It’s finally here and I couldn’t be more pleased!
the sum of small things
The booklet featuring photography and poetry on a wide variety of topics: creative, challenging, introspective, uplifting–much like you’ve read on my feed for some time! Order yours today for $US 19.95 + s/h e-mail me at poetryjpz@gmail.com for information on how to receive your copy!
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Photo credit (background to book): Olesya Grichina via http://www.unspash.com
There has been fog,
but even so,
we’ve had
enough light
to see,
to greet
fellow travelers
on a shared path,
we’ve recognized
identifying markers,
reassured by a string of
lights,
smiling,
guiding us
home.
There has been enough this year—
enough of most everything.
enough adventure
to lift flagging spirits,
enough hurdles
to cajole us into dusting
off dormant skills,
learning the rules of new games,
adjusting our vision
so we can see farther—
in this lingering fog,
enough sprints and
sputters to keep us
hopeful and
humble.
Sometimes enough has seemed like too much.
enough loss—
enough, we’re certain,
to last a lifetime—
loss so deep that
our souls have wept
burning tears
into the pulsing
chambers of our
crushed hearts.
Alone.
Afraid.
Alienated
from all that has
offered solace
and sanctuary
in the past.
Even there we’ve had enough—
barely, it seems—
just enough
to breathe once more,
to care for a child or to
grieve their absence,
to walk the dog,
prepare a sparse meal
or send a disjointed text;
just enough life remaining
in the shells of our bodies
to take one more step
away from the
edge of despair.
We’ve had
enough light.
enough Presence.
enough grace.
In the fog we’ve needed to gather our
cloaks of compassion and humanity
firmly around us rather than succumb
to apathy,
cruelty,
or the despair of
cynicism.
Still there is fog,
sometimes dense enough
to cause us to
instinctively rub our eyes,
thinking our vision
will somehow clear.
It will not!
sometimes the fog will bring us
to a complete standstill
for so long that we
impatiently tap on
the steering wheel of our life,
test the fog lamps,
throw the gearshift into “drive,”
trying to inch into the
darkness.
We cannot!
gradually our heart rate calms,
breath slows,
eyes adjust
without revealing more
light nor offering
orientation
or direction.
Sometimes we are grounded
and yet we have enough—
we are enough.
A new year shimmers beyond the fog.
We see only outlines now:
ghosts of our nightmares?
visions of our hopes?
caricatures of past failures?
glowing lanterns that beckon
us onward?
We’ve had enough,
we will have enough
—sometimes without surplus,
sometimes with extravagant abundance—
we are enough as
we move with the Light
into the unknown—
knowing it is enough.
©️ Julia Penner-Zook, 2022
photographer unknown
In the frenzy of
holiday cheer and
shimmering lights,
carefully choreographed
to numb our fears
and mask our plight,
we hallow our
programs and parties,
prepare our packages with flawless precision
all while ignoring the dissonance—
the clanging of bells no longer in tune,
the core of our being
precariously pulled
like a frayed,
overextended cord
we no longer trust to hold us together.
slow down, notice, listen—
we are honored guests
invited into stillness
afforded as light gradually
shrinks
fades
retreats into its own hibernation
of rest and restoration and resurrection.
somehow we have believed the
seduction of noise and light
posing as heralds of merriment
and festivity,
a culmination of frantic weeks
of consumerism and distraction.
we adorn our world with
sensory overload,
convinced that within our spirits
joy will dance as a good servant
monitored by a demanding master.
far from being a season of stillness
paralleling the dormancy of
Mother Earth as she gives
herself to the embrace of
fallen leaves or fog or snow—
far from being a season of reflection
in which we ponder songs of angels,
welcome a promise of good news,
allow ourselves to look at the birth
of a baby embodying hope—
we have been lured by
more
brighter
shinier
louder
missing the melody
that quiets the soul,
unable to catch the
cadence of calm,
too weary for wonder,
too fragmented to hear
the whisper of stars
that bid us wander.
come, see, hear—
in the longest night
your eyes will see brilliance,
your mind will recover,
your spirit will become still enough
to know that the Divine truly does
live among us.
