Please listen to the Dear John Show at this link below:
My poem titled, Beams of Joy, will be read by Nina Thilo on this program towards the end of this broadcast. Enjoy these various readings as the year comes to an end.
To have my poem read by another poet is to me a wonderful feeling of accomplishing what I set out to do–convey a message through my writing; however, some poets find it hard to turn over their poems to another to be read out loud to an audience. What are your thoughts on this? Fellow poets and poetesses drop me a line on your view on the subject.
A tender Love poem that creates a painting of emotions with the words in a perfect structure without being too graphic in nature.
Life of a Girl in 2018~
She said, “long live chocolate, vodka, and Heroin.”
As she pulled the blankets over her head.
She only sought the darkness and warmth
Within this enveloping cave
Of close rapture,
And then her mind went on…
“I hope you’re thinking about me.”
She touched her hair,
“Why do we close our eyes when we
I do this when I kiss you,
The most beautiful things in my life
Are felt inside my heart not seen.
I watched the white roses die
That you brought me
Littering my window sill with them
Dried, brown petals.
We were naughty together
Two days ago,
Sleeping in your parents’ room
Sharing a cold bottle of Gin,
We found in their kitchen
Mixing it with jarred cherries
And ice-cold Sprite,
Bodies to our close friends,
I see nothing better // I keep him forever,
Plays over and over,
It is printed inside my head,
The smell of sulfur
Penetrating my senses,
As the Disneyland Princesses
Dance to the musical notes,
so, I’m still at that confusing stage,
I can’t wait to go home. –J. E. Cook ©2018
When the worship hour
Comes upon a being of Earth,
Where do they look for guidance and
Extreme measures in solution?
Maybe, they turn to the Buddhist
Practices in mantras and mandalas
Or a nun’s string of prayer beads,
Or a more natural experience
From the lands,
In Native American practices
where cultures identify with nature
And they hear the beat of the
Makes their spaces
Opening their minds
To the systematic
Solutions buried inside them. –J. E. Cook (C) 2018
J. E. Cook has published poetry with the Antioch Voice, Z Publishing, and at People-are-amazing.com. She participates in poetry readings at local coffee shops and often is a wordsmith when editing poetry along with being an art instructor & artist, a photographer with a driving passion for natural images with creativity incorporated, a web-based graphic creator, and a freelance editor. She’s an avid reader/writer that is prone to take off with her camera in hand on wild adventures in the woods and to follow her imagination to the sea.
She enjoys all forms of writing, specifically poetry, as she strives to finish one of her fiction creations in the form of a novella. Her creative influences include Vincent van Gogh, Georgia O’Keeffe, Margaret Keane, William Blake, Eudora Welty, Rachel Carson, Arthur Rimbaud, Mary Oliver, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Donna Tartt, and Robert Frost.
Her love for summer keeps her outdoors when possible during this season. She hopes to one day pursue her dream of writing full time. Her work is available online and in print. You can view her written work, author reviews, and her photography at this web location https://josiecook48.wordpress.com.
To be told that your lover is gone,
As gently as one can be told
That your lover, the man you wanted
Planned to spend the rest of your life
That man is no longer among the
He disappeared like
The white feathery pins of a dandelion
In the wind,
Drifting off to another place,
Gone back to the earth’s soil,
To become something else,
Strolling through the wild vines
With another widow,
Feeling like the hay chafe
Left behind by the grazing herd,
She feels something lingering
Like his fingers touching her
Intimate places hid from the world,
Or him watching for her
Among the forest leaves and withering pines,
As the stars of our universe
Sparkle and shine,
The wind like his warm breath,
He could be alive somewhere waiting,
Or watching the slippery stones of moss
In the flowing crystal streams,
Her female soul wants to run
For the moors,
To be together wild and free,
Because the living has no answers
Will he watch her undress now?
