Accidental Happiness

and she traveled through the night

for so long the glimmer of sunshine 

shocked her head and heart

had she not been frozen with fear

she would have run back into the 

darkness for it was at least 

something she knew well.

Then all at once her shoulders dropped

she stood tall and breathed deep

and stepped into the light


August 1st, 2016



Finals Week

In such slow motion

we walk along autumn.

The first snowflake amidst rain

flickers before unnoticed death.

We dance by with eyes closed.

We skip, gallop, we trip and give a

day or two of thanks. We lift our heads,

there it is: Finals Week.

Like brushing teeth without water.

Like combing hair with thick fingers.

We plunge in with a mask but no air tanks.

Who knew we could live so long without breath?

Writing Bare

Original Work published November 30th, 2014 by J.Lyn

At seventeen I Loved
        the language
                and the mouth
There is such beauty in the sounds
There is such melody in the words.
At twenty-five a glimmer
Of the truth slipped out of me and I saw the passion
bloom with birth one, two, and three as I wrote to my children
delving into each love for thee and then not all at once but
slowly slipping, seeping like a daydream of me sleeping
It held me
        Shook me
                Hurt me
                       Killed me
                               Left my carcass broken
                               And bare
There is a loudness in writing truths
There is such pain in speaking hurts.
At thirty-five a floodgate
I must constantly close down so that I can focus
on living the life that I have forged  so I can emit the stories
that demand to be written between the grains of sand falling
and the sounds of the voices of the past.

Interactive Poetry…. (HELP!)

I have been wanting to post a piece where your opinion counts!  I have a short poem that I

a) need help naming


b) need help deciding which sounds better.

So you can message me your reply or feel free to comment below!!  Title options and then chose #1 or #2!!



Darkened shards gouge the open fields, no one cares. 
No one sees the Lavender sky.
No one has a friendly smile
No one looks you in the eye. 
Creaking and rubbing metal is everywhere.
I’m drowning in stranger’s voices
So lonely is the City Life
So lonely are the stranger noises.
City life inside a bubble, shadows cast
by buildings bodies.  Unseen tops 
are the new greenery while buses
and taxis-not people-make frequent stops. 
                 >> or <<
So lonely is the city life 
drowning in strangers
voices and strange noises.
Creaking and rubbing metal
everywhere. No one has a friendly 
smile. No one looks you in the
eye. No one points out the 
lavender sky and no one cares
that fields are gouged
by darkened shards.  


Autumn Fell

Original Work published by J.Lyn

Like fallen men they lie where they fell
the foliage falling on and settling around.
Every extremity stripped bare yet reaching out
standing tall and proud though death bound.
It’s true they provide a shelter in many forms
they hold safe, they dance, they inspire.
Also they hold haunted thoughts and memories
And vulnerable fragility exposed by fire.
Like beasts with red eyes amid the distant fog
an anxious enemy may inflict demise.
But there they take their stoic stand
the forest’s heartbeat and resolute nature rise.
It begins with wind that rips at leaves,
shredding some while others can withstand.
Then rain begins pelting, shrapnel hard
and so begins the sound of the damned.
A howling and constant noise confronts
even arachnids among silk dropped dew.
Squinted searching eyes gaze upon purple haze
and miss the beauty of Autumn’s hue.
They seem to take one last collective breath
Then air turns frigidly chill bark peels and cracks.
The ice first clings then crisps each exposed edge
and there the fall is terribly frozen in tracks.
In the still, in the distance, we can find
a horrid sort of beauty in that frame.
We can chose to see the pattern of life
a soldier living up to its name.
We forget the soul underneath who becomes blind
to the golden road beneath him so it might as well not be.
And the leaves shed allow sunlight to drip
from branches like rain, but its not beheld by he.
He has forgotten the journey, he is missing the good
so focused is he on the why and where and what
of the things to come with the next step
as if his eyes are permanently shut.
Just beyond the edge of darkness, a touch 
past purple fog, the golds and pinks burn
they caress the leaves, the land, and light 
the dark, despite the leaves that turn.

Here’s to you

Original Work by J.Lyn 11/7/2014

Here’s to you
my funny friends who have
such entertaining posts & tweets.
I lol’d all over the fof or
is there no such thing?
Here’s to you 
my infinite pixeled photo opp
and the ability to share – so teets!
or tits? so totes. Adorbs. For real.
So a word can say a thousand 
words the way a photo can?
So for the year 2014
I devoted all my time to scrolling 
through feeds and clicking like to every
selfie, cool app, baby laughing, cat falling
every random poll that tells me who I am
But I cannot lie
I miss oh four when myspace
was barely there and still not here. 
When friending was done in person
and goose flesh resulted from
hearing laughter and tasting tears and it
Occurred each day for real.

