a note for my readers

dear blessed readers,

Thank you for stopping by. Are you sitting down, ’cause i have news: I’m actually sending my poems and stories out hoping for publication now, so some pieces that used to be here are gone for that reason.  But I have plenty of stuff, old & new, to put up, so please keep checking back.

and please send me good luck in the publications department!  i’ve had just a little good luck so far; i’m hoping things will get better.  whoever you are, my dear readers, you keep me from feeling discouraged.  thank you again for your support and for stopping by.  i hope you find something to make you laugh here.  (try the scripts for the tv shows…)

–jen

newborn daddy

flkaflajlk

newborn daddy

kkkkk

he holds the baby for the first time

kisses her cheeks, brushes

his lips over new-born hair, breathes close, sharing

even the air, his new baby’s hands opening, closing,

opening, closing.

but this is not grasping;

tiny fingers are dancing; joy

of finding what she wants to hold, enormously; the celebration,

each handful of air a feast of plenty; so much

to spill from her hands even as her hands are filled; no need

to clasp; the wisdom of rhythm & light

opens and closes

dance little fingers all is open

wrapped and swaddled; is she big enough

to hold? though now you see more:

the man’s big arms suddenly the tenderness

arrives, or was it awakened, or already there—

suddenly visible the tenderness the minute

the baby fills the space

between his chest and his arms the surprising

tenderness, the way it fills

the hollow spaces, the way it joins

him to himself, joins

him to this new-

jjjjjj

born.  in this wholeness,

the ligaments, the tendons, the tenderness

between muscles, the matter of tenderness, this

that holds; this that guides; this that tightens

and relaxes; instinct, desire: this also was born

today as tenderness was born

of bone and breath and song.

–jennifer woodworth, 2009

Mary Catherine Goes to Bed, or Not

Mary Catherine Goes to Bed, or Not

 

Last night at bedtime, Mary Catherine did want to sleep in her big girl bed,

she just didn’t want to go to sleep at bedtime.

I was watching TV across the hall in my bedroom.

 

First, she came in my room several times because

 

she didn’t want to miss anything, what with

Amy Pohler being on TV and all.

Back to bed, I said, and she went.

 

Then she came in on all fours, hoping to sit on the floor

and watch TV with me without me knowing.

Back to bed, I said, and she went.

 

Then she slithered in on her tummy, hoping to avoid my vision.

It worked, but I heard her.

Back to bed, I said, and she went.

 

Then she came in on all threes,

disguised as a piece of foam.

Back to bed, I said, and she went.

 

Then she came in on all fours with a floppy

mama bear on her back.  But I already knew she was a bear.

Back to bed, I said, and she went.

 

We were going to hang a picture up for her, but it was still on her floor:

Some time later, she came in on all threes disguised as a picture.

Back to bed, I said, and she went.

 

I tried not to, but I laughed and laughed.  I gave myself away:

Without delay, she came back disguised as the other picture on her floor.

Back to bed, I said,  and she went.  Finally,

I went with her.

 

dlajfajfl;

dalfjal

–jennifer woodworth

A Script for One of Fish Clamor Studio’s Fabulous Mid-Season TV Shows

jjjj

[to the reader:  the main thing you have to know is that the fish clamor staff all live together in jennifer's condo and that any character who appears is part of the fish clamor staff which consists of...well, that's enough for now.  we hope you enjoy our news program, even if you don't know who everybody is since this is a midseason show.  oh.   it's kinda long.  can you print these things out so they don't make you mad?  or else prepare yourself for some leisure reading at the computer?  thanks, as always for supporting the arts by stopping by!]

**********************************************************************************************************************

So.  This is News.

TNL’s Evening News with Chuck & Jennifer

March 18, 2002

chuck:  welcome to So. This is News here on TNL.  i’m chuck and this is–who are you today?

jennifer:  and i’m jennifer, believe it or not.  and everyone else, especially carlene, but that’s not important now.

chuck:  how post-post-modern of you.  writing yourself into the script.  just how many post-’s do we really need here, jennifer?

jennifer:  i have no fucking idea chuck, and furthermore– but you know, we do what we can chuck and i’m just glad to be part of the team.

chuck:  well, that’s about it for the news.  i think it’s lunchtime.  what do you think, jennifer?

jennifer:  well.  it WAS a big day here in nawfuck, chuck.

chuck:  really jennifer and why is that.

jennifer:  well, flucky woke everybody up at 7 am to go outside, and we’ve been trying to teach him to do that for years!  most of the time he just crosses his little doggy legs until SOMEONE who can open the door wakes up.

chuck:  well good for flucky.  but you know, jennifer, i don’t really think that counts as a BIG DAY.

jennifer:  well you don’t know what happened after that.

chuck:  really jennifer and what happened after that.

jennifer:  i went back to sleep.

chuck:   i really don’t think that counts as NEWS.

jennifer:  well you don’t know what happened after that.

chuck:  do i want to know what happened after that?

jennifer:  yeah well who do you think keeps you in your charaq-fort cheese?  maybe you want to work on your ATTITUDE chuck.

chuck:  i thought that was little wing’s cheese.

jennifer:

chuck:  right.  i knew that.  right.  so back to you jennifer.

jennifer:  so we got up at the crack of noon.

chuck:

jennifer:  we looked at the bills.

chuck:  you OPENED THE MAIL?  now that is news.

jennifer:  no chuck, we did not open the mail.  i said we looked at the bills.  we did not TOUCH the bills.  that’s why i said we LOOKED at the bills. sheesh.

chuck: So.  This is News will be back in a moment after this commercial break for the Ronco is-there-a-god-and-if-so-why-knot Untie-R.  Stay tuned to TNL for all the news from nawfuck.

commercial break

chuck:  welcome back to So. This is News, right here on TNL.  reports from nawfuck indicate that news was made by TNL staff members today, though we do not care to imagine what that might have been.

jennifer:  why what are you talking about chuck?  all kind of news happened here today.

chuck:  well what with you and your staff sleeping till the crack of noon, and the taking of another nap that you failed to mention, and the not opening of any of the damn bills–i mean i think it’s pretty clear that there couldn’t possibly be any more exciting news after THAT.

jennifer:  well chuck that’s where you’re wrong.

chuck:  really jennifer and why is that.

jennifer:  well i thought you’d never ask.  so we had two cups of tea here at the studio and then we took a shower.

chuck:  and now, on to the weather.  in nawfuck today, it was grievously cold and fucking cloudy.  down coats were required for all dog-walking expeditions.

jennifer:  that reminds me, chuck, after the tea, i took a long HOT shower, and put on a tight little cashmere t-shirt.

chuck:  oh?  tight?

jennifer:  yes, chuck, tight.  it was quite an event when the v-neck cashmere t-shirt got thrown in the dryer–surely you remember.  it was on CNN all day.   Larry King devoted an entire show to the topic of Shrinkage that day.

chuck:  shrinkage?  listen, i think it’s time for another commercial.

jennifer:  why what are you talking about chuck?  we haven’t even started with the news in spite of the fact that you’re already on the weather.

chuck:

jennifer:  good point chuck.  but i was still cold.  so i put on a sexy little v-necked cashmere long-sleeve sweater, and suddenly i felt equipped to FACE THE OUTSIDE WORLD.