She hopes her memory does not
Grow vague of him,
Like a dusty forgotten canvas,
The artist has gone
Leaving it behind,
Unfinished was their love,
She desires to dissolve gradually
Free to let go,
Becoming one of those
Vacant houses standing still
After the harvest,
With no heat or lights,
She remembers the blossoms
Of their secret garden,
Thriving all summer long,
Nourishing them daily,
Those river roses of pinks and reds,
Past their peak
No mark left behind
To shake the memories again. –J. E. Cook ©2018
Rain cometh upon Our Journey
Raining in the night,
Leaves on the ground,
Flashes of light,
Wrens to the South,
Maybe, the Gulf of Mexico,
Rain still falling,
Covering a valley in mists of it,
Fog filling in among the weaving
The river filling,
Weight of raindrops pulling,
Autumn leaves losing color,
Large puddles forming
In wet fields of mud and swampy debris,
Pathways are murky and slick,
Still, the water comes down
As yellow headlights swallow up
With faith in the plan,
We continue this journey
Faith in the course of it,
Swimming on among the sea
Cascades of water cover the
Dirt roads and the saturated lands
Are minutes from flooding
The valley ahead,
But, we go on,
It’s too dark to
We need to be HOME. —J. E. Cook ©2018
To look out the window
Filled with continued longing,
Eyes seeking the ground
Towards the flowing river
With the extending trees on fire
With the high colors
Of the crisp autumn season,
Who’s soul dances among
Those brittle leaves
Covering the moist ground?
To be a wisp of a girl again
Walking around the gathering, wet
Stones in the swift stream,
Dancing among the tall, magnificent
White birches in the back fields,
Staying along the river
To return home
After an afternoon spent in the warm beams
Of sunlight breaking through. –J. E. Cook ©2018
A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.
Summer is gone and now reality returns…
Gazing at the old wooden rackets
Among the endless sepia photos,
History of past crowds,
Tournaments long gone,
Locations changed or forgotten,
Blurry images of loving couples in fine outfits
Enjoying the elegant clubhouse dances,
Those pale, lacy dresses with close fitted
Parasols in the sun as they stroll in the sands,
Dashing gentlemen claim their hands,
As little girls and young boys race around corners,
People gather to share drinks at covered tables,
Their cheerful vital attachments forming during
The seaside summer seasons,
As the fluttering butterflies kiss the open roses
Gracing the porches of their rented beach houses,
Moving from sepia to black & white to colors
On the club walls as time marches on,
Nearly no one notices the changes here as the sea scents
The air and the cheerful blue sky fills their open spaces
Where attractive people lounge by the water with
Pretty drinks as their children build empires in the white
Grains surrounding them,
The focus is on fun and games while the warm season lasts
And freckles form to stretch across their sun-kissed
Cheeks calming their inner souls
And releasing positive senses to prevent old inner tensions,
Young couples watch the constellations light up while
They cuddle deep into each other around
Shared beach fires,
Burning hotly to fin off the night chill after
The sun disappears and the moonlight
Swaps it, a
Welcome replacement to neon-lit offices
And cluttered desks,
A sabbatical of free-time where young
Girls wear Jackie O sunglasses and tie
Their wet hair back in jolly ponytails,
Yachts and big liners fill the harbors
Waiting to be sailed,
Blue waters, elegant couples, members and
Invited guests circling the pristine decks,
Inlets of fascination and narrow boarding docks
Waiting for their evening return.–J. E. Cook ©2017
Arriving at the Ocean
A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.
Sharing the same thoughts…and views.
Outside my seaside window,
I watch the sky melt like a hot
The bright colors becoming a
Canvas for the many sailboats
On the midnight blue surface,
Their lights streaming across
The shimmering waters,
I often dreamt of the sea
From my Ohio location,
Freedom on the moving
Yearning for an adventure
A long voyage with a special
Someone near me,
A wonderful communicator
To share my thoughts,
No soothing egos or severe misunderstanding,
Just the peace of the wilderness
Surrounding our shared views,
Two hearts and souls
Cradled in the hands of each other
With undouble bonds,
Sorting through the world together. –J. E. Cook ©2017
Waterways of Our Land
A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.
Water so important to us!
