tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31448015017031285222011-11-27T15:42:15.971-08:00Soaked like copperleaf vines across the page, wondering where the lines are leading you.Jordynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16201697335882713516noreply@blogger.comBlogger651100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-56403028130662550402011-11-05T14:50:00.000-07:002011-11-05T14:51:58.840-07:00

I've decided just now I'm going to make a greater effort to blog and write more. I mean, I'm a creative writing major, for heaven's sake. So, I will make an effort to blog every night about whatever. There'll be crap, and there'll be gold, that's just how it works.I found my green glasses and the writer is back in me. :D

Jordynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16201697335882713516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-11194534086815042332011-03-09T13:31:00.000-08:002011-03-09T13:32:37.479-08:00

I left the window open all of last October,and you never found your waythrough moon-licked thicketsand rows of P.O. Boxesto my new address. Meanwhile, November lost itself to the rain. Through December I thought maybeGod forgot that cluster of starsI found you in when they droppedinto the palm of my hand,squinting one-eyed, upside downon the purple shag rug. But you weren’t lost in the sky, just

Jordynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16201697335882713516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-89147718817924166822010-09-30T11:20:00.000-07:002010-09-30T11:21:45.515-07:00

I believe in silencethe prayer whispered betweenearlobe and the goose bumpscaught in your throatwhile blood curls back fromtoes and stiff digits likeone foot caught outsidethe quilt in the morning.I believe in the shadowof your clavicle stickingup from your collarwhen that black t-shirtis stuck under you and you’re fighting forthe remote after Irefuse every good showfor cartoons from 1958. I

Jordynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16201697335882713516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-82010908116852542092010-07-26T18:28:00.001-07:002010-07-26T18:30:56.044-07:00

I will unknot the creases in your muscles where your inside map space curls into a roundabout u-turn crossed over bypass to nowhere. Your hemispheres of patterned land separated by violet ink swirls under your eyes curl around the same route into white knuckle grip, snow chained fingers on a steering wheel. I will loosen them, mold, curl them around my own just like the days when my whole hand

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-76742527808357530882010-06-23T13:41:00.001-07:002010-06-23T13:42:38.713-07:00

I always told you that you were as impossible as the orange on fine point paint brushes scattered across a kitchen table, burnt like it was scraped off the horizon coming through the window to me, hands soft on hips, begging for two more minutes. I always told you that you were as impossible as the moon across my bedspread and I told you to please come in, please not be scared, please just

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-29779807467897174472010-06-12T14:13:00.001-07:002010-06-22T19:07:27.659-07:00

I give you my hands. There's strawberry juice dried in the spaces between middle and ring, under the nail, inside the cuticles, lumped in the bowl of my palm. I sucked it away like an open wound and just when I said I’d eaten too many, I peeled away the skin of my hands, left them behind, open, patient like a locust shell at your feet. Children wait in Narcissus stance, brushing orange dust

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-61209316535184703552010-05-13T08:21:00.001-07:002010-06-22T19:07:55.781-07:00

I would put you on display like a butterfly with a straight pin through its abdomen, its wings dipped in wax and spread wide—exposed. I would put you in a glass box, paint the insides with red, your face blue as mesa sky drop you off in ten thousand museums and sell your copies for wells in Africa. I’d dip you in bronze and stand you behind the pulpit, convince everyone you were Baal or

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-19196806675497780392010-05-13T08:20:00.001-07:002010-06-22T19:08:29.162-07:00

I promise, there’s no way you could be anything but the inside of a spider web. You aren’t human at all the way your lips curl into a string thumb-tacked maze across cork boards directing to the next paper clipping with names scribbled over faces in red ink. I promise you couldn’t be anything but dust in the palm of my hands spread over the grooves of my knuckles, knocked over the concrete when

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-65726904978731209742010-05-13T08:18:00.002-07:002010-10-10T19:56:35.357-07:00