chuck:  you mean you walked the dog behind your condo.  let’s move on to sports.

jennifer:  let’s not just yet.  i still haven’t got to the news.  yes, i walked the dog behind the condo, but then i brought the dog upstairs, found my purse–

chuck:  now that’s news.

jennifer:

chuck:  sorry.

jennifer:  so i found my purse AND MY KEYS and get this chuck–i went back downstairs where i started the car.

chuck:  really jennifer and then what happened.

jennifer:  well i was out of gas, as it turns out.

chuck:

jennifer:  but there was enough to get to the 7 -11 across the street.  i rode right past the crack dealers on fumes.

chuck:  so what.  it’s not like you had any money to buy gas.

jennifer:  well that’s part of the news chuck.  i found a twenty dollar bill in my jeans pocket!!  true, it had been washed.  but it was still effective as far as the paying for the gas for the car goes.

chuck:  so you actually filled up your car with gas?  all by yourSELF?

jennifer:  well yes chuck i did.  and i paid with a brand CLEAN twenty dollar bill.

chuck:  is it time for sports now?

jennifer:  well yes chuck i believe it is.  in stock-car racing news today, expert driver dr. carlene fruitloop-hairpin drove back and forth and back on forth on little creek road looking for the state farm office.  she did not have an accident.

chuck:

jennifer:  and our expert driver did in fact eventually locate the state farm office long before any of her competitors.

chuck:  really jennifer.  and what happened when carlene found the state farm office.

jennifer:  well this is really big news chuck.  dr. fruitloop-hairpin actually had ALL the components required by state farm insurance for a proper visit to their home office in north carolina.  did you know, chuck, that little creek road does in fact go all the way to north carolina?

chuck:  right.  so what WERE all the components required by the home office in north carolina?

jennifer:  the following items were required AND available at the time of the visit:  a) a checkbook from the bank where there is still some money b) a checkbook with two checks still left in it –and this is news chuck–this checkbook was IN FACT the checkbook from the bank where there is still some money–

chuck:   unbelievable.  and i thought there was no news in sports today.

jennifer:  well that’s the difference between you and me.  the third required component for the visit to state farm was also available.  well, ok, dr. fruitloop-hairpin did have to RUN back out to the car to get it, but the third item was right there.

chuck:  really jennifer and what was that.

jennifer:   it was item c):  the receipt from that little incident in november when dr. fruitloop-hairpin ran out of gas on a grievously cold and rainy fucking day and had to be towed to the 7 -11 across the street at a cost of 45 bucks.

chuck:  across the street?

jennifer:  well what do you expect chuck.  crack dealers aren’t known for their cheerfulness in pushing the cars of poets across streets.  you know poets don’t buy much crack, and they know that.

chuck:  is this going to get better?

jennifer:  sure it is chuck, why do you ask?

chuck:  well, i was thinking of getting some lunch with carlene.

jennifer:  well she can wait.  i mean fuck if i can she can.

chuck:  i think the whole point jennifer is that you CAN’T.

jennifer:  can’t what?

chuck:  fuck.  are we going to get some real news around here or what?

jennifer:  why what are you talking about chuck?  i’ve hardly even begun.

chuck:

jennifer:  well to make a short story long, i paid them the premiums for february and march and they told me that no matter how bad i fucked up and how many accidents or tickets i’d ever get, that there was a special provision in my policy–

chuck:  huh?

jennifer:  yes, chuck, they are so grateful for the fact that i have paid them approximately $60,00 in premiums since i was 17 years old and made only one claim for an accident that really wasn’t my fault, REALLY, that they said i can go ahead and start having more accidents now if i want to, and they won’t cancel me.

chuck:  did they say anything about raising your rates?

jennifer:  not at this particular point in time, chuck.  they already told me they raised my rates by 600 percent to cover the huge loss they took on my 600 dollar accident, plus another $10,000 in accident surcharges over the next six years.

chuck:  that seems grievous to me.

jennifer:  well, i guess i can understand. i mean, they have to recover the lost profit, which was the difference between the $60,000 in premiums which were pure profit, and the $600 dollar accident.  i mean, if i only got $59,400 dollars for doing not one goddamn thing instead of $60,000, i’d want to make up for it too.

chuck:  well i see your point jennifer but i think i’ll stay with that little lizard.

jennifer:  wait a minute.  did someone leak leona’s story?

chuck:  story?  story?  you mean there might be some NEWS?

jennifer:  why chuck of course there’s news.  so dr. fruitloop-hairpin paid them the money she owed them, signed a couple papers there at state farm, with–get this–a pen she found IN HER OWN PURSE– so state farm could begin to automatically recover their lost profit directly from the bank account that still has some money it, and then, get this chuck–

chuck:  lay it on me, jennifer

jennifer:  she whipped out that towing receipt, and the agent wrote her a check for $45 right THEN and THERE.  there was no further discussion of a rate increase.

chuck:  so then what happened.

jennifer:  well she took the money and ran.  what did you think would happen, CHUCK?

chuck:  well i thought she’d take the money and run.

jennifer:  well that’s just what she did.  then she went–

chuck:  wait, she already walked the dog, put gas in the car, found the state farm office, paid her bill, and got them to pay for the little episode with the empty gas tank and the subsequent towing of the car.  surely it’s time for point-counterpoint with fang & puck now, because i think we all know JUST what you or dr. fruitloop-hairpin or whoever the hell you are in this story did next.

jennifer:  well chuck i don’t think you do know.  because on the way home, she STOPPED AT THE BANK where she once again had all the required ingredients for a successful visit to the home office in maryland.

chuck:  really carlene and what would that be.

jennifer:  the chronically lost paycheck which was not lost for five entire minutes, the $45 from state farm, a deposit slip from the checkbook we already knew she had and get this chuck–

chuck:

jennifer:  SHE HAD AN ID.  true, she could not find her, um, expired driver’s license, which may be the old blessing in disguise play –are we still on sports chuck?

chuck:  whatever you say, jennifer.

jennifer:  so that WAS the old blessing-in-disguise-play, BUT she had her student id with her, so she was able to cash the state farm check after depositing the not-lost-right-at-this-EXACT-moment paycheck.

chuck:  really jennifer.  and is she going home anytime soon?

jennifer:  well as a matter of fact, she’d actually been on the way home ever since she walked the dog behind the condo.  only now she was on the way home with a full tank of gas and $45 dollars CASH in her pocket.  wait, maybe it was in her purse.  shit.  i don’t know where she put it.

chuck:  well that’s not news, jennifer.

jennifer:  true.  so i guess that’s about it.  dr. fruitloop-hairpin got home safe and sound with $45 cash.  somewhere.

[jennifer begins to look frantically about the studio for dr. carlene fruitloop-hairpin’s $45 cash]

chuck:  well, it’s been another day full of detail after riveting detail here in lovely and scenic nawfuck virginia.  thanks for joining us this evening for  So. This is News. be sure to stay tuned for Since You Asked with Fang & Puck, on your local TNL station.

jennifer:  so are they going to talk about shrinkage tonight or what?

chuck:  that’s it.  i QUIT.

