In Brainstorms, Jennifer Bloom invites us to connect – with
stories, relationships, and the natural world that is often
hidden behind the façade of suburbia. At times metaphysical,
quirky, and emotionally raw, the poetry in this collection is an
exploration of what it means to be human and the moments that
can transcend the ordinary.
“The themes are familiar – love lost and found, life’s ups and downs, beginnings
and endings. But no rose is ever identical. Bloom’s poetic gift lies in her ability
to evoke what’s familiar and shared by way of tiny, almost imperceptible gestures
and the powerful, sometimes painful, intimacies of everyday life. Her work
evokes the layers and textures of Mary Oliver and Joni Mitchell. Its color is,
finally, a defiant and joyous yellow, its music the first sounds of spring.”
- George Gonzalez, Assistant Professor of
Philosophy, Religion and Interdisicplinary Studies, Monmouth University
“Bloom has a way of bringing beauty to the mundane, eliciting an intimacy with
her readers through shared experience. Recognizing the sacred in the everyday,
her poetry invites us to linger over what we might otherwise ignore. A sleeping
child, a quiet house, a butterfly in flight... these are the moments she elevates to
the remarkable. A must-read for those desiring to transform their relationship
with the world.”
- Jennifer Hritz, Author, The Crossing and I, too, Have Suffered in the Garden
Cover Art: Hector Kriete
Photo: Diana Berrent Photography
Experience more at Jennifer-Bloom.com
Brainstorms
By Jennifer BloomBalboa Press
Copyright © 2016 Jennifer Bloom
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5043-6232-0Contents
Pull up a Chair, 1,
The Space Between, 2,
A Smile and a Wink, 3,
Trespassing, 4,
Don't Mistake My Silence for Indifference, 5,
Nordstrom, 6,
Filling in the Blanks, 7,
Heavy Metal, 8,
Same Heart, 10,
Prism, 11,
A Different Version of Me, 12,
Tequila Makes Me Frisky, Part 1, 13,
Unconditional Love, 17,
Morning Cup, 18,
The Space of an Easy Mind, 19,
Life in Full Bloom, 20,
The Empty Shelf, 22,
I've Come to the River to Sit, 23,
Life Can Be Funny, 24,
Do I Cry My Eyes to Sleep?, 25,
Why Do I Feel So Small?, 26,
Lost, 28,
What She Wanted, 29,
Heartbroken, 30,
Spiraling, 31,
Awakening, 32,
Rising, 33,
If Her Heart Were a Flower, 34,
Tapestry, 37,
Coco Chanel, 38,
Unraveling, 40,
Closure, 42,
Jasmine, 43,
Walk with Me for a Moment, 44,
Five Foot Zero, 45,
The Moment, 46,
On the Verge, 48,
Shimmer, 50,
Tequila Makes Me Frisky, Part 2, 51,
Last Kiss, 52,
Changing the World, 55,
I Am Afraid to Start, 56,
The Wildflowers Are Starting to Sprout, 57,
Standing on the Parted Shore, 58,
Chain Reaction, 60,
Each Day, 61,
Preparing for Flight, 62,
Metamorphosis, 63,
Imagine the Possibility, 64,
Same Old Tuesdays, 65,
What If?, 69,
Bliss, 70,
A Piece of Me, 71,
All of My Babies Are Sleeping, 72,
Sadness Comes in Waves, 73,
Walking Companion, 74,
Prey, 76,
Offering, 77,
The Rains Have Passed, 78,
When the Rest of the World Falls Away, 79,
Regret, 80,
You and Me, 81,
I Wanted to Tell You a Story, 82,
The In-Between, 85,
The Field, 86,
Reflection, 87,
Do You Ever Wonder?, 88,
Returning, 89,
Home, 90,
Hindsight, 92,
Completion, 93,
There Are No Words, 94,
Acknowledgments, 97,
CHAPTER 1
Pull up a Chair
Pull up a chair
and tell me your story,
a friendship we will christen.
For your tale and mine
are intertwined
if we take the time to listen.
The Space Between
In the space between
you & me
two circles intersect,
and what meets in the middle
is the essence
of our connection.
The space between
you & me
is a playground for our souls,
filled with words
wanting to express
what doesn't need to be said.
In the space between,
we dance together
to an unheard melody
and sing in harmonies
which can be felt
in our hearts.
The space between
you & me
is energy revealing itself,
where my truth
and yours are one
if only for this moment.
A Smile and a Wink
With a smile and a wink you touched my heart.
And though our tales seem worlds apart,
When we let our guards down,
We find common ground.
For beyond the outer frame
What makes us human is the same:
Our heart,
Our divine spark,
The still part that knows
What we all really want.
Trespassing
I don't belong here.
I'm trespassing in someone else's neighborhood
as I turn off the main road
and onto the quiet, tree-lined streets where people live.
This is where I'll take my walk today
and no one will know the difference.
The woman working in her garden,
the man with the four dogs (two large and two small),
the couple on their power walk,
all smile and wave
a friendly good morning
as though I am a part of the fabric of their world,
as though it would be perfectly natural
if I turned up the next driveway,
walked up to the pale blue house with the red door,
put my key in the lock and stepped inside.