You owe me five more minutesripening by the vines out back,sixty more seconds for the dewto slide off the tomato’s skin.And I owe you the time of day,the shadow on the sundialpointed northward since the treeshad grown too thick overhead.You owe me two more breathssucked slow from the straw,dipped in iced tea and apple juleps,in the back of my throat while sodafizzed in my nose. I owe you

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-51318293726931938832010-05-13T08:18:00.000-07:002010-05-13T08:18:01.917-07:00

I stripped the sheets off the bed and traced the creases in my knees all the way back to the arrowed point under my chin, pulling muscles wrapped over bone into crest-curve spinal cord, following, reading dunes like brail on leather, The phone was off the hook, swinging from the side of the bed, dial tones percolating through Mom’s quilt, reaching over the hill of my shoulders, with foreign

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-5404269306925282702010-05-13T08:16:00.001-07:002010-05-13T08:16:30.829-07:00

Oh the places you will go, in hopscotch, morse code paths to destiny, to existence. Check under each footprint and God will hide between your toes. This is no common symphony, harmony, no triplet stanza to follow. Tread softly let the whip of summer pass through your veins, grab you up by the waist and carry you away. Never fly straight to never. Always stop along the way. Here the poet

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-70676186543895727102010-03-18T06:35:00.001-07:002010-03-18T06:35:51.824-07:00

“The best thing that could happen to poetry is to drive it out of the universities with burning pitch forks. Starve the lavish grants. Strangle them all in a barrel of water. Cast them out. The current culture, in which poetry is written for and supported by poets has created a kind of state-sanctioned poetry that resists innovation. When and if poetry is ever made to answer to the broader

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-77205477174214584942010-03-05T06:05:00.001-08:002010-03-05T06:05:26.939-08:00

Night is in the far corner of her bedroom, arms over bony knees, tucked behind the moonlit curtains, waiting for the door handle to stop rattling the glow-in-the-dark planets hanging from her ceiling. She is asphyxiated by the eternity between the dips of the horizons, hoping to be extinguished into silent sunrise so she can pretend she doesn’t exist, so she can go back to bed and pretend it

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-57972289021573959422010-02-19T06:12:00.001-08:002010-02-19T06:12:44.384-08:00

my first breaths were drawn blue. even at birth i wanted to be a part of the sky and my mother said i wouldn’t open my eyes for a month so i listened to daddy’s voice and wondered what I was. maybe i’m late discovering myself; my eyes just opened and i have these new fingers spread over the curve of my brow to shield orange kentucky summer. why couldn’t i have been a tobacco field cloud? i

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-36765183038779859332010-01-21T06:40:00.000-08:002010-01-21T06:40:41.962-08:00

I'm not really sure if I ever got around to one central point....but that's what rants are for anyway. Just some thoughts on humanity: The human race is incredibly fascinating. Fascinating and hilarious, I might say. Being a part of the race, I can’t say I’m not susceptible to its calamities, its chaos. However, if one steps back and looks at how easily we tattoo the history of our race on our

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-39445204401765318342010-01-11T06:30:00.000-08:002010-01-11T06:30:22.694-08:00

By the back lot of Spalding’s bakery on West 6th I reached my fingers around the rusted gate of used-to-be farmland dropped out-of-the-sky sideways into inner-city and curled my hand around a pale blue blossom, took the petals between the printed pads of index and thumb. You drew plans for empty spaces on your notepad. I kicked the broken bottles at my feet, asked you to hold my notebook but,

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-57074345401097596632010-01-05T15:57:00.000-08:002010-01-11T05:57:40.565-08:00

This is the silence I must tell, when lips blessed the taste of goodbye, the taste of salted holy water comig from eyes, when faces were thankful for night to hide tomorrow while it clung to the pressed corners of their mouths. I found myself reciting back all the moon hymns that I could remember, looking through the glow of your cell phone, catching you with streak-lines and the skin of your

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-53338916926642988392010-01-02T09:54:00.000-08:002010-01-04T05:54:04.517-08:00

He dipped his middle finger into the holy water and touched it to his face as we left St. Paul's Cathedral on New Year's Eve. I smiled to Father Charles and passed the baptismal without a second glance. The water was still and shining in the marble bowl, but when his fingers breeched the surface it rippled and swirled like any other liquid. Must you be so holy? Must you, to be able to touch the