END OF SHOW–commercial break–

meditation on the magic 8 ball

***

sideways infinity:

always eternal, all the time,

but miraculously, also righteously STAND-UP

so you know after i wrote the WWJE monologue, which i plan to deliver at the comedy club this week, whatthefuck, i just HAD to get a magic 8 ball of my own.  it came yesterday.  my big plan for the weekend is to ask the magic 8 ball if there is a god, and if so, why not.

so i’m just sitting here looking at IT and looking away and looking at IT again.  i’m afraid to ask.  i mean what if it says YES.  what if it says no.  what if it says have your tried the WWJE diet.  what if it says god my ass.

–jennifer woodworth, copyright 2009

unfinished

unfinished

surely he took up our suffering

and carried our sorrows…

and by his wounds we are healed

–isaiah 53:4-5

we are hungry take, eat,

if you would remember me—

we are all thirsty drink, all of you,

this is the wine that binds you—

i am thirsty

sour wine, unleavened bread

pain is weakness leaving the body

we breathe out his life

–jennifer woodworth

marrow code

marrow code

sometimes

i don’t quite understand

you sometimes you

go all cryptic on me and i don’t

have an invertible matrix

for you anywhere            around here, not

one

that i can see anyway             yes i looked

between the dryer i looked

inside the under i looked

the bed                         the sheets i looked

behind the chimney i looked

to invert and multiply—

anyway, you know your hand

like the back of the drill and your matrix is

importantly singular;  determinant goddamn

zero, for christ’s sake;  no, your solutions not one bit

unique. wait, oh, did I say that

one way already, the other or

not one, not one bit one

which is way when you think

terrifying about it,  singularity—

sin city for sure

what is it explodes

in the marrow

and salt burns

turning towers over

and over and i know, i know,

i did                         look back.

–jennifer woodworth copyright 2009

all rights reserved

The Rings–flash fiction for the day

The Rings

My husband was a carpenter with hands so big he could wrap them all the way around me. Since I had put off getting my husband’s wedding ring until the day before the wedding, the artist made it for me in one day.  He was not a jeweler.  He made art with metal and stone.  He made my husband a thick, wide, rounded ring.

This ring will always feel good on his hand, even when he’s working.

I inscribed it in my own hand.  I made bronze sculpture, so I understood the crafting of metal. I watched the artist turn the little gold bar into a circle, join it together, and polish it to hide the weld.  I wanted to remember the heat that made this ring, so I asked him not to hide the weld on the inside. My inscription began there and ended there.

The weld inside is also the joining of lives.

The ring was heavy and warm like a ripe peach in my hand.

I made the ring with soft gold.  When he gets old, it will tell the story of his life.

We were married in my husband’s house in the winter. He was an excellent hunter.  He was proud of the huge antlers he hung on his walls.  They were scarred and sometimes broken—courtship, clashes, close calls.

The only heat came from the woodstove my husband had built.  It seemed strange to me that he had hidden and polished his welds on his stove—I loved the jagged scars welds made:  I sought them out; I created them; I wanted to see the mystery of proud flesh healing in my work.

I uncurled my fingers when my husband said, “With this ring, I thee wed.”  I was afraid to look at his face, so I watched the two cats sleeping under the woodstove instead.  It occurred to me suddenly that my husband wouldn’t have hidden the welds underneath the stove.  He made his vows while he nudged a lacy antique ring over my knuckle.  The ring was elegant and unusual.  I thought it was perfect for me.

I stared at my new ring. I was silent. I looked up, searching for my husband’s face, but all I could find were the antlers.  They had grown wild and twisted.  Turns, forks, splits, scars, broken places.  I lost my voice in the thicket.

When I could speak again, I said, “With this ring, I thee wed,” and made my vows.  I slipped the heavy ring on my husband’s giant hand.

Whenever I saw that wide band on his hand, I remembered that we were just married, and I took him to bed.

Is that why you married me? just to get me in bed?

Of course.

My own beautiful ring hit a bone in my little finger, hurting me, so I took it off and my hand was bare.  My husband still wore his ring.

A few months after the wedding, my best efforts to get him in bed began to fail because things had gone so wrong between us. We got a divorce.

But I couldn’t leave.  The day the papers came, we sat silently at the picnic table in the back yard.  As soon as it got dark, we began to make love, making love on the table, in the grass, in the kitchen, in our bed. Our marriage was better because we were no longer married.  We made love all the time. We stayed together.

He had never taken off his ring and I was glad because I still loved him very much.

One summer day, walking hand-in-hand, we stopped to look in a jeweler’s window at a display of wedding bands. I wanted a plain, gold band.  Simple and small and rounded at the edges so that it would always feel good on my hand. Let’s get a wedding ring for me. Then we’ll both have one. I showed my husband exactly which one I wanted, and I asked him for it.

After the waiter brought the dessert to our table, my husband took a ring from his pocket and put it in my hand. I stared at the ring in my palm. It had a strange shape—it was round and elegant on one edge, sharp and square on the other.  The ring was all wrong; the composition was unbalanced.  I couldn’t understand why anyone would make a ring that way.

I went to the jeweler where we saw that ring in the window. I asked him to cut my ring in half—one for you—

I only knew one way to cut a ring in half like that:  the jeweler cuts the ring at the weld and opens it.  Without changing the thickness of the ring, he straightens it so that it looks like a little gold bar again.  He slits the gold down the thick part in the middle. Then he bends the two new bars into two circles and welds them closed again.

I looked at my husband’s wonderful hand and I saw that what he said about his ring was true.  But I let him put the ring on my finger.  The sharp edge of the ring and my half of the inscription cut into my skin.  We walked around out of balance for a while until I left the misshapen ring on his kitchen table and moved away.

the rings by

–jennifer woodworth, copyright 2009

all rights reserved

This story first appeared at an AROHO webpage here.

a small offering: our tree of life (or the critter tree), again

a tree of life

Yep.  Still on strike.  Baby & I have been playing at the pool, so i offer an old favorite for today.  i kind of like this painting for the end of summer.

–jen

ps.  if you’re looking for some stories & poems, check out sweet light for now.  other stories & poems are all over the place from october to may in this blog–check out the list on the right hand side.

thank you so much for stopping by, blessed readers

i’ve always loved copper

i couldn’t get mc to make handprints so these are mine.  four year olds can be SO stubborn.  but then they are so sweet.  anyway.  i made my handprints, left this out in the sun, the rain, the heat, the weather, and now it looks like this.  i love it. i hope you like it too.  right.  still on strike.  can anybody toss me a fish to write with?

copper hands

image copyright jennifer woodworth 2009

STILL on writing strike? this can’t be good

or maybe it can:  think of all you can discover when you’re not busy writing!  All of those little things you do to pass the time until you can write again–what if they become the main event….naaaaa.  don’t worry friends; it can’t possibly last much longer.  so while not writing,

i discovered monotypes.  you’re supposed to put a damp piece of paper on the painting you make to make the one print. i figured if damp is good, drenched is better.  oh well.  here, have one.  anybody think of a good title?  thanks for busting through the picket line to stop by for a visit!  –fc

monotype and image copyright jennifer woodworth, 2009

a soft photograph: girl sleeping with teddy

still on writing strike.  if you’re looking for writing, there’s a ton of it here, earlier in the spring and fall of last year.  email me if you’d like a copy of my fabulous prize winning story called “the rings.”  my poem “asunder” is published at flashquake.org under poetry.  check it out!

i’m on writing strike. but here is a painting by my baby:

fluffy tumbleweed by mc sutton, age 4

image copyright mc sutton, 2009

i made the green and put the yellow on.  she made all the rest.  we had a wonderful day!  we hope you like mc’s painting.  –jen

little bird: 4 lithos

little bird

3×3 lithographs by jennifer woodworth, 2008

the night forest

the night forest

this is a collaboration with my four year old daughter.  i painted the basic shapes; she painted all the cool stuff.  my favorite is the gold paint and the blue and all the stuff at the top of the tree.  hope you enjoy.  apparently, fc is still on writing strike.

sweet light

Sweet Light

Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is

for the eyes to behold the sun:

but if a man live many years, and rejoice in them all;

yet let him remember the days of darkness;

for they shall be many. All that cometh is vanity.

