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Jennifer Fenn Poem
Four friends and I, one Sunday, take a ride.
our church still closed just short of one full year.
We drive, white almond blooms on either side,
instead. Their branches wave as if to cheer,
“Prepare the way! Prepare the way for God!”
Each blade of mountain grass we see arise,
like little children singing praises, laud.
Some tiny purple flowers sing reprise,
join fiddlenecks of gold, much like stained glass
to deck the mountain like an A-frame church.
We slowly drive the narrow mountain pass
to see the valley from a lookout perch.
The treetops seem to bow, like they declare
their love for God. In awe, we join their prayer.
March 7, 2021
Breath of Spring Poetry Contest
Contest Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Copyright © Jennifer Fenn | Year Posted 2021
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Jennifer Fenn Poem
The Empty Academy Schoolhouse
It stands on a vast green lot,
No trees to shelter it from heavy, gray clouds
on the rolling foothill horizon.
Its thin coat of white paint peels,
revealing bare, dry-rotted wood.
The rickety porch boards,
once sturdy under children’s energetic steps,
look about to collapse at the slightest wind gust.
What’s it like inside?
Puddles of water from the last rain?
Rat’s nest in the woodstove?
Any desks or yellowed books, pencils,
love notes left behind?
A soiled ribbon slid off some girl’s braid?
A chalkboard with spelling words
or arithmetic problems still on it?
What songs, prayers, or memorized poems
still echo off faded, white-washed walls?
When was the first day of school?
When was the last?
What became of all the children,
who once ran around laughing
all over this green meadow?
What happened to ball players,
clover-chain weavers,
kids who picked lupines and fiddlenecks
for their teacher?
Did they leave Academy,
or do they lie in the cemetery on a nearby hill?
Published in Song of the San Joaquin, Spring 2021 Issue
This old school house is in the tiny pioneer town of Academy, just outside of Fresno, California, near the Sierra Nevada foothills. Some of the descendants of the pioneer families still remain in the area.
Copyright © Jennifer Fenn | Year Posted 2021
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Jennifer Fenn Poem
I’ll ride away from city life,
from the dingy brown of smog
and the mixing in of gray
with the white of tule fog.
Escaping black of pavement,
to New Mexico I’ll stray.
With my horse and pack mule,
to color I’ll ride away.
Through golden mountain passes,
I’ll ride to the orange southwest.
I’ll camp by the great Grand Canyon,
to see which times are best
to gaze at its bright red rock,
and enjoy it many a day.
With my horse and pack mule,
to color I’ll ride away.
By day, I’ll freely ride beneath
the heavens so vast and blue.
I’ll say my prayers by light of stars,
a sky-full, not just a few.
Slow or fast, I’ll mark my path
from Rio Grande to Santa Fe.
With my horse and pack mule,
to color I’ll ride away.
Copyright © Jennifer Fenn | Year Posted 2021
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Jennifer Fenn Poem
Boundless Blue
Born in a misty rainbow,
Blue slips out from her place
between her sisters Green and Violet,
painting the heavens azure,
covering the earth like the robe of Virgin Mary.
She floats into the ocean in a navy dress,
then waltzes on waves of the Danube.
Sailing the teal waters of alpine lakes,
she journeys to glaciers,
leaving her daiquiri-colored footprints on glacial ice,
taking some with her to cool the fires of Robert Frost.
She treads into meadows and gardens,
planting delphiniums, lupines, hydrangeas,
bluebells, and cornflowers to sprout in her wake,
with morning glories to climb fences.
People copy her free spirit,
painting their china in Delft and willow patterns,
sing “Blue Suede Shoes,” “Blue Velvet,”
“Blue Moon,” “Blue Hawaii,”
even play “Rhapsody in Blue” on their pianos,
blow their cobalt glass, dye their denims,
even their ice cream and candy.
They try to capture her lapis, turquoise, and royal sapphires,
pressing them into frames of silver and gold,
hanging them on chains.
She smiles at their craftsmanship,
then saunters down the path to the forest,
seeming to sway to her own swingy music.
With only her blue tick hound trotting beside her,
she picks wild blueberries, savoring the tart fruit
as its indigo juice runs down her fingers.
This poem was inspired by Meenakshi Raina's "Optimistic Orange". That poem is a great example of how fun it is to write about and personify a color. I encourage the rest of you to try it!
Contest: All Yours (May 5)
Sponsor: Brian Strand
5-5-21
Copyright © Jennifer Fenn | Year Posted 2021
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Jennifer Fenn Poem
I never heard or read that Texas slaves
were captive still, by masters so depraved,
till June nineteenth of eighteen sixty-five,
when news of freedom reached those still alive.
No passage of my school books ever claimed
there even was a day with such a name.
At forty-five, I had the chance to learn,
amid the news of riots, tear gas burns
of Black Lives Matter, president’s loud shouts,
of Juneteeth’s name and what it’s all about.