Our river is slow-moving
With twilight circling it
Mounds of dirt along it,
Marshes along the way,
Foaming gorges here and there,
Stone islands in the middle,
Gateways to other arteries,
Banks with forests lining them,
I think about other waterways
Like the Red Sea and the Atlantic Ocean,
The sands in them,
Do those tiny grains have
Some pink quartz inside…or any
Hard stones like diamonds.
Flowing water in dams
And over cliffs
Create a sound unique
Depending on the location,
Water is always needed in cultures
No matter royalty or poverty
It is a commodity,
Unlike ordinary everyday dust.
–J. E. Cook © 2017
A Different World
A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.
Nature and what it brings…
A Different World
The sky seems low to the ground,
A heavy mist or a light rain in the air,
My shoes squelch in the puddles,
The river runs fast,
The little footbridge is covered in wet leaves,
A large of group of trees surround it
And it is so quiet here,
The wind chafing the leaves together is all I hear,
It is a forest of sap and darkness,
Pathways through the woods,
A different world,
With water meadows and overgrown spots,
Abandoned shelters and eerie unnerving shadows,
The feel of isolation is keen,
My instinct to turn around and leave,
But the beauty of it draws me in,
A walk even if the weather isn’t perfect,
I gaze at the swift water and long for the summer
A small cat appears,
On the bank before me,
Cleaning its paws and then, it runs away.
To be an animal–they cope so differently
Than us humans.–J. E. Cook ©2017
Today, I read some reviews of my poetry and revised one, too. I came across one poem I would like to share here because it is so wonderful and full of insight into another character invented in someone else’s writing.
This poem is by Doodley,
If every journey has an ending,
And every story has a start,
Would thy thoughts remain unbending,
That the Tin Man once had a heart?
That he lived a life of leisure,
In the forests of Oz forevermore,
Where the chipmunks frolicked in pleasure,
Upon evergreen seas of wood lawn floor.
Where the canopies teemed with birdsong,
And cicadas serenaded the night,
And the Lunar Queen on velvet throne,
Bathed the land in pearly light.
Tangerine beams of Sun’s contentment,
Polished his soul to silver sheen,
And the mist of disenchantment,
In his life, was nowhere to be seen.
And he reveled in joyous solitude,
In his home deep in the woods,
Where his apple orchard gave gratitude,
With unending ripened goods.
Then one glorious tranquil morn,
In the depths of florescent Spring,
Was his covert nurturing faith reborn,
When he heard the voice of an Angel sing.
For there beneath an apple tree,
Stood an emblem of Love divine,
Such a beauteous Nymph as there could be
Caressing the fruits upon its vine.
With cascading falls of golden locks,
And eyes a misterium of onyx hue,
She sang and whirled to emerging flocks,
That flew down to rest from the azure blue.
In the silent whoosh of Cupid’s rush,
There amidst the scores of Turtle Dove,
Their gaze did meet through crimson blush,
And they fell to depths of torrid Love.
And there amongst the swelling throng,
They twirled together entwined as one,
As Nature’s bards took up the song,
And the Lunar Queen embraced her Sun.
As daylight wilted to twilight gloam,
And starlight shyly twinkled through,
He guided her to his simple home,
Where Life and Love was born anew.
Through the fertility of the Springtime,
And all through the Summer’s swell,
Did their heart’s converse in Love’s rhyme,
In wondrous bliss did they both dwell.
But when Old Man Autumn in rustic fawn,
Encroached the serenity of this place,
Had the creeping tendrils of restless dawn,
Shone ill light upon their Love’s solace.
For the Wood Nymph had ambition,
She was no patient Eremite,
And she rebelled in true sedition,
Lured by the Emerald City’s bright.
One night under veiled star-fall,
While in dreaming did the Tin Man lay,
Did the Wood Nymph pack her belongings all,
And stole his radiant heart away.
And when he awoke to sunlight stream,
That shimmered his glossy face,
His world collapsed to nightmare dream,
She had disappeared without a trace.
He trawled through the woods in panic,
Let loose cries and desperate pleas,
That reverberated fleetingly manic,
On the gossiping Autumn breeze.
