Janet Jadrijevich

The morning sun is like …

honey,
melted butter,
fingers, dripping, licking,
in familiar contentment.
rapture.

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Janet Jadrijevich

Night Wind Woman

She will always be part of the universe,
looking in from outside… outside from within.
Fettered by emotion to things she holds near,
still she drifts alone.

In freedom, stolen, she journeys through the night,
yet… uncertain…. poised on the cardinal points,
she is drawn to this place of love and laughter.
Wind carries her home.

Janet Jadrijevich

A leaf falling on the surface settles 
Below is the turmoil
A place never suspected
yet undiscovered
Barbara Chase

Metamorphosis

The pool is darkly serene
its skin lightly dusted with
pollen, rippling gently in
the wake of small insects.
Rain has been long in coming,
extending the end of summer.
The scent of flowers, opened
to the fading rays of the sun
weights the sultry afternoon air.
A leaf falling on the surface settles

onto the still water.
In the distance, voices
ruffle the thickened air with
a quiet, indistinct murmur.
In hours before, sounds of
discord had rent the silence;
loud sobbing, angry words,
heavy footfalls, slamming doors.
An uneasy calm cloaks the surface,
below is the turmoil

which churns inside her. A cliché,
the abandoned wife – rejected,
dissolving into nothing, invisible,
voiceless, breathless, worthless.
Then, she sees a butterfly
breach its fragile shell, expand
its crumpled wings in the warmth
of the sunset, and swoop over the
water. It is a revelation from
a place never suspected.

Who is this newly born woman
who feels relief and not rage,
a renaissance, not resignation?
No more the perfect companion,
she is free to be transformed.
She can be who she wants to be.
Granted absolute liberty; never to
wear the rigid cast of convention,
but to seek the elements of a self
yet undiscovered.

                             

Janet Jadrijevich

Honesty

It’s a curious pastime.
          Writing.
It leads to paths I fear to follow.
The perilous quest for honesty
          concealed
within the secret cells I’ve made.
          Always,
to ease the passage with others,
I’ve cloistered the intrinsic “I”.
          Often,
my words are veiled with ordinariness.
          Sometimes,
          in solitude,
my life and language are fearless.
          I celebrate
the images that surprise and delight.
Disrobed and bare before my inner eye,
          I liberate
the subjective “I” that governs me.

           ———— 

The subjective “I” that governs me,
         I liberate.
Disrobed and bare before my inner eye
the images that surprise and delight,
         I celebrate.
My life and language are fearless
         in solitude.
         Sometimes,
my words are veiled with ordinariness.
         Often,
I’ve cloistered the intrinsic “I”
to ease the passage with others.
         Always,
within the secret cells I’ve made,
         concealed,
the perilous quest for honesty.
It leads to paths I fear to follow.
          Writing.
It’s a curious pastime.

                   

Janet Jadrijevich

My mother loved roses

My mother loved roses.
Fresh from the garden, her chosen flowers
wreathed the polished dark wood of the grand piano,
and their presence filled the rooms with fragrance.
The silver bowl of scented blooms completed her.
It was her trophy for domestic excellence.
They had started small, and worked hard.
Their reward, the long house of stucco and native stone,
its shallow “V” wrapping the hillside.
It was she who carved the rose garden from the stony soil –
over years, raked, pruned and mulched it into magnificence.

In an instant, they were sacrificed,
the stone house and its garden of roses lost forever.
She shared no explanation with her children.
She voiced no regret for her deprivation.
Her mourning was private, contained.
With remnants of furniture crammed
into the small suburban flat with its modest square of lawn,
they started again, and still worked hard.
Sometimes she would fill a vase with flowers.
I never heard her utter any bitterness or blame.
But one day, behind an open door, I saw the silver bowl.
It was wrapped in an old pink towel.
I never saw it filled with roses again.

I never saw it filled with roses again.
It was wrapped in an old pink towel.
But one day, behind an open door, I saw the silver bowl.
I never heard her utter any bitterness or blame.
Sometimes she would fill a vase with flowers.
They started again, and still worked hard,
in the small suburban flat with its modest square of lawn,
crammed with remnants of furniture.
Her mourning was private, contained.
She voiced no regret for her deprivation.
She shared no explanation with her children.
The stone house and its garden of roses lost forever.
In an instant, they were sacrificed.

Over years, raked, pruned and mulched it into magnificence –
it was she who carved the rose garden from the stony soil.
Its shallow “V” wrapping the hillside,
their reward, the long house of stucco and native stone.
They had started small, and worked hard.
It was her trophy for domestic excellence,
the silver bowl of scented blooms completed her.
And their presence filled the rooms with fragrance,
wreathed the polished dark wood of the grand piano.
Fresh from the garden, her chosen flowers.
My mother loved roses.
                                                            

Janet Jadrijevich

Words and Voices

Words drift into my mind.
Voices that reign supreme,
That spark an energy in me,
Create a picture.

Voices that reign supreme,
Scraps of this and that
Create a picture,
Generate a rhythm.

Scraps of this and that,
While I watch the lemons on the tree,
Generate a rhythm
From the ‘souls’ of my feet

While I watch the lemons on the tree
Create a picture,
From the ‘souls’ of my feet
Words drift into my mind.
 

Janet Jadrijevich

Epiphany in October

I love the fleeting, sensual joy of seasonal things.

October incubates a summer storm.
A misty canopy, intensely mauve,
crowns an avenue of Jacarandas.

Pale flowers painted on a charcoal sky,
(a vivid, livid, portrait of transience),
ripening in moody, menacing light.

Through clear curved glass I watch the faded
flowers fall, reeling, rolling, tumbling, twirling,
into chiffon shrouds upon the road.

Rain cascades down sealed windows, muted
in the violet haze. Rivers of bruised purple
swell, swirl and slide into concrete tombs.

Pale flowers framed in an indigo sky,
weeping in trembling, leafy shadow.

October defines the essence of mauve.