But this is not my home.
I've never walked this path before.
Don't Mistake My Silence
for Indifference
Don't mistake my silence for indifference.
I need time to soak things in.
Did you notice the way
The gilded frame around the frosted mirror
Behind the bar reflects more light than the mirror itself?
The way the bartender shakes the drinks
In time to the bluegrass playing on the old record player?
The way the waitress in the long, patterned dress
Disappears and reemerges
Through the half-draped curtain
That blocks the view of a hallway?
I wonder what else is down that hallway.
Don't mistake my silence for indifference.
I'm not the type to wear my heart upon my sleeve.
Have you ever eaten an artichoke from the start?
Taken the time to peel back the thick, outer layers
One by one?
Noticed how each layer is more tender,
More yielding,
More nourishing?
The reward at the center ever more gratifying
Because you took the time to savor the unfolding.
Nordstrom
I was waiting at the end of a long line
to return something at Nordstrom
when a young woman came up
and said she could help me
at another register.
Relieved that my wait was shortened,
I complimented her coral skirt,
which was light and flirty and made me smile.
It was chiffon with small pleats all around
and short, shorter than what I would wear,
but it suited her petite frame,
bleached blonde bob,
pale porcelain skin,
and the gray t-shirt and black blazer she had paired with it.
As she was processing my return,
a man walked up, another associate.
He had dark hair, almost black,
and skin as pale and flawless as the woman's.
Something struck me about the two of them
as they stood side by side, talking and working.
And then I saw it:
his coral pants, gray shirt, and black blazer.
"You match!" I exclaimed,
"How cool is that!"
They had been working together all day
and hadn't even noticed.
Filling in the Blanks
Studies show that most people,
when looking at a familiar word that is missing a letter,
interpret that missing letter
and don't notice that it's not there.
Most of our universe is empty space
and yet I see
and perceive things to be.
Solid.
Liquid.
Gas.
My mind fills in the blanks.
Is that how it is between you and me,
that we can share an experience
and then go on to tell such different stories about it?
Are we filling in the blanks
with our biases and expectations,
letting our perceptions color our interpretations,
without stepping back to recognize
the lens through which we are judging?
Why is it so hard to notice the missing letters?
Heavy Metal
There once was a man from Frankclay.
In whose head several voices would play.
He'd put up a fight,
From morning 'til night,
To try to tune out what they'd say.
For thirty and seven full years,
Through therapy, pills, shock, and tears.
The voices grew loud,
Had swelled to a crowd,
Giving reason to all of his fears.
Meditation should quiet the mind,
But no moments of silence he'd find.
The man with the voices,
Had run out of choices.
His dilemma was one of a kind.
His doctor said, "I've got a cure!
A remedy known, but obscure.
Implant this device,
With music so nice,
To quell the thoughts you can't endure."
The radio chip in his head,
At first couldn't get him to bed.
Though country sounds nice,
It did not suffice.
He'd try heavy metal instead.
Iron Maiden came on with a roar.
Metallica settled the score.
With Kiss and Black Sabbath,
Judas Priest, Megadeth,
The man heard the voices no more.
Same Heart
I've heard that cells from the same heart
Beat in time, even when separated
By a hundred miles.
I picture you,
Squinting barefoot at the sea,
Blues and greens reflected in your hopeful eyes.
Your crooked smile almost lost
In a parenthetical embrace
As your bare arms stretch upward
To greet the morning sun.
Do I read your mind
As I lift my morning cup to meet my lips
And remember the time
You told me your truth?
Is it the flutter in your stomach I feel when I wake
From a deep and dreamless sleep,
Unsure of where to begin?
What thread is there that connects your heart to mine?
Wispy strands beyond visible, yet
Bearing some thing
That no earthly fiber could hold.
Because though your heart beats a thousand miles away from mine,
Our feet fall in step as we walk along distant shores.
Prism
The facet of you that I see
is the person I know you to be.
You seemed clear on the surface,
until sunlight cut through your angles,
distinguishing tones
I hadn't noticed before.
Something within
bends the light,
allowing me to see myself
differently through you.
And I wonder:
When you look at me,
do you see the self that I was
or the person I am becoming?
A Different Version of Me
Perhaps you'd like to see
a different version of me?
Maybe sweet and silly,
flirty and frilly,
strong and stable,
or adept and able?
Could I be fiercely faithful,
totally tasteful,
shockingly shrewd,
or lasciviously lewd?
Am I light as a butterfly
sarcastic and wry,
boisterous and bold,
or quiet and cold?
Which of these might serve me best
if I had to put them to the test?
But then again, who's to say
that I can't be all these things today?
Tequila Makes Me Frisky, Part 1
It starts with a touch
of the fingertips,
highly charged,
gently stirring,
firing signals of anticipation.
After a moment,
fingers interlace
and fold over one another,
then pull away,
until they are barely touching.
Hands hover,
suspended momentarily by the energy between them,
until they merge once more,
holding tight until one breaks free
and wanders slowly
to wrist, to arm, to elbow
lingering for a moment in the fold,
sending a chill down her side,
before continuing the journey upward
and landing
on shoulder, on collarbone, on neck.