–Ecclesiastes 11:7-8

Take the baby’s left foot in your hand; never mind that she is hardly a baby anymore.

Take the book she doesn’t want to read because she wants to watch Noggin TV.

Say it is ok with me if you watch Noggin (all preschool, all the time), even if it is not, because you need to write.  Let go of her foot.  Forget to change the channel for her.

Listen to her ask politely, please, pulling on your right arm so you can’t write.  Listen to her say, all smiles, sorry, I’m just hanging on to you.

Take the cuddle she gives your right shoulder with her left cheek into your heart of hearts.

Say you are beautiful. Listen to her ask if she can watch what comes on next on Noggin.

While she stands next to you, waiting, watch the new president speak about terror and peace for a few minutes.

Turn up the volume.  Put down your pen. Move to sit on the couch with the baby.  Take the baby’s left foot in your right hand; hold the remote in your left; watch the new President speak about extending our hand to those who seek peace.

Finally change the channel.  Let go of the baby’s foot. Put down the remote. Pull the blanket over the two of you and watch Miss Spider’s Sunny Patch Friends with your whole self, and your whole self’s best little buddy.

Now,

take the baby’s left foot in your hand. Accept her forgiveness.  Tickle her little foot until she smiles, until she laughs; stop; let her ask for more.  Now give it to her.

Now.

–jennifer woodworth summer 2009

crepe myrtle tree

crepe myrtle tree with little girl

a couple blog update notifiers…

blessed readers,

thank you so much for stopping by!  it’s lovely to have you.  i apologize for this post and hope you’ll read the others.

http://alphainventions.com visitors: thanks for stopping by!

http://condron.us: thanks also for stopping by!

–jen

the thumbnail cranes

The Thumbnail Cranes

After your note, I thought, I can only send these cranes to someone who already loves me completely. You were right: of course I was hoping my mother would finally love me now that I can fold these lovely little cranes.

Still, I wanted to give my cranes away.  There’s only one person who loves me that much, I thought, and that is my friend Ruthie. So I dropped my seven tiny cranes into their little sanbo box, and then put them in a post box, which I also made pretty.  I covered my mother’s address with Ruthie’s address.

When I was done, I said to my baby, “let’s get ready to go to the post office.  I have to mail this box and these miniature cranes to Aunt Ruthie.”

The baby began to cry.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”  I picked her up so I could steal a salty kiss and see her better.

“I want the baby cranes!  Don’t send them to Aunt Ruthie!”

In this way, I come to.  How I have folded the obvious under the wings of birds!

Baby had a lovely time tearing the box open & playing with her little cranes all afternoon.

a letter to my newborn baby

a letter to my baby

Feb. 28

dear little merrylees mary catherine mary salsa mary pie,

before i write this letter to you, i’ll go check on you in your crib one more time.  i’ll spread out my fingers and barely lay them on your chest and rest them there until i feel your breath move your chest up and down, up and down—

though i didn’t need to touch you this time—you sighed and turned you head when i came in—i did anyway.  your hands are up by your ears like they always are when you sleep.  when you were newborn you wrapped your little fingers around your ears all the time—i think you were stroking your newborn ear tufts—i know i did whenever you weren’t monopolizing them.  and tonight, like every other night, i laid you out straight in your crib, but you’ve wriggled & scooched and now you’re diagonal across the middle, feet folded up on your tummy, the way you folded them up when you were still in my tummy. i left the bathroom light on so i could see you every time i go upstairs to check on you—i won’t tell you how many times that will be—but, wait, i’ll be right back—

anyway, i won’t tell you how many times that will be because you’d surely be embarrassed sheeeesh mom can you leave me alone for ten minutes? when your daddy & i brought you home from the hospital, we slept with you between us, in a special little baby box, all three of us in our king-size bed.  we kept the lamp on—a lamp someone gave us at the baby shower that turned out to be your birth day party—we kept the lamp on, afraid if we couldn’t see you, you might disappear, or stop breathing.  so neither one of us slept for one second those first few nights—i’d start to close my eyes and lay my head down next to you, with my hand on your chest in your little box, but it seemed dangerous to sleep next to such a precious helpless creature so new to this world.  if she needs us how will we know if we’re not watching?  such a little cry she has!—so your daddy & i, we stayed up all night those nights, listening to your uneven newborn breathing.  our own hearts would jump and swell when you’d take too long between breaths is she breathing? ok, put your cheek by her mouth—do you feel her breath?  do you? don’t wake her up! since we had nothing better to do, and still don’t, of course, we lay there in the lamplight and admired your tiny little berry lips, your eyelashes, your many chins, waiting to be filled with milk, the single dimple under your left eye—we could see it even when you slept because you never stopped moving your face.  we watched while you smiled and laughed in your dreams—you were hilarious and fun and easy to entertain from the very beginning—what does she think is so funny?  we’re funny, honey-pie, she thinks we’re funny! we stroked your fingers don’t wake her up we fluffed up your hair don’t wake her up we looked on you and wept she is so perfect and so beautiful and thank you god for this amazing we talked about sleeping every night but didn’t, not for a long time—if we quit watching her—what if she quits breathing? i’ll stay awake, one would say, and the other, so will i. so there we were, the three of us, you sound asleep on your back, arms up touchdown!, your daddy & i holding hands in your box, too scared to leave you alone with our uncontrolled dreams what happens in dreams when they’ve all come true? and those were the most precious nights of my life.

after some time, we came to believe that you would keep breathing even if we did not consciously watch you every minute of every day and every night, but still, we slept with the lamp on so we could see you if you stirred, and we shook loose the sleep to watch you breathe and breathe some more. and no matter how scared i was that you might be somehow gone when i’d wake up, there you’d be in your box, your hands wrapped around your ears she’s out! we’d say, honey, oh my god just look at her! as if it were all a miracle, you and your sleep, and you were, and you are. and one night your daddy & i finally slept with our hands nestled next to you in your safe little bed.

after two weeks, your daddy had to go back to work.  i slept with you downstairs so when i heard your little newborn bird-cry, we could nurse without waking him up.  and we slept together for a couple of weeks on the big couch your daddy & i got just for snuggling, and you kept right on breathing, even without your box.  if i moved away from you, you would thrash your arms and kick your legs, toss your head back & forth, desperate to find me, even in your deepest sleep.  i imagined you saying, mommy where did you go? am i still breathing? stay with me mommy don’t leave me while i sleep. so i’d pull you close, flatten my fingers under your back, and you’d relax, float down into your deep sleep again.  you needed me then every minute, for everything—your food, your comfort, your warmth, your life, your breath.  and i need you too.