Just Once

                                                                                                                                                                          Original Work 11/7/2014 J.Lyn

Once upon a time in tales of yore
were stories of unmatched moral compass
They reached across from shore to shore
to set right various sorts of rumpus. 
They guided hearts and mended minds
they spoke to kids and wives and husbands.
They warned which words caused lasting binds
and traced traits that made slow time sands.
But then one dark and gloomy day
a man all dressed in night
decided scaring children away
just didn’t seem all that right.
He took the stories, shook them out
shedding what made fright or fear
He aimed for dry and safe all about
as he wanted every record clear.
And soon the children forgot the why
of not to play at night
And there came this woman not at all shy
dancing through moonlight
The colors were Oh! so very Oh!
and everyone craned to see
They followed one by one and so
that city began ceasing to be. 

Perfect Regret (WIP)

I look
out at gray skies. Wave upon wave of sad-faced clouds,
the weight of the situation casting their gaze downward. One after another
for as far as the eye can see. Maybe out there, gray turns blue for someone.
But here it is as distant as never.

I try
to wield a brush to capture the intensity of the image that
endlessly sprawls before me. Switch to pencil then chalk, seeking a forum
that will grant me some small piece of the tangible. Surely charcoal, but I end
up tainted this horrid green and still yearning for an answer.

I live
Today and revel its accommodations so I take this black
magic box to the window. I consider the light and the shading. Click.
I zoom into one cloud. Click. Zoom back. Click. There is no moment of clarity yet.
It has to be this time, this moment, that I can trust to relieve this image that
haunts me so perfectly.

I believe
it will so much so that when the fabricated image is before me I almost don’t
see it is an image of my own creation. It doesn’t show what was there. I feel chastised
by the powers that be for trying to understand what perhaps I am not supposed to. If
I had known more or done more or been more or seen more… If

I hope
for the notes to fall in place I could build the image in a song. I regret
there is no nightingale in me. So could I lay out its weight on the page that bass would echo
the rawness of this visual desperation? I could not make that come to pass.

I know
the image remains barely a shadow, but as much proof as not.
It is there, well within the realm of regret but just out of my reach to interpret or change
as he lies there in that magic black box just barely in sight,
perfectly. And perfectly he remains regret.

J.Lyn Original 9/12/14

Feeling a wee bit Scottish This Morning

The fabulous Robert Burns, the man we begin each new year with (“Auld Lang Syne”), also penned a favorite of mine.

“A Man’s A Man For A’ That”

Robert Burns (1795) – building up to all the Wars

Is there for honest Poverty

That hings his head, an’ a’ that;                           [hangs

The coward slave-we pass him by,

We dare be poor for a’ that!

For a’ that, an’ a’ that.

Our toils obscure an’ a’ that,

The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,                    [coin’s

The Man’s the gowd for a’ that.                            [gold

What though on hamely fare we dine,              [homely

Wear hoddin grey, an’ a that;                               [coarse wool

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;   [give

A Man’s a Man for a’ that:

For a’ that, and a’ that,

Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that;

The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor,                 [ever, so

Is king o’ men for a’ that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord,                       [fellow, called

Wha struts, an’ stares, an’ a’ that;                  [who

Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,

He’s but a coof for a’ that:                                [fool or something naughtier?

For a’ that, an’ a’ that,

His ribband, star, an’ a’ that:

The man o’ independent mind

He looks an’ laughs at a’ that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,                    [make

A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that;

But an honest man’s aboon his might,            [above

Gude faith, he maunna fa’ that!                          [must-not fall to that

For a’ that, an’ a’ that,

Their dignities an’ a’ that;

The pith o’ sense, an’ pride o’ worth,              [essence

Are higher rank than a’ that.

Then let us pray that come it may,

(As come it will for a’ that,)

That Sense and Worth, o’er a’ the earth,

Shall bear the gree, an’ a’ that.                           [win the prize

For a’ that, an’ a’ that,

That Man to Man, the world o’er,

Shall brothers be for a’ that.

An extremely intelligent man who writes in his natural dialect so as to call attention to the equal worth of man, regardless of station (which he is essentially saying is made up).  My favorite line is bold for you – it is the point.  To think on your own and value sense and worth, to value one another as “brothers” the world over.  Remember the time frame he wrote this is when tensions were building.  He was no fan of war, but of honesty, faith, sense and worth.   Over Two Hundred Years later and we still haven’t got this lesson down.

On a final note:   I really want to hear this performed in its original dialect!