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-9557433631150736752009-12-14T06:48:00.000-08:002009-12-15T18:40:27.705-08:00

Snow I found you in a cotton shirt, lying long ways in the living room floor, while the ceiling fan slowed to a crawl and December chill crept in from the window. You dropped your shoulders into the Saxony carpet while the fibers bent around you like perfect eggshell sand. They cradled the base of your neck, reminded you of a time when summer filled the room, filled our mouths, tasted wine

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-25324732356069901092009-12-07T06:19:00.000-08:002009-12-07T06:45:25.805-08:00

“You’ve never had goetta?” I didn’t realize how my denial would affect the rest of my Saturday night. Ali D., my roommate from the Kentucky Governor’s School for the Arts was sitting on my couch, her arm stopping mid-swing as she prepared to bowl her final frame on Wii Bowling. Jen, another GSA alumni came skidding in from the kitchen in her new pair of Christmas socks. They had smiling

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-81826538700361602212009-11-30T16:47:00.000-08:002009-11-30T16:47:42.092-08:00

Pages turned to grey as each moment lost itself in sand drips of hourglasses, in floral couch cushions and in lightless stars of the Kuiper belt. Ink ran down our fingers, bled from the corners of our mouths, around mason jar glasses full of communion wine, around planetesimal forms standing eclipsed in our pupils. Words erased themselves from Earth's history. Syllable by

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-76898258878058428932009-11-23T06:47:00.000-08:002009-11-23T06:47:00.881-08:00

This morning is a lazy kind of morning. Not so much tired as an apathetic lazy. I've checked out for this week. There's nothing I can really do to bring myself out of four days from now. I'm already there, waiting on the swing in the backyard under my paisley quilt. Mom and Dad are gone for their black Friday shopping and I am just waiting. It is sunny out and a chilled wind wraps itself around

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-53094116534501553802009-11-18T06:29:00.000-08:002009-11-23T05:34:10.332-08:00

Il y a beaucoup de leçons que nous pouvons apprendre des actualités et des événements dans le monde. Nous apprenons des leçons dans nos vies quand nous voisons des actualités et lire des journales. Aussi de même, si nous voisons les événements dans le monde, nous apprendrons les nouvelles solutions pour les problèmes dans notre pays et le monde. Par exemple, ce mois, un homme qui s’appelle

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-39358136484382383382009-11-17T06:25:00.000-08:002009-11-17T06:25:54.356-08:00

She didn't hear him the first time he called. She was wrapped in the blankets like a cocoon and the blue light from the television was floating beneath her eyelids, aurora patterns against the black. Somewhere at the base of her neck she could feel the prick of waking. It crawled up into her brain and invaded her consciousness. He called again. Soft. It was her favorite way to wake, in the

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-37229675598043890422009-11-17T06:01:00.000-08:002009-11-17T06:01:03.141-08:00

When the moon swells, we’ll all die. It’s just inevitable, in fact she’s been bloated these past few days. She sucks in the night sky and chews up the stars between her teeth. And her belly laugh sings us all to sleep. When the moon swells, she pines for the ocean’s touch and she’s reaching out for him to take her back where she belongs. Moon from water, earth from water, we are all in love

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-8235742805898603342009-11-16T06:27:00.000-08:002009-11-16T06:30:06.270-08:00

This past weekend I was standing in my best friend's kitchen when her mother came through, smacking the Herald Leader down and complaining about one or two of the headlines. It took me a few moments to notice that what she had brought in was, in fact, the newspaper I had been selling months ago at my former job as a cashier at Walgreens. Significantly smaller, the paper didn't make quite a

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-21345872042903513282009-11-13T06:34:00.000-08:002009-11-13T06:34:36.573-08:00

Happy Friday 13th, all. Today, I advise you to walk under a ladder into a pet shop to buy a black cat who has a deep hatred for mirrors. Good luck.