you got so little those first weeks—your eyes all indigo, no whites—you looked like a little baby animal—something like a little pink kitten.  you even had the tufted ears.  we thought you must have been a different kind of creature than we are.  your newborn mystery—where have you been?  how did you get here?  surely we did not make this beauty ourselves—so who made you? what will you like to eat?  what are your thoughts like, without words?  what will you think is funny? who will you love? how long will you want to be with me the way i want to be with you?  who are you?  do you love us?  do you love me? you were so strange and new it was hard to think of you as one just like us—

but you are. just like us—you—precious little person—blue-green eyes, now with whites around the edges.  you looked a little like a kitten to me then, but now you’re a sweet little girl—little tiny human—you love to stretch when you wake up; you think your daddy is funnier than i am;  you like to be anywhere as long as i’m there, but you don’t like loud noises; you hate to lie on your tummy;  you always seem so happy to be here, just glad to be part of the team; sometimes you scare yourself with a burp and start to cry.  you like the blanket sail game—i float one of your receiving blankets over your head and you laugh and laugh.  you like to suck your first two fingers, or your fist—but not your thumb.  you love to wear the dresses grandmother makes you, as long as they don’t get stuck over your head for too long—you love those dresses because she makes them with such a big hem to suck on.  and a dress with a big hem is even better if it’s smocked, because you like the feel of it, and better than that if the sleeves are too long because you think sleeves are completely delicious.  i love to listen to your loud fist-&-hem-sucking downstairs over the baby monitor as you put yourself to sleep in your crib—put yourself to sleep!  such an amazing little girl—

because when you were very small, you would not let me lay you down by yourself for one little minute.  i was afraid you’d have to take me to school with you in your backpack. secretly i was thrilled that you needed me so.  but i complained—she has to be in my arms!  constantly! —so no-one would think i was a bad mother who couldn’t ever put her baby down, which was true, now that i think of it.  but now, you know how to sleep all by yourself. i do occasionally wonder if you’re over the whole mommy thing, but maybe you’re not.  yet.

you like to look at yourself in the mirror, and every once in a while you’ll go crazy with the kicking and wriggling, so i made a little three second movie on the digital camera called the wiggle movie which will surely make you famous.  the whole world has already seen it, and i hope you don’t mind, because i posted it on the net—on your very own website—the one i made for you—wait a minute, i’ll be right back—between trips to check on you while you were sleeping—and now we’re back to the ears—

in your ultrasounds—we got one every two weeks because i was over forty when i was pregnant with you—you had your hands up by your ears every single time.  the last time, the doctor pointed to a halo on the screen right above your little fist and said, that’s her hair—look at that! and sure enough you were born with a whole head full of amazingly soft, long, sticking-straight-out baby hair—

which you must have grown so your fingers wouldn’t get cold while you stroke your tufts, wrap your fingers around the edges of your ears, and dive off to sleep, still breathing, always still breathing.

to sleep, to sleep, perchance to check on you.

i love you,

mommy

–jennifer woodworth, copyright 2005

Another Newsflash! Read It! Read It! Read All About It!

The online publication, flashquake, will publish my poem “asunder” in their summer edition on June 1.  YAY!

so be sure to check out http://flashquake.org on june 1 to see the poem. (look under poems at their homepage)

thanks for stopping by!

–jen

“The Rings” is up!

The Rings is published!  AROHO publishes winners & finalists online, so you can read it live & up close at http://www.aroomofherownfoundation.org/Orlando_Winning_Submissions.php?doc=Sudden_Fiction_Winner.

i have to admit the font hurts me, but try to see it in garamond?

and please, check it out!

thanks for stopping by.

–jen

two photos about hair

1.

what’s left

2.

little girl’s hair: a playground in may

please send your captions!

all photos on this site copyright jennifer woodworth, 2008, 2009

So Carlene, What’s Next For Us on the Color Wheel? : Mood, Color, & Public Service

 

blue?  too blue?  get yourself some orange pills

and but QUICK

 

 

A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

 FROM YOUR BEST FRIEND

 

 

a copy of this pamphlet should be printed on shiny tri-fold paper and placed in an obvious location in every doctor’s office in America, to assist with The Getting of The Patient Suffering From the Blue of Death to the DOCTOR before his or her best friend pushes him or her in front of a bus.

 

 

a note to YOU, the blue person, from your best friend-

here are two (2) handy scripts for your convenience and perusal:

 

 

script 1

 

call the doctor’s office to make an appointment. 

 

worst case:

 

“hi, i need to make an appointment to see dr. so and so.”

 

what day is good for you?

 

“pretty soon would be good.”

 

and what’s your fucking problem anyway?

 

“oh, i’m just a little blue, and i can’t seem to kick it.  been going on

for about three months now.”

 

oh.  ok.  well can you get your lame sorry blue ass in here sometime this

week?

 

“yes.”

 

ok, come at blank on blankday.

 

“thanks.”

 

bye.

 

then you get there.

 

 worst case, again:

 

fill out these forms, asshole, they say.

 

“ok”

 

the forms will ask you what your fucking problem is.  write Blue of Death.  you can just write, blue, can’t kick it if you don’t feel especially melodramatic.  Blue of Death is preferred, however, since it lightens the mood while making them take you seriously.  no shit.

 

the forms will ask you for insurance.  put what you have, and just pay the rest cash.  don’t argue.  i’m meaner than you are.

 

the doctor will call you in after you’ve memorized all the magazines. 

 

what can i help you with today, and make it snappy.  i’m more important

than you are because i’m a doctor.  can’t you see how important i am.

 

“i’ve got the Blue of Death and i can’t seem to kick it.”

 

how long.

 

“three months.”

 

ever had this before.

 

“yes or no.”

 

ever tried any meds before.

 

“no. yes. what?”

 

alright, let’s try you on this.

 

say, “does that have any sexual side effects?  cause i’d like to try one that doesn’t.” you need not name the effects.  the doctor will know what you’re talking about. 

 

the doctor will say, what, are you a fucking doctor now?  alright, we’ll try you on this other one then.  he or she will give you samples or a script.

 

say, “how long should it be till i feel better?”

 

the doctor will say, it’s hard to say.  two weeks at the outside. probably you’ll feel better in four or five days, which is true.

 

 

then the doctor will say, come back and see me in one or two weeks, or sometime in 2019, whatever’s most convenient for ME.

 

go out to reception area to make next appointment.  go to pharmacy.  do not pass go.  do not collect $200.  hide pills if necessary, but take as directed, or i’ll push you under a bus.

 

************************************************************************

 

a note to YOU, the Blue Person, from your best friend- here is another script, just in case, for making another appointment:

 

script 2

 

worst case, again.

 

            call the doctor’s office.

 

wait till the receptionist PICKS UP THE PHONE  before you hang up on her.

 

she’ll say, what the fuck do you want. can’t you see this is a busy doctor’s office.  and what did you say your name was.

 

            just say, “hi, this is john”

 

            john who.

 

“john the BLUEST FUCKING MAN YOU’VE TALKED TO  IN THE LAST FIVE MINUTES”

 

            what the fuck do you want.

 

            “i’m blue”

 

            so am i.  want to see my card.

 

“i want to make an appointment with so and so.  maybe you could show me your card then.”

 

            dr. who.

