is dead but I suppose here’s a time where one could conjure his analysis.  But let’s forget that.

The beauty of art is to let go of the mind.  Play in the realms where nothing makes sense.  Tap this source of possibility.  Enjoy the mysterious confusion.

art by Leo Fontan

Why not start the day with a picture of infinite sky, a well-stocked supply of wood and beautiful legs naturally taking in the scene?

What the heck.  Why not tell you about it?

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Ripening

Just days past the Harvest Moon, I welcome the gift of freshly picked tangerines and avocados.  I am a wealthy woman in abundance.

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved

Within the corridors of me, stories grow like fruit on the tree.  Pieces gain my attention and I watch them ripen.

The story of an old boyfriend, my first love.  His Facebook message 20 years later, trying to explain the demise of our relationship via the latest rock and roll documentary he’s seen.  I’d forgotten how much he matched his life milestones via the album releases of his favorite band.  How I’m surprised to find he still does at the age of 40.

This fruit-bearing writing tree may also yield something profound through rebellion to my vanity.  The musings of my superficial considerations of gravity on my 38-year-old derriere offer insightful food for thought.  Hopefully a laugh.

And it seems that with this time every year, I revisit my autumn in New England in 1995.  The landscape there epitomized the season.  Golden sunlight through thick, glass windows.  Leaves turning the colors of fire.  The morning displays of apples and pumpkins I arranged at the Gardner, Massachusetts produce store.  Bob Marley in the tape deck of my Subaru.  Walks through the woods through Civil War sites and ancient cemeteries.  Long velvet skirts and a wool sweater.

These harbingers are growing.  Not quite ready to harvest, these tales soak in September sun while I take note.  Enjoy the ripening.