Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Two Girls Go To Paris

Two beautiful babes on board the Eurostar,

pink sunglasses and perfectly applied lipstick.

The clouds have crept from the sky,

all that remains is dazzling, brilliant sunshine,

and the girls look pretty on their passports,

passing landmarks as they lean into each other’s shoulders,

champagne, gentle and delicious on perfectly painted lips.

Two angels,

aching for adventure,

one mastering the tongue as the train runs faster and faster,

while the other writes a little verse,

about how wonderful it is to have a friend.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Chosen Family

We have never been in love,

but his name is neatly sewn into the lining of my long suffering heart,

and it is the only part that has always been hallowed ground.

Slipping his hand into mine,

with a chaste, close kiss on the cheek,

he knows the pain of my path,

and chooses to comfort me,

with no malevolence,

no malice.

There is nobody on this Earth that I trust,

but he is not of this Earth,

ethereal and empathic,

chosen companion,

spiritual siblings,

swept into the cyclone,

dreaming and dancing from Kansas to Oz.

Jill and her best Judy,

against the world,

against the wall,

watching the endless war,

and then writing verses from the vials of blood that surround us.

I keep his name sewn into my heart,

and I leave him all of my ill gotten gains in the will.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Stay Away From Me

She left a potential death sentence on the fridge,

my eyes roll,

relaxing into a coffin,

because I won’t sleep for the rest of the night,

when I am gnawed at by anxiety,

over what all this vagueness means,

and…

Christ,

what if I die?

What if she’s left the death on the towels in the bathroom,

or the pile of washing up that waits on the side for me,

from her dinner last night.

Is it a death sentence?

She tells us all to stay away,

but I can’t tell if she means she is a viral villain,

drowning in the death,

that flies all over the world,

or if she means that she just means that she’s in a mood,

not in the mood to see anyone,

so wants to socially distance,

in a small house,

where we live on top of each other.

Every couple of weeks,

she sits in her Oval Office,

playing final games of football,

while we wait,

alarms aching in the air,

without explanation.

Nobody knows why.

I’ve never known,

when we went from friends,

to cruel child with a magnifying glass and an ant,

when I went from Switzerland to Poland,

and I suppose I never will,

because there are never facts to be found,

or a way to unwind mystery,

in vague four word notes on the fridge,

that could mean anything at all.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Home, At Last

Nothing changed,
except me,
the very last of those girls,
who skipped, so drunk,
down the royal roads,
to imagine our lives could be whatever we dreamed of.
Now the girls are gone,
they are fine,
I imagine.
We send digital hearts,
online,
to say,
“Hey, I’m not dead.
Glad you aren’t either.”
I have returned,
the very last,
the very loneliest,
of those Greenwich Glamour Girls,
unable to get what I need from a screen,
or these streets.

Jennifer Juan Greenwich University

I tried the library,
seeing myself on seats,
and shelves,
surrounded by myself,
I sighed,
slumped against the serene scene of where I grew,
and imagined my life could be whatever I dreamed of,
and I dream,
again,
hoping I get it right this time.


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