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-12005267385515015592009-11-13T06:28:00.000-08:002009-11-13T06:30:45.340-08:00

The sheets are stone against the bed, crumpled in a mountainous rock face by the footboard, and the blankets lie spread out on the floor like a valley at the foothills. Something in these sheets pricks the edge of her mind in the night, a chronic tautness in her muscles to fuel the insomniatic twitching. She covers herself in earth each night, buried alive beneath quilted cliffs. She hides her

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-17353627193925471242009-11-13T06:09:00.000-08:002009-11-13T06:09:37.211-08:00

We were passing white nights under black skies, and the air froze as lungs expanded, leaving open mouths wide, heads turned to heavens searching for starlight to illuminate the vacant spaces linking our teeth. There are no goodbyes between the half hours around midnight and the layers of 2 a.m. slumber, blue ivory feet sticking to frosted concrete. Winter consumed Lady Fall while night leapt from

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-22991896476449756352009-11-12T18:29:00.000-08:002009-11-13T06:37:13.701-08:00

Tomorrow I'll be seeing my dad for the first time this week. My parents aren't divorced or anything, he works the night shift at Toyota--Body Weld department--so I don't see him much at all. It's almost like living in a house all on my own these days with my mom at work or class until nine or ten in the evening and my dad leaving for work at 4. I get home and he's just left and my mom won't be

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-25127984133596167122009-11-12T06:12:00.000-08:002009-11-12T06:12:07.652-08:00

So, the big news around the world is the upcoming Twilight film: New Moon. I have to say, I'm excited about it. As much as I try to hide it, I really am overjoyed that the new Twilight film is coming out. I liked to have killed myself with excitement when I read those books and I nearly had a seizure when the first film was released. I thought it was the most orgasmically fantastic thing I'd seen

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-39721229188892390052009-11-12T05:57:00.000-08:002009-11-12T05:57:53.544-08:00

Good morning all. I hope you've slept well. Today begins another day in the life of a high school senior. Woo. This morning I discovered six things: 1. Toothpaste is not to be swallowed in large amounts. 2. If you sleep with your hand under the pillow, it might turn blue by morning. 3. If you're going to drive down Springhill Drive at 8 a.m., it's a good idea to have sunglasses. 4. Just because

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-43452946748257973432009-11-10T06:39:00.000-08:002009-11-10T06:39:21.576-08:00

I met night on a subway train moving east from 42nd, searching for a lost coin underneath the plastic seats. She was wrapped in sheets and fur skin coats, discarded scraps of blue jeans. Her eyes were white like star blood and she whispered galaxy lullabies saying Orion had left her in the half hour folds around midnight. She is a single mother of the moon. The Milky Way was strung on the

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-13451017627697813422009-11-10T06:27:00.000-08:002009-11-10T06:28:27.597-08:00

She waits on a star map, spread across the floor, pinning blue string in the shapes of new constellations. With each drive of the pin into corkboard she bows her head in silent prayer. “I’m mapping out eternity,” she says, “So we’ll always have someplace to go.” There is a sapphire spider web wrapped around her fingers and she pulls it into a ladder, a cradle, a loop knot and back out again.

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-86299465334397438082009-10-07T06:22:00.000-07:002009-10-07T06:25:01.190-07:00

As day breaks, delicate as languid tongues, he is a void, melted into gutters where rain water reflects in patterns of rippled orange. His spine slouches against a skyline, breaking from earth, imprisoned by the sky. This exhale, this puff of morning smoke over brick buildings beneath peach moon blue, circles his head. He is empty. She is imprinted on the street line creases of his

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-27842365498005317842009-09-30T18:16:00.001-07:002009-09-30T18:17:06.724-07:00

Between the sheets, and my blue dinosaur blanket, I find a paradise once forgotten in a dream, an island floating in the linen ocean where you left your scent. You wait for me in the palm trees, the sunrise clasped in the palms of you hands. "You can't miss this," you say, lifting your smallest finger so I can see. When I come to the island, I find you straddling the curve of the earth,

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-27264547388801591492009-09-10T15:58:00.000-07:002009-09-10T16:00:56.790-07:00