© Julia Penner-Zook, 2022
PC: Eszter Naujoks via unsplash.com (open source)
how i miss you
though our paths
crossed all too
briefly after
years of
individual
pursuits.
you had gone
your way;
i mine.
how much i lost,
oblivious to
the possibility that
time was not
limitless.
we were robbed
of the window
into the soul
where memories
are exchanged,
wispy clouds that dreams
are made or caught,
no invitation to
search each other’s
eyes for glimmers
of truth.
your words were
silken—
each flowing syllable
filled with
curiosity,
celebration,
vibrancy.
they were
soothing
as salve, even
when life’s
hallelujahs
were broken.
was life as
effortless as
the enticing
dishes you
prepared with
seeming ease
day after day?
was the
whimsical
smile
that blessed
your friends
and sons
and wee ones
as carefree
as we thought?
what were
the fractures
you hid
so well—
those cracks
that let
the light
in?
might
they have
become
exquisite
golden
veins—even
more luminous
in their
repair?
did you
sense the
frailty, the
finality
as you
watched
frosty breath
plume before
you while
capturing
shimmering hues
at sunrise
that brooding,
crisp morning?
should we have
known, were
there signs,
could we have
beckoned—
each from
our distant
places on
this troubled
globe?
we cannot know now—
how could we have then?
we are among those
left to carry on—
reluctantly
remaining here—
each of us
given the task
of picking up
one small
shard of
jagged,
gleaming
glass which
casts light
upon the path
that could
still feel your
footsteps,
had you not left us
too soon.
© Julia Penner-Zook, November 25, 2022
Photo Credit: Shannon McInnes via unsplash.com
Remembering Lorna who passed
unexpectedly
prematurely
inexplicably
on this day
in 2020
On my recent travels I had the opportunity to hear many stories. Some were frustrated stories, others joyful, yet others wistful, recalling another time in life.
Every person has a home; every person has a story. The universality of home is not defined by the structure in which we live or do not live. The universality of story isn’t confined to those narratives that are broadly known or frequently shared.
Home and story are carried inside each human—sometimes explored and celebrated; sometimes troubled and buried.
We cannot truly find the embrace of home until our story is heard and honored. The opportunity to talk about some area of our life, whether it’s a current snippet, a memory from our past, or an overarching theme, offers a place to belong. Home is belonging.
When we take time to listen without judgment, with patience, suppressing outrage and resisting the urge to offer advice, we give the gift of home to another person.
Let’s offer an extravagant welcome to stories of home.
© Julia Penner-Zook, 2022
Photo Credit: John-Mark Smith, @john_mark_smith; Lviv Ukraine via unsplash.com
“Rest,” they say.
rest? now?
when the air
dissolves asphalt
and scorches
thick ranges and pastures,
when turbulent winds
topple ancient
structures
and uproot majestic
forests?
“Yes, rest,” they repeat.
rest? how?
when children
are gunned down
in classrooms,
on playgrounds
on family outings
at parades
in shopping malls
in neighborhoods—
collateral damage
inexplicably deemed
legitimate in the name
of freedom in
an unfree world.
how can we rest?
our hearts beat erratically,
pumping too much blood
through pulsing veins,
lungs shriveling from
shallow breaths,
thoughts crumbling into
meaningless fragments.
where is there rest?
nothing is serene
as the face of
an empire grows
menacing and
maniacal.
“Yes, rest,” the sages urge.
the mantra feels hollow
out of step—as if
lodged in another time
altogether.
this is no time
for rest.
we cannot let go
close our eyes
clasp our hands
in our laps;
we will not survive if we do.
“You will be lost
if you do not.”
rest is not withdrawal
detachment
retreat.
rest is CPR
for the soul
a transfusion
for the senses,
inebriation
for the spirit.
So rest!
bow at the shrine
of the full belly laugh,
the deep throated song,
the exuberant dance.
stride through
groves and gardens,
throw wide the gates,
lighten your gait.
let the smile
of the heavens chisel
new contours
into your face.
wrap yourself
in the rainbow
instead of garments
of gray.
rest is fuel.
rest is hope.
rest is the elixir
for the human journey—
with no cost
no expiration date
not subject to inflation.
“So, rest.”
© Julia Penner-Zook, 2022
Photo Credit: Aline Nadai via pexels.com (open source)
“don’t ever ask them,”
they warned.
“you don’t dare ask
them about their position
or their family’s activities
during the war.