 

            “dr. SO AND SO.”

 

            oh.  right.  how’s thursday march 5, 2019?

 

            “i’ll be dead.  my friend will kill me.”

 

            what the fuck?  does she want to call me herself?

 

            “as a matter of cat, i think she does, but you don’t want that”

 

            what was your problem exactly?

 

            “blue.  james blue.”

 

            how blue?

 

            “as blue as you want to be.”

 

            ok, how’s tuesday march 3, 2019.

 

            “my friend is a real bitch.  you want me to call her or you want

            to start doing your job?”

 

oh.  you’re cranky too.  well why didn’t you say so.  will tomorrow work?  normally i’d take a lot longer and be a lot more of a pain in the ass, but i’m bored now.  you blue people could put a girl OUT.  so tomorrow, high noon?  but don’t take too much of the doctor’s time, and don’t be too depressing.  the doctor is very important, and he has to be able eat his lunch. 

 

            “ok”

 

            ok, asshole.  see you then.

 

            “you got some kind of personality disorder or some shit?”

 

            up yours, buddy.

 

            “ok.  see you tomorrow.”

 

            ok.  what was your name again?

 

            “he’s dead, jim.”

 

hang up in a huff.  show up at noon.  when you see the doctor, ask him if he has any fucking poptarts.  he or she won’t give you any poptarts, but he’ll double your dose for sure. 

 

see, what’d  i tell you.  piece of cake.  SO PICK UP THE DAMN PHONE ALREADY and call the doctor right now goddammit.

 

 

 

THANK YOU FOR SUPPORTING THE ARTS.  THIS

 HAS BEEN A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

 

–from our series of mental health pamphlets

written by jennifer woodworth (orange)

celtic goddess, v 5.1, in progress

 

celtic goddess 5.1, in progress

my best guess is that these will be prints of some kind when i finish them.  photolithography is easiest on the front end, hard in the garage; block printing involves cutting these knots into rubber or lino…

would it still be mine if i drew the thing on a piece of lino and my big strong husband does the cutting?  

your answer here!:

Name (required)

Email (required)

Website

Text only. No markup allowed.

 

this is a first draft without details of a spinning celtic goddess piece i’m working on:

celtic goddess v. 5

another draft of the goddess to come.  thanks for sharing my journey for her with me!

celtic goddess v. 5

celtic double fish knot

 

some drawings. hope you enjoy mary!

mc, age 
 

 

celtic goddess 4

notes from an ancient mine, v.6 still in progress

notes from an ancient mine

v.6

spend this rainy afternoon with me see me

call me write me send me a little note think of me dream            

of me have a passing thought

of me have a tingling

under your hair you

don’t quite understand that

is me passing through your mind  

 

when you are walking taking

step after step & then stop for a second that

is me you continue         wondering what

stopped your foot just then that

is me beside you on the path that

is me almost stepping where you are stepping & you

do not want to seem inconsiderate naturally you

do not want to step on me  

 

when you are reading & suddenly wonder if i have

turned your thoughts away that is me

when you are speaking & lose your train of thought that is me

turning your thoughts away but

if you find you are unable to speak at all that is you

turning your thoughts away this

is me coming towards you this

is me stopping this

is me moving away this

is me changing. this

is me yours. this

is me mine. this

is me belonging to you this

is me belonging.  this

 

is the profile of the sleeping woman

draped in white against a white pillow this

is her bare shoulder this is the first morning this

is her long hair spilled across the white pillow

her bent arm resting on her side

her sleeping fingers

curled in the bed this

is the feeling this

is the feeling for her this

is her hand

still clutching

the sheets this

is me

 

now or yesterday or never

tomorrow or forever

again or beside

 

beside the book the poems you read that           

is me while falling that

is me asleep that

is me.

–jennifer woodworth

Newsflash of My Life: A Room of Her Own: AROHO Prizes announced!

AROHO’s Orlando Prize Winners & Finalists
Spring 2009  …

Orlando Sudden Fiction Prize

Winner

Jennifer Woodworth, “The Rings”  [color added by jen.  well.  i wanted you to see it.  i can't help it.  so.  did you see it????  good!]

…

i understand that the story will be published on aroho’s website around May 1, 2009.  Here’s the link to AROHO:

AROHO’s Orlando Prizes & eMessage Competition | A Room Of Her Own – A Foundation For Women Artists and Writers

celtic goddesses 1 & 2. so i can’t draw. it’s still fun.

 

 

 

this is now bone

 

This Is Now Bone

 

After the Eskimo

Skeleton Woman Story

 

I looked for you for twenty years, so long

It seemed my life would be about the not having

My work thrived on the presence of absence and drama:

I was always and never alone.  I heard Their jokes,

Their conversations,

 

the Canto Hondo They breathed

Through the bone-flutes They gathered

without my permission:  bones I’d abandoned

followed me, tangled in the long hair I dragged

across the desert; their clicking and clattering hollowed

to chiming; then, they would not stop singing; in the wind,

they would not stop singing.  And they would not stop

being mine.  So the emptiness in my neglected bones

     Wrote Their bone-songs;

 

And when I grew my saber-teeth, the tiger

Caged beneath my breasts sang the stripes we’d burned:

I know who wrote the fires.

I fought with God only secondarily for not bringing

you; though the tiger still chews on the Problem of Evil,

I won, secondarily-was it the 95 Theses saying where

In the hell is my husband or was it the letter to Santa Ana saying

Please deliver my husband; I’ll put my stocking here, lovingly

Closed by the one who writes fires:

For it is better to marry than to burn.  Better

To marry than to burn; and married love is tall and cool;

A sweating glass of sweetened tea; and how

You have untangled the bones in my hair;  how

You have tamed the orange rage who clawed through my chest; how

You have taught the fire-starter in me: your songs

Must not be burned must not be set on fire; how

You have drunk the deep song of my bones; how,

How you have stilled me;  how

 

have you stilled me-in this stillness, the song

Breathes and deepens; the rise and the fall of it: 

At home, your naked feet on the floor, shhhhhhh-

Now my long hair brushes over your chest;  making love at the hearth;

 

Silent

But for the click-click of our wedding rings:

bone of my bones; flesh of my flesh;

Our fingers the marrow; this gold our bones.

 

 

 

little stars

 

 

our children know what matters

i just found a time capsule

from mary catherine’s first year–her first homepage!  check it out, you mc lovers!

mc’s baby homepage

mc’s first haircut

russell gives baby her first haircut

photo of the day

mc with goat

jen took this photo but

my friend the pinkhammer did the lovely croppping

forcing focus to face instead of hands–

thanks sara!  she has an installation of sorts

in the works of this photo and variations at

http://pinkhammer.wordpress.com.

it might not be ready yet but be sure to check back!

thank you pink!

–jen

a simple case

February 11, 2009

A Simple Case of Morning Pages

The tv is on with the sound mute so I won’t listen to the good conversation on my favorite news show.

The baby is chattering, talking to herself & her ducks, behind me.

The screen door is open: I hear one mourning dove, another bird with a triple-note call & her friends farther away in the trees, & what must be hundreds of other songs I can’t distinguish from one another.

The baby is singing; the bird with the triple call calls with eleven notes of the same pitch now.

The other birds quiet down for a few moments. Still eleven notes from the three-note bird.