Sometimes I wait for our moments to overdose, past all the times I said, I can’t. I can’t. Sometimes I’m trying to talk myself off the page, until there’s only free fall into the air, off the edge of college ruled blue lines into your arms. Sometimes I wish you’d rip me apart, analyze my pieces to know what I am. Sometimes I wish you’d take me by the throat and slice me open with daisies, I

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-74872918682447213982009-09-08T15:37:00.000-07:002009-09-08T16:33:32.402-07:00

Red, just beneath the skin, just beneath the purple bruise circles under her eyes. She hasn't slept in weeks, minus tonight. Red, across the bridge of her nose, making hazel eyes gleam under a flickering street lamp, making her skin glow gold beside that silver Audi. She is blocking the driver door, whispering promises in her head, thanking the dark that no one sees red. Running in, flushed

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-21939215514680733962009-08-25T06:18:00.000-07:002009-09-09T06:20:18.092-07:00

Your face has moon in its glow, and I know you are dreaming by the way your eyes are wide and focused on some unseen star. Your breath is like disaster, but your lips tell me to stay. I taste shooting stars in them, and with the way you keep them under your teeth, I know you like the taste too. You are Father Night sky and your untold daydream thoughts are the answers we were looking for. When

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-30842990857479859142009-08-25T06:07:00.001-07:002009-09-09T06:20:43.079-07:00

I want to dive deep into the voice of poem, into the black and thick water like molasses, like blood in the moonlight. I want to sink below the surface and suck in thick, metaphor sky, fill my lungs and drown in starlight liquor. I want to breathe poem-air and taste the raspberry center of the 80% cacao. I want to run into the brick wall of stanza, swallow my teeth and be flattened, like

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-73973500793483936662009-07-31T08:53:00.001-07:002009-07-31T08:53:37.995-07:00

A French horror short film. Excellent, in my opinion.

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-62152717600158936352009-05-29T06:11:00.000-07:002009-09-09T06:21:09.850-07:00

I think it's funny that in the summer time we write about winter and in the winter, spring is only a dream. Though sunlight surges around us we long for the taste of snow, the wind on our cheeks. I've been thinking a lot about the story of Samson and Delilah. I don't know why it intrigues me in the way it does, but I just can't get it out of my mind. Samson made a promise to God that he would

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-12367534208384770892009-04-13T15:35:00.000-07:002009-04-13T16:41:36.650-07:00

Okay, so for those...three, maybe four people that actually take time out of their busy lives glued to facebook and Hannah Montana to read my blog, I've got a new series starting today!!! It's called.... Yup, Question of the Day! (sorry, my image got a little skewed in the process)Anyway, here's how this is gonna work. I ask a question, and you answer it! I'll be on facebook, twitter and myspace

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-52295022754392198542009-04-13T06:47:00.001-07:002009-04-13T06:47:44.353-07:00

An army of white horses ride on the horizon. Like a ribbon of cloud and flame, consuming the world in smoldering mouths. Yahweh. Their voices drown the lands with exaltation and every knee is knelt and waiting. Yahweh. Sunken in the ashes of life built by man the world waits aside the great beast jaws tight against his enflamed reigns, roaring with tremulous fury.                 Yahweh. Today

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-11375971882308641472009-04-08T06:02:00.001-07:002009-04-08T06:02:10.424-07:00

This is what happens when you take away my music from me. My head clogs up and I can't write. I can't think. I can't form coherent sentences... The result:     I want my iPod. I really want my iPod. I desperately need my iPod. For the sake of my sanity, please give it to me. If you're out there, darling iTouch. I miss you. And I need you back. I've lost my mind and I need you to bring it back

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-48937883320124215052009-03-18T06:50:00.001-07:002009-03-18T06:50:41.568-07:00

Eyes who saw beforepull back the cataract filmlike a leech against the blue.See.Ears who heard before,rattle the hide stretched overthose deaf and dying drums.Hear.Hands who built the sky,wring the fingersand forget the swollen scars.Heal.Voice who spoke existence,bite the tongue andgrind the teeth.Speak.Again.Feel the earth trembleabove arthritic limbsand wash away the cloud.When the smoke