“don’t make them uncomfortable.”
so i didn’t ask,
skirted every
possible reference
to anything
during the
dark regime
that horrified
the world.
but they talked
about it—
their people’s
place in one of
history’s darkest hours—
their words ricocheted
through cafés
over rounds
of beer
after movies
at concert
intermissions
on public transportation
carefully crafted into
prominent newspaper articles.
their confessions were
woven into
middle school
civics discussions
and field trips,
included in
museum exhibit labels,
highlighted as
tourists gawked
from double-decker buses.
they lectured, performed and addressed,
authored, painted and carved,
planted commemorative gardens
and built granite memorials.
they refused to be
silenced;
the world would
never tolerate
amnesia.
they were not
comfortable.
no one was.
this is the price
we must pay for
the common good,
learning from history
and refusing to allow
malevolent players
to stifle
dictate
and adjudicate
speech,
suffocating
independent voices
while requiring
rote repetition
of propaganda
to bolster their
fragile egos.
when they say, don’t ask—
ask.
when they demand, don’t mention it—
speak it loudly
when they chide, it’s inappropriate—
defy propriety.
speak!
when they wring
their hands urging:
we can’t make ourselves or
our children uncomfortable
with uncomfortable histories,
with human identities that make us squirm,
with candid admission of
a hatred so deep that it’s enshrined in
our nation’s founding documents.
when they regurgitate
pious platitudes
clucking their tongues,
warning this is not the time,
to call out this nation’s immoral
obsession with violence,
call out hypocrisy,
unholy alliances,
addiction to power,
privilege, prestige.
prioritize human
life.
speak!
name names!
call foul!
promote discomfort!
dissent defiantly!
say all those things
that lie crumbled
on a deathbed
alongside banned
works of art,
candid story-telling,
invaded privacy,
curtailed human rights
and freedom of speech.
speak!
for we do not want
to circle over
bloody footprints
of those who’ve
left a stain
on history
before our time.
we refuse to
allow comfort for
those grasping for control
who threaten to tie us to the gurney
so they can inject lethal cocktails
for the promotion of
minority rule.
speak!
dissent with
your words
your art
your body
your finances
your votes
your prayers
your presence
taking up space
your unrelenting
vigilance.
speak!
dissent!
© Julia Penner-Zook / IG @julia_penner_zook, 2022
Photo Credit: Charles Fair / IG @charlezfair (open source)
do not hurry rage—
that boiling, seething
blood pounding through collective veins
cannot be tamed
or cooled or
forcibly subdued
any more than the sweltering summer heat that
burns and chars and blisters endlessly
until it finally folds into the autumn equinox.
do not dare call for temperance,
moderation, domestication;
hold your sordid speeches with foul platitudes, for
impropriety is the only currency
that outlasts, outfoxes, outmaneuvers
swords that bludgeon both body and spirit.
do not open your mouth to name involuntary servitude
a mild inconvenience—a blessing—
even god’s will.
chains suffocate; nooses extinguish.
stand back—be silent—let not one sound escape your lips
until you feel drops of sweat pouring from your brow,
body retching with pain,
your whole being trembling, fearing
it will not see morning
because of who you are.
we will not fear.
we will not flee.
rage* will be our fuel.
© Julia Penner-Zook, 24 July 2022
Photo credit: Klara Kulikova (open source)
*”Rage protects that which is loved.” Valarie Kaur
11 may 2022
i’ve taken up carving
which is more demanding
than you think
it’s a messy
imprecise
art
shifting
unfamiliar
tools this way
and that
no position
creating the
precision
i’d envisioned
it’s another
amorphous
silhouette
carrying no
instruction
fumbling with
unwieldy instruments
that don’t fit
neatly into
the hand—
don’t do my
bidding
and threaten to
gouge
instead of
shape
producing
something
rugged
rather than
refined
thereby
fashioning
wildly shaped
anxiety
in place of
peace
i almost
throw down this
foreign object
utterly
disillusioned
i don’t have
time
nor patience
for this
i mutter
straightening
to assess
my progress
this piece
doesn’t look
carved as much
as it seems
gnawed
by invisible
jaw of an
unidentified
creature
gnarled
by uncontrolled
forces
scarred—
irrevocable
injury inflicted
upon
unwitting
surface
it will take time
i admonish
under my breath
but the time
is now
i argue
with no other
than myself
this altercation
rages on
back and forth
while
i bend over
the task
once again
determined
to continue
this rhythm of
whittling
space
in the calendar
of my mind
for my imagination
though the
tools of
dreams
visions
wonder
and
expansive
possibility
lie like
obscured
treasures
in my fragile
soul
out of place
and awkward
given this
point of
urgency
ferocity
menace
inhumanity
chaos
that crumples
our
human
landscape
i must go on
i see no alternative
but to continue
carving
contours
of silent
creativity
which rise as
ragged
irreverent
revolutionaries
poised to birth
rhapsodies
sculptures
pathways
horizons
the energy of which
would forever
remain
untapped
were a new wind
not to blow
to sweep
the chips
from uncharted
terrain
© julia penner-zook, 2022
pc dominik scythe
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