Probably the cat strolling around the edge of the yard, or maybe prancing through the grass that way she does, my tiny, old, calico cat—so beautiful, so dangerous.

The baby sings Twinkle Twinkle Little Star with la-la-la for all the words. She sniffs & clicks two toys together.

Wings open and close, close to the door. Four times. The bird flies away from the tree by the porch. Another bird with a harsh call of two syllables is close to the house now.

The baby sings a line, then speaks a sentence. Sings, then speaks, then sings.

Birds move from one branch to the other: opening, then closing their wings—shaking leaves, swaying branches.

Another harsh cry, the one of two syllables.

But the birds are settling down now. I think it’s the day coming on. A few little peeps in the mêlée. Chirps.

The baby has a cold; she snuffles.

“Time to put my dress on!” says one of her teddies, or possibly a duck. I can tell it’s one of her playmates; she uses a different voice.

“Time for the duck to put a dress on!” says the baby.

Dresses on ducks. I think, she’s wonderful.

She’s chatting now, with her dressed duck.

I will ask her later if they want to wear high heels just to see what she says. I know she will not say, “Mommy, my ducks don’t have feet. Rubber duckies never have feet.”

I will ask her to see what she says. I should ask her now. I probably won’t.

The baby sneezes three times; I bless her bones each time.

“Little cake, are you still playing with your ducks? Do you want to put shoes on your ducks?” It has occurred to me that she has never seen a high heel up close and wouldn’t know what one is.

“My ducks don’t have feet because my ducks go in the pretend water.”

“They swim instead of walking around?”

“Yes.”

Well, that makes sense. I ask, “What if there’s no water?”

“I get them new water.”

She did say, my ducks don’t have feet. But she also said, I get them new water: There is the newness of the water to wonder at.

She brings a book, wraps my fingers around it the same way she’s always wrapped my fingers around books. One day, when she first learned to walk, she came to me with a book. When I didn’t notice her with her book, she put the book in my hand. When I didn’t stop working to grab the book, she wrapped my fingers around it. When I still didn’t take it, she held her little hands around my fingers, squeezing them around the book, looking up at me, saying only with her eyes, “Mommy, will please you read me this book?” She is still asking me to read her a book with her hands.

“Yes, of course,” I say today, but I am ashamed to admit that I have not always said yes, even though I have always known she is the kind of baby who does not ask for things with her voice.

She points to my paper, moves her finger down the page, tapping three spots, saying, “Dah. Dah. Dah.”

I write what she says in these spots to please her.

She smiles.

I put down my pen.

The birds are quiet.

It is time to the read the baby her book.

fossil audio

to hear fossil, go to this link:  fossil

thanks for stopping by!

–jen

the leaf poem: a ghazal

 

fossil

for Robert

 

on the sidewalk is a leaf

your beloved is the dance of the leaf.

 

in the stone where you walk

is an imprint of a leaf, but not the leaf.

 

herself–you wonder where she is:

your beloved, the spin of the leaf.

 

she comes alive in the fall

she twirls around your feet with leaves.

 

in spirals she moves from your head to your feet;

she glances over your cheek before she leaves.

 

in the morning her touch when you wake

as unknowable as the touch of shadows of leaves.

 

but in the stone, she is not in the leaf

and this disturbs you, this thought leaves.

 

the impression that she is absent but visible keeps

your foot from falling upon the not-her in the fossil of the leaf.

 

on your path, & everywhere else she is the reflection

of the swing of light dappling through leaves.

 

& the shadows of leaves moved by the breath of God 

in the glittering air brush over your leaf.

 

your very own leaf–your beloved 

lives in that leaf as she lives in other leaves.

 

that you may see her dancing though trapped in stone

as you in yourself must stay and leave.

 

the dance of your need: as free as you breathe, 

as bound in your need for breathing, your soul is leaving.

 

returning with every breath to the dance

of tethering & untethering,  struggling to free itself is a leaf.

 

whose dance is your beloved’s breath, 

whose breath is also the stillness in stone of your beloved leaf.

 

–jennifer woodworth

 

the window

 

the window

 

primitive lithograph made in my garage.  art for the day.

 

enjoy!

 

–jennifer woodworth

ps.  also see larger version here, at imagekind.

thanks for stopping by!

music of the day: ken woods, cellist

just heard from an old friend from Eastern Oregon University–Ken Woods, the cellist.  He’s moved on to England, where he is conducting and playing cello full-time now.  here is a link to some of his music:

ken woods does Brahms Op 8 Piano Trio.4.

he’s extremely committed to “new music,” as he says on his blog, A View From The Podium, so i went searching for him on itunes and found a lovely song he plays cello for, called “the end of tyranny” from the album Fortune Has Turned, with Chris Lastovicka.  

i’ve always found his cello playing devastatingly beautiful, but he’s also a conductor.  in fact, i think he really, really likes conducting.  he might like it as much as he likes cello.  you can never tell about things like that.

so bravo to kenneth for making it with music, and here’s hoping the links work and that you enjoy his tunes this morning!

–jw

take the baby’s left foot

january 23, 2009

take the baby’s left foot

in your hand; never mind that she is hardly a baby anymore.

Take the book she doesn’t want to read because she wants to watch Noggin.

Say it is ok with me if you watch Noggin (all preschool, all the time), even if it is not, because you need to write.  Let go of her foot.  Forget to change the channel for her.

Listen to her ask politely, please, pulling on your right arm so you can’t write.  Listen to her say, all smiles, sorry, I’m just hanging on to you.

Take the cuddle she gives your right shoulder with her left cheek into your heart of hearts.

Say you are beautiful. Listen to her ask if she can watch what comes on next on Noggin.

While she stands next to you, waiting, watch the new president speak about terror and peace for a few minutes.

Turn up the volume.  Put down your pen. Move to sit on the couch with the baby.  Take the baby’s left foot in your right hand; hold the remote in your left; watch the new President speak about extending our hand to those who seek peace.

Finally change the damn channel.  Let go of the baby’s foot. Put down the remote. Pull the blanket over the two of you and watch Miss Spider’s Sunny Patch Friends with your whole self, and your whole self’s best little buddy.

Now,

take the baby’s left foot in your hand. Accept her forgiveness.  Tickle her little foot until she smiles, until she laughs, stop, let her ask for more.  Now give it to her.  Now.

–jennifer woodworth

Presence: Flash-Fiction for the Day

 

Presence

 

It is healing.  It is never whole.

–Wendell Berry

We went to see grandmother last night.  She knew I was there; I told her I’d come back in the morning but it turned out we couldn’t stay; I called to say so; she died in the afternoon.  I think she was waiting for me, so I’m glad I finally made the trip.

There were piles of unopened letters and presents from me.  I spoke to my mother and was telling her about my visit with grandmother and I mentioned the piles and my mother became angry and said, don’t bust on my sister! What a different world mine would be if she ever told anyone not to bust on me.  Anyway.

Peace.  The place where grandmother was living was lovely and homey and did not smell one bit bad.  No tubes.  She looked comfortable and beautifully groomed—she had lipstick on; her hair was brushed back.  Pretty.  And the nurses loved on her; my favorite nurse even kissed her while she tried to wake grandmother up to see me.  And I could see that it had all been good for her there. It settled my mind.  