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-39192202113092919632009-03-09T06:24:00.001-07:002009-03-09T06:24:32.111-07:00

After 8,506,644 minutes of life...if my calculations  are correct, I have come to four conclustions:   1. God does not want me to know everything. 2. Sleep is not always a guarentee. 3. No one is what they seem. 4. If stick a fork in a microwave, the results will be less than pleasurable.-- ~jack

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-69191670255510513762009-02-24T19:24:00.000-08:002009-02-24T20:00:51.109-08:00

I always find it hard to breathe when I'm thinking. When I'm thinking really hard, really deep into the edges of my mind, I just forget to focus. My head is feeling light and I realize I'm doing it again. My eyes come back into focus just as my lungs flood with warm, mid-day Arizona air. I see someone staring back at me. The blue marbles, pupils contracted, my head spins."Oh, sorry." I mutter,

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-56647269730981192182009-02-20T12:40:00.001-08:002009-02-20T12:40:19.660-08:00

Let me begin by wishing all of those with their "heart in a headlock", a happy (and very late) single aware-...oh, sorry Valentine's Day. I haven't been very on the ball with these blogs, but I promised...   For those of you still searching for the perfect prom date, no worries. I hope you had a wonderful day of sitting on your couch eating ice cream. (I recommend Cold Stone Creamery's quart ice

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-47928717930045972342009-02-11T10:13:00.001-08:002009-02-11T10:13:52.269-08:00

Faces like frozen granite hiding in the shadows, corners of the lost places in the mind of God. She waits there alone, visage of silk, translucent, fragile. Curled aginst the stone, cradled, she closes her baby eyes and thinks of a melody. She lets her mind flow over the notes of a lullaby she once knew. Stoic, these faces she stares so patiently, so long, they are almost real.

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-17047992210376977262009-02-10T14:40:00.000-08:002009-02-10T14:43:46.208-08:00

Forgive me, it still needs a fair bit of tweaking. I guess I need feedback or comments. "I really love this" or "this sucks" doesn't really help me though...Her head turned ever so slowly to the window,watching the lights stream by.They said nothing to her eyes,as she drifted past on the wet blacktop.But, their rhythm whispered the same old rainstorm song,soft and caramel in her ears.The melody

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-69182363981248643842008-12-22T22:47:00.000-08:002008-12-22T22:59:24.469-08:00

first of all:Children sleeping, snow is softly fallingDreams are calling like bells in the distanceWe were dreamers not so long agoBut one by one we all had to grow upWhen it seems the magic's slipped awayWe find it all again on Christmas dayBelieve in what your heart is sayingHear the melody that's playingThere's no time to wasteThere's so much to celebrateBelieve in what you feel inside And

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-14315983904172322752008-12-22T21:30:00.000-08:002008-12-22T21:32:35.617-08:00

just a few fix-er up-ers on this one:Calming breaths soothed our silence.Starlight illumenated the edges of your smileand your calloused fingers caressedthe velvet curves of spotted night skies.Your palms were raised into the black,stretching out to catch the moonfor me.And simple sighs were all I could return.Morning light peered from Earth’s upturned grin;her horizon gave birth to fresh

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-61833759775851717452008-12-17T04:00:00.001-08:002008-12-17T04:00:26.201-08:00

I'm fairly certain, as I waste valuable "get ready" time this morning, that Fayette County public schools have a protective weather bubble over them. Every county in the state could be out for bad weather and who's still in school?Us.I mean I really shouldn't be complaining since we were out yesterday and it is the last week before break....But...I make it my life's goal to destroy that

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-8425942166686089692008-12-16T20:55:00.001-08:002008-12-16T20:55:59.633-08:00

Straight from the iPod, to you.

