Our Path, By Jenny Taylor Moodie The Cathedral, By Auguste Rodin

Our Path                     By Jenny Taylor Moodie



Tethered to a place
we made together
with slippery sticks
and shifting stones
and makeshift mud
for glue
We trip along
making crooked tracks
on the blurry map
dripping in our curved hands
no streamed lines
or clear-cut signs
just us
and the path we chose




The Cathedral-
Auguste Rodin

Christina's World, Andrew Wyeth/The Abduction, Jenny Taylor Moodie

The Abduction       By Jenny Taylor Moodie

what is this monster

wrapping it’s green tongue around my ear

squeezing my gut with the words

failed 

freak

tripping me up

in blurred and weary

gravel roads

leading me down

muffled muddy stairs

to mirrors

bent and black.

Christina's World

By Andrew Wyeth

Pollock "Autumn Rhythm"/ Poem: Via Satellite, by Jenny Taylor Moodie

Via Satellite                                                                By Jenny Taylor Moodie

Common

as a bruised apple in a lunch box

or a stubborn stop light

or the TV,

yellow and yammering.

You don’t even see

the faces,

flat and fraudulent.

You bobble and nod and agree,

though it’s all the same,

the flimsy linen words

from yesterday 

or a year ago.

They flop around

like wet laundry,

tumbled and shaken,

passed around again

with a hidden residue.

They play the ragged dirge

of the boxes and squares 

stuffing noise

into every corner of a minute.

Autumn Rhythm, Number 30 Jackson Pollock

At Grace Church, by Jenny Taylor Moodie

At Grace Church

I saw the shining girl
at Grace church
eating sunflower seeds
in her white dress
like a little white dove
She cracked shells
with her tiny sharp teeth
the birds crouching down by her feet
We drew red petals
from the frosty ground
pressed our faces to the silvery glass
and looked inward
at the perfect old stones
and windows
sapphire and white
reflected the timeless sky
behind us


*This was a church that Jason and I stumbled upon during one of our NYC explorations. I fell in love with it instantly and was inspired to write a poem about a child ghost who lived at Grace church.

Psyche Opening The Golden Box

Painting: Psyche Opening The Golden Box, by Sir John Waterhouse
Poem: The Muse, by Jenny Taylor Moodie

The Muse


This woman in silk
with her vein trailed hands,
fingers crowded with tawny rings,
feeding my paths,
leading me onward,
like the breeze pushing my back
and a voice in my hair,
offering me
her heady knowing,
whispering words
of a purple sky
and pregnant possibility.

The Captor

 
Painting: The Kiss, by Gustav Klimt
Poem: The Captor, by Jenny Taylor Moodie


You've found me,
pried my hands open,
the lines in my palms
told you everything,
every piece of gold sand
in the desert of my footprints,
the whole jagged mirage
that is me.
You smooth my raven head,
pulling feathers
that mark where I've been,
dark pieces of maps
clinging to my wings
to frame behind
a piece of scrubbed glass.