I opened her presents for her after awhile.  I’d sent her some lovely beeswax & shea butter lip balm, which I patted onto her dry lips after some water while she slept.  I opened the moisturizing bar I’d gotten for her hands and rubbed some into the hand I was holding.  I noticed the strong scent of beeswax and vanilla and thought it might be overwhelming to her, so I put my presents back in their tins. But I know she liked the lip balm, and her hand was so soft to hold.

And I know she was glad to see me even if she never really came to.  She held my hand really hard the whole time, and when I’d let go, she’d move her hand around with her fingers open, looking for mine again. 

She told baby, husband, and nurse to go away, to leave her alone with me.  She tried to joke: she said you all are ruining my life! And she tried to smile; I saw the good corner of her mouth move up a tiny bit.

The nurse knew all her jokes & laughed on the way out.

So they all left, and we were just quiet, holding hands for some time.

She loves chocolate, so I’d sent her some of the finest chocolate I could find. I unwrapped the thin little bar for her.  I asked her if she wanted some, even though she wasn’t allowed.  She nodded and I put a tiny bit of chocolate into her mouth, past her pretty lips, past her pretty white teeth, onto her tongue. I said, let it melt-yummm!

She took it in & nodded some more and we ate a square of chocolate together like that until she stopped nodding and suddenly said, “I’m fine, honey.”  And she fell asleep again. 

I said The Lord Is My Shepherd in my head together with her, which I figure is appropriate for any occasion.  I kissed her goodbye about 10 times and told her I loved her too, and a few nice memories, like how she taught me to wiggle my feet in the bed when I felt restless, and some nice things about the baby, like she’d had her first ballet class that day.  

She’d had a really strong pain pill: I told her she didn’t have to wake up.  Boy did they give you a good one! I said. 

She kept trying to get out of the bed so I had to keep her in the bed, which was funny.  We both had a good laugh about it when I called her ornery. Of course that’s what she always called me.

I asked her if she had any pain.

She shook her head.  No, not really.  Just in my mind, she said, which is when I said the prayer in my own head.

It was all good.  I’m very glad she waited for me.

Finally I kissed her goodbye, said I love you, and left.

I was all upset about my mother when I started this and now I am not.  

Thank you.

–jennifer woodworth

poem of the day

imagekind is up and running–i know you don’t want to miss the TogetherWithBaby gallery, at least!  so click and check it out if you’re in the mood for silly & fun.  or more serious stuff is also available there.  

should we have a poem of the day? i think so. i’m thinking Gabbeh today. it’s a love poem. check it out if you’re in love. or not. in love. or not.

thanks for stopping by!  –fisch clamor

Whale Song

WHALE SONG

It’s a fruit from the thirst-tree.
It’s the green whale of summer.
–Pablo Neruda

No ideas but in things.
–William Carlos Williams

We sliced the watermelon into smiles.
–Terrance Hayes

They just don’t get the irony.
–Ezra Pound

They just don’t get the irony, he says-
“no ideas but in things.” Don’t you see
the big green whale who smiles from ear to ear?

He says, they just don’t get the irony-
and smiles.   “No ideas but in things-”
the big drink whales from pink to laugh to ear.

They just don’t get the irony, he says-
“We sliced the watermelon into smiles-”
the big green whale who drinks from ear to ear.

He says,  “no ideas but in things.”
They just don’t get the irony-a big pink smile
who drinks and sings a whale of green idea.

Welcome Blessed Readers from ImageKind.com & AlphaInventions.com. Here’s what you’ve been waiting for all your life: Baby’s Pictures of the Day!

baby’s pickle people

Pickle People Under Attack by Pickle People Maker

please enjoy her art!

from

baby’s mommy, only slightly biased

pickle people love bad weather

For more of baby’s art, our together art, and my own art, please check out our galleries, “Together With Baby,” or jen’s galleries.

You can see our work there. If you like it, you can even just buy a card.  For example, you could make a card from mc’s brilliant piece  Pickle People Under Attack by Picle People Maker. by just clicking this link.

I just learned how to put links in my text and have clearly gone nutz with them.

Forgive me.

–jen

ps.  Back to writing soon.  What kind of stuff do you want to read?  please let me know at one of the links to the right.

pps.  oh someone, please leave comments.  my computer is so alonesome.

Happy New Year Blessed Readers!

  

mendhi by jen

About This Site, v.2

So. It seems my site is evolving.  I think it’s gone something like this:

It’s a site full of finished writing i wish could submit for publication somewhere. But this is so much easier, and lots more fun for me.  So it will do until someone sends a helper to get the stuff out of the house in envelopes.

And I include the occasional photo or drawing when I feel like breaking up the words.  By the way, 

Friends who are visiting for the nth time, you may enjoy clicking some of the links here (look for the Little Wing Jokes– you will know them because they are not one bit funny).

So here is a small collection of the following kinds of my copyrighted work:

Flash Fiction–Very Short Stories

Poems–Long & Short; Funny (or not), & Not One Bit Funny

Prose Poems

Art–by jen, jen & Baby, or just by Baby

And the occasional Note From The Studio.

please click around , and of course, i LOVE comments, outraged, appalled, whatever.

I try to put up something in a different tone every day, so if you’re reading and decide you want something else, you can just try the next entry.  My very favorite story here (and jen’s story of the day), is the first entry, called“The Rings”.  Hope you have a chance to read a little or look at the pictures & hang around for a bit!

the poem of the day

favorite of the day is the fishing poem.  click here!

 

Happy New Year everyone & I’m so glad you stopped by!

–jen

ps.  i love to play games with links:  enhance your clicking pleasure!

between christmas & new years, there are the baby’s hands & feet

delectables

Mommy-Baby Portraits We Made For Each Other, Christmastime, 2008

mommy-baby portraits

silver woman on blue by mc, december 2008

mary catherine, watching, by her mommy, who fails to understand growing up

Letter to Santa

is  jen’s story of the day–always appropriate on Christmas Eve Eve.  Check it out at this link:  Letter to Santa.

Very short, and completely hilarious if i do say so myself.  please leave outraged comments!  Merry Christmas to all and to all a good day.  thanks for stopping by today.

jen’s story of the day

and one of my favorite stories ever is at this link:  Screwing Up, importantly. It’s very short, & perfectly hilarious if i do say so myself.  check it out!  and please,oh please, leave outraged comments.

AND it’s a brand new revision, just in time for Santa.

A Tree of Life

ink with brush and pen

image copyright jennifer woodworth

& mary catherine sutton (age 3)

Blessed Readers,

From my stats, i can see that this tree gets several hits every day.  please drop me a line and tell me who you are & how you found my tree?  I’m glad so many people seem to like it and thanks for stopping by!  my curiosity is killing me.  please indulge me?

–jen

Prints of this Tree are available at jen & baby’s tree of life. The prints are inexpensive, and cards are also available from $3.50 or so (it’s the framing that’s pricey). If you like our Tree, please just drop by imagekind and buy it since i am, of course, a starving artist.

By the way, while you’re there, have a look at our other stuff!  Baby & I have a lovely time making art together and love to share it.  My own galleries are handy too, if you want to see them, at jenniferwoodworth.imagekind.com.

One more thing:  baby & i have a lot more artwork for sale.  let me know if you’d like for me to upload some of it so you can see it.

Thanks very much!

–jennifer