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-52806938808256706482008-12-16T19:47:00.000-08:002008-12-16T19:59:23.100-08:00

"Days go by, now I'm all confused.I wonder why, thought I could live with you.Your mind goes deadyou'll spin around in circles.That's what I said,you'll spin around in circles.Open mind, open soulI can see you far below.I can hear you far below.I can see your face aglow.Open mind, open soul,I can hear you far below.I can see your face below."~The Smuckers Sideproject (www.myspace.com/mu5icaddict2

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-36137678052022629212008-12-11T15:15:00.000-08:002008-12-11T15:55:58.682-08:00

C'est fini,la reste de nous.Nous avons vu aurore aprés auroreet le lumière ne jamaisattrapé dans tes yeux.J'était làmais où était toi?Où était toi?

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-43209196035554762792008-11-23T17:51:00.000-08:002008-11-23T18:10:13.141-08:00

I'm back in his car again, playing with the leather seats. "Where to?" It's been so long since I've heard his melody. Since my ears have been pleasured with that sound. "Anywhere. Take me anywhere as long as you're there." "I can do that." My heart jumps at the sincerety of those four words strung together. They are like the

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-38641073523583106722008-11-04T07:16:00.001-08:002008-11-04T07:38:13.272-08:00

It's become apparent to me in the past week or two how much I've grown over the past year.I've been reading a lot of books about life.I've been fed a lot about scripture and God and Christ.I've realized that the love coming from God and sent to me is completely irrational and is completely true.But that' s besides my point."When my time comes,forget the wrong that I've done,help me leave behind

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-32104453875351541252008-10-05T11:32:00.000-07:002008-10-05T11:36:41.037-07:00

I am not dreaming.This road is real and I am realand youare real.You lean so smooth againstthe air around youbut your hands are shakingand you look away.I am not dreaming.The breeze is ruffling your hairthe way I used to do.Your jaw is tight and Ican hear crunching gravel.This road is real and I amreal and youare realand you are coming for me.I am not dreaming.We are here;you are back with me.The

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-81821286769920263322008-05-11T17:22:00.000-07:002008-05-11T17:26:52.281-07:00

No one can sit down to write a review on anything by Josh Groban and not walk away a fan. Awake Live is truly an awakening. It’s a complete masterpiece to be kept and treasured forever. Josh never ceases to impress and raise the bar from previous performances; Awake Live is no exception.Opening with You Are Loved (Don't Give Up), a favorite of Groban fans since the release of Josh's latest album

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-59726886810347026492008-04-25T15:27:00.002-07:002008-04-25T15:28:52.429-07:00

Calming breaths soothed our silence.Starlight illumenated the edges of your smileand your calloused fingers caressedthe velvet curves of spotted night skies.Your palms were raised into the black,stretching out to catch the moonfor me.And sighs of fresh air were all I could return.Morning light peered from Earth’s upturned grin;her horizon gave birth to fresh colors.The shine in your eyes painted

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-20795814032970596102008-04-25T15:27:00.001-07:002008-04-25T15:27:17.432-07:00

A hundred galaxies are watching me tonight,my feet are slipping in and out of rhythm,barely scraping above the asphalt,tripping with every palpitation,have to hold onhave to keep onaching, my fingers press forward,into the cloudinto the fogged night.A hearts's possibilities awaitjust beyond the curtain of black skies.Stars keep watchingshe'll never make itshe'll never be....Their eyes are on

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-77789201338908928162008-04-03T21:57:00.000-07:002008-04-03T22:00:10.532-07:00

Calming breaths soothed our silence.Starlight illuminated the edges of your smileand your calloused fingers caressedthe velvet curves of spotted night skies.Your palms were raised into the black,stretching out to catch the moonfor me.And sighs of fresh air were all I could return.Morning light peered from Earth's upturned grin;her horizon gave birth to fresh colors.The shine in your eyes painted

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144801501703128522.post-13846959400721821192008-04-02T14:33:00.000-07:002008-11-04T07:16:13.045-08:00

I remember the sheer disappointment crossing the faces of countless first-grade students as they finally realized that not only did the tooth fairy and easter bunny turn out to be their parents, but the most beloved of all holiday figures, Santa Clause himself was merely a myth. I can recall the hushed whispers across lunch tables, warning older students that, "Susan still believed in -insert

Jordynnoreply@blogger.com0