When his calls echoed in silence,
And stirred no sleeping ghost,
He lapsed into despairing violence,
For loss of things he loved the most.
He wailed in tormented grieving,
Like a baying Hound of Hell,
And struck his chest a-heaving,
His now heartless empty shell.
Then his trusty axe he took to hand,
And Cut! And Chopped! And Sliced!,
Decimating his orchard from the land,
In a whirlwind of rage and vice!
When his madness had abated,
He stood alone under gleaming sky,
As sorrow’s waves invaded,
On the breath of his longing sigh.
With his soul now torn asunder,
And with his hope ground into dust,
He hearkened to the distant thunder,
Then cried himself to rust.
All the forest joined to mourn him,
Shed their leaves in solemn prayer,
As the Solar King dialed down to dim,
In respect for the Life lost there.
And the passing days did wither,
Under first frost of Winter’s kiss,
Delayed by the Ice Queen’s dither,
In her fear of discourteous remiss.
And the Tin Man remained there frozen,
Through all time and Love’s decay,
‘Till a young girl and Scarecrow chosen,
Walked the Yellow Brick Road his way.
I admired his creative vision of this character inside his words…I also thought about his review about one of my poems, and how he seemed to want more information on my character in my poem because she was the POV inside it.
Therefore, I revisited it. I decided I must revise it and make it more complete in structure and thoughts.
Here it is after being revised:
A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.
Daydreaming and thinking about the time and space of the past…
Gazing out at the faraway islands,
She imagines the handsome faces
The British killed,
Buried here, leaving behind young widows,
To assess the ocean alone.
Her eye on one point on the horizon
As she thinks about reckless pirates
going to the Indies
Or Charles Town.
Her mind on
The sandy shoals between Beaufort,
And the Atlantic waters,
She once visited a place on Bogue Island,
That had a decaying fort,
And an inlet where old ships came to visit
They were rumored to be the protection
Against Indian bandits,
The army camping there never completed
The southern walls,
Musket balls could be
lingering in the dirt,
Along with buried wreckage,
Summer is ending,
And she often thinks about the dead
As her garden dies,
What haunts this land
are the lingering ghosts
Of those men and boys that left Beaufort,
Promising letters to their waiting ladies,
All they became were moving targets
for the British invasion
As their muskets fired,
Local uniforms were covered in crimson stains,
Dark holes and charred souls linger
In old passageways,
Their ladies long dead,
After sleepless nights thinking
Deeply about their lost kisses.
She doesn’t like loving these trapped
As she stands at her open door
Watching the glint of the rising moon
On her moving sea in front of her.
She would rather think of a tranquil location
In sunny Beaufort,
Where a meadow is filled with grazing cows
Pecan trees. Green apples are brought to them,
As a bluebird
Moves from branch to branch
Above the herd,
And the pecans fall and fill the open air.
Now she sits on her porch swing,
Thinking of a studious painter, she loves
Living in New Bern,
Where he works on detailed miniatures and his
Art will be moved weekly
and arrive in distant places,
She longs to pose for him again soon.
Her knees draw up,
And she twists her hair slowly
Thinking about him and his socked feet
Smiling at her as he hands over
A little painting of her.
Her secret treasure, in an ivory frame
And the size of a thumbnail
Her having a picnic with him,
Born from a hastily drawn sketch in ink,
Now, vibrant in flowing oils,
She leaves 1782 behind with a fleeting
Thought about a lost letter
She discovered yesterday morning
While cleaning the crowded attic,
She Imagined the smell of it,
As her eyes read,
About somewhere inland,
And a Sunday camp filled with pain
Over lost cousins,
And a sweetheart missed with
The miles of unknown
Pressing into her mind
A whistle of a Cherokee arrow
Breaking the silence
Of the frontier there inside
Would the island slaves solve anything
With the Lord’s prayer?
The gilded-edge scene is buried
In her thoughts
As she watches their sun disappear
Leaving the colors of her fall behind to
Hide in the shadows of the casting
Boughs among the flowing hills
Beyond the seas and distant shores.–J.E. Cook ©2017