That made me ask what else about our past
does not get taught in schools, but should at last?
Who else’s triumphs over any hate
should all kids learn about and celebrate?
Copyright © Jennifer Fenn | Year Posted 2022
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Jennifer Fenn Poem
RELATED BY CHOICE
For my adopted grandmother Nancy Enloe
I met you at a friend’s house,
standing stately on your cane,
tall and rosy-cheeked like me.
In your smile, I basked and thought,
“Long-lost cousin, could you be?”
Like my great aunt long ago,
when you learned I love to write,
you gave me three r’s of verse:
Robert Wash, Service, and Frost,
and asked to read my own work.
Like my aunt in my childhood,
you invited me for swims.
In your pool, I splashed and laughed.
Like her, you asked to hear me play
my organ -the whole grand staff!
On a ten-day Rockies trip,
Jasper, Banff, and Lake Louise,
friends asked if you were my mom.
We smiled at that pleasing word
like Gilead’s healing balm.
One day, as we drove along,
you said just out of the blue,
that you’d be Grandma to me.
As if you spoke my own thoughts,
I grinned as wide as you could see.
Oh, once we got to be twins
in blazers you bought for us.
You knitted us two rainbow scarves
for walking in wintry air
or through the winds on the wharves.
You’ve been family to me,
all six relations in one.
How fun it would be to find
on genealogy sites
if we’re related for real.
No matter! It feels just right!
Copyright © Jennifer Fenn | Year Posted 2020
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Jennifer Fenn Poem
SPIRITS OF THE PARROTS
Two parrots, one red, one blue,
share one large, rotund zoo cage,
just the two of them.
There are plenty of perches,
yet they sit on the same one,
close together,
looking over a feast
of fruit and seeds to share.
They make no noise,
as if in silent prayer
before their meal.
Where are those parrots today?
Where is the cage?
Can we see their spirits
flying past the zoo, over the city,
up and down the state, across the country?
When they fly through clouds
and rest on phone wires,
can they see rallies on street corners,
counter-rallies opposite,
each group waiting for the other
to offend them, just so they can lash out
with swear words and name-calling,
refusing to even look for common ground?
No, most likely, they stay in heaven,
flying close together,
exploring the new Jerusalem,
eating fruit from the tree of life,
the red one and the blue one.
-Jennifer Fenn
Copyright © Jennifer Fenn | Year Posted 2020
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Jennifer Fenn Poem
A COSTUME FOR THE CAT
Cat, my miniature human,
in a tiny costume of fur,
what would you wear if you would dare
to let such crazy thoughts occur?
Person, I wouldn’t wear your clothes,
or want any closets of shoes.
My own bare paws are fine. You saw
I don’t get foot blisters like you.
What stubby feet on your costume!
What short-fitting arms and legs, too!
You’d help yourself to things on shelves
if the limbs were lengthened for you.
Person, my person, don’t you see?
Reaching wouldn’t be the same.
Jumping is cool. Then I can rule
from high places. Now that’s my claim!
Kitty, in a costume like mine,
you can go to school, get a job!
Person, dear me! You still don’t see!
Now I don’t mean to be a snob,
but why do that when I’m the queen?
Your job’s to pet and feed me well!
I won’t pretend. I’m glad to spend
my Halloween time as myself!
October 16, 2020
Copyright © Jennifer Fenn | Year Posted 2020
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Jennifer Fenn Poem
SONATA FOR CHRISTMAS EVE RAIN
I. I sit in my friend’s armchair,
waiting for her to get ready for church.
Pianissimo, the raindrops fall in quick, staccato rhythm
on the windows, the roof, and the pool.
I imagine the circles they make on the water.
expanding in echoes only angels can hear.
II. We drive through the valley’s empty green pastures,
to the old country church in Academy.
The raindrops run down the windshield
like notes connecting in smooth legato phrases
made by a piano’s pedal.
III. A fire crackles in the church’s ancient woodstove,
joining the outside rain in an animated duet.
Lead by the antique pump organ,
we stand to sing, becoming part
of their Christmas carol.
Published in Song of the San Joaquin, Winter 2018
Copyright © Jennifer Fenn | Year Posted 2020
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Jennifer Fenn Poem
Epitaph for the Test Dogs
What you did for us, not many know,
because you did it so long ago.
Victoria’s reign to flapper days,
you lived in labs while other dogs played.
Pancreas removed from each of you,
you were, then, rendered diabetic too.
Were insulin shots something to trust?
Since they worked for you, they were tried on us.
They worked like magic when they were tried.
Type I diabetics no longer died.
To you, furry friends, this tribute we give.
You gave up normal lives so we could live.
Contest: How you live or have been healed from a difficult and challenging health condition?
Copyright © Jennifer Fenn | Year Posted 2022
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