She turns her head to let hand reach jaw,
pulls the thumb into her mouth
then quickly releases it to trace a moist line
from chin to throat to sternum,
through the valley created by her breasts,
finally settling on the soft curve where waist meets hip.
Unconditional Love
What would it take
to give myself a break
from the not good-enoughs,
the voice inside that scoffs?
What would you need
to feel fully freed
from the judgments you make
on the actions you take?
What would it feel like
to love our Selves
unconditionally?
Morning Cup
Do you fill your cup with coffee?
Or fill it up with tea?
With all your mental anguish,
Or possibility?
Do you pour it out for others
Leaving nothing left for you?
Steeped in good intentions,
The result a bitter brew.
Me, I fill my cup in nature,
With laughter and good friends.
By making time for myself
And a present, mindful lens.
If my cup is filled to brimming,
And teeters on the brink,
There's so much more I have to share
As I offer you a drink.
The Space of an Easy Mind
I sit down on the green metal bench.
There must be someplace else I need to be right now,
but I feel like a pause.
And I know I will catch up with the day eventually.
It's quiet,
except for the hum of energy
from the buildings that surround the courtyard,
the crescendo of cars driving by on the road
like swells of ocean waves.
There are birds somewhere.
I can't see them,
but every so often one calls out to its friend
and a conversation is started.
Then silence again.
I'm glad I brought my lunch with me.
Somehow the food tastes better,
the lettuce more crisp,
the blueberries more luscious,
the avocado more sultry,
in this space of an easy mind.
Life in Full Bloom
I built a fortress around my heart,
day by day,
year by year,
brick by brick,
until I couldn't feel
what it was like to be me anymore.
Moving through the rhythm of my days,
blocking out the things I thought might wound me,
but also holding in
the fullest expression of myself
for fear of failure,
of rejection.
I am trying to let down my armor,
to let those guards who have been faithfully protecting
the softest, most fragile part of me
take a well-earned break from their duties.
As cracks begin to form
and rays of light penetrate to my core,
I begin to feel more intensely:
the joy of a connection with an unexpected friend,
and the profound pain when that friend is in
distress and reaches out for help.
the exquisite ecstasy of allowing myself to really feel love
and the fear that if I dive too deep I might drown.
the exhilaration of turning a corner
at the moment the sun dips below the horizon
and seeing the cloud-streaked sky ablaze with color
and patterns more magnificent than fireworks,
jolting me awake as I remember.
There is so much more to this life experience
when I allow the emotion to filter through.
The feelings overwhelm me
and I hurry back to the security of my barricade
like a startled turtle hiding in its shell.
But slowly, patiently,
I am building the courage to keep sticking out my neck,
Gentle with myself,
Knowing that one day soon
I will learn to live life in full bloom.
The Empty Shelf
I keep an empty shelf
in the cupboard of my soul,
inviting divine secrets,
synchronistic moments,
and serendipitous encounters.
The empty shelf offers space
for the dream I can't envision,
sparks of inspiration,
a gentle kind of wisdom.
And when that space is filled
I will clear another,
trusting that if I let go,
I will allow more treasures to flow
into the new space that I hold.
I've Come to the River to Sit
I've come to the river to sit,
for this is where my soul can breathe,
amidst the grasses and the trees,
watching the clouds above reflected in the water below,
a mirror of myself as I take in this moment.
I've come to the river to sit,
to pause.
And it feels right now
like I am the only thing that is still
in this wild world around me.
I've come to the river to sit.
This is where my soul can grieve.
The movement of the water soothes me,
reminds me that life keeps flowing,
just as the current never changes
its direction.
Life Can Be Funny
life can be funny this way:
the way the best and the worst are synchronized
so that the euphoric memory of new life
can rouse a surge of tears
as it is so intertwined with a moment
when the rug was pulled out
from underneath the façade.
life can be funny this way:
the way a person can arrive
during a time of deep despair
and bring in a joy so unexpected
that the wound suddenly doesn't sting with such intensity
and the unknown doesn't feel so frightening.
life can be funny this way:
the way love and rage and fear and gratitude
can circulate through me
as I laugh and cry at the same time.
and the way that comfort comes
not only in the warm embrace of an other
but in the still, cold silence of my self.
life can be funny.
Do I Cry My Eyes to Sleep?
"Do I cry my eyes to sleep?"
asked the boy of himself.
And something in the question
pointed at the girl.
But how can this boy know
the chaos behind
the silky locks
and flirty frocks,
the picture-perfect picket fences of her smile.
"Do I cry my eyes to sleep?"
he asked.
From pain that feels
undeserving
when she compares it
to what could be.
"Do I cry my eyes to sleep?"
he asked.
Not from fright
or to escape the light
but wondering whether
she is worthy or not,
worthy of her lot,
because it seems
like someone forgot
to share it.
And she doesn't know how to care
in a way that makes a real difference.
In a way that will make the little boy turn back
to hand her a tissue
and tell her that it's okay to cry.
Why Do I Feel So Small?
Why do I feel so small
when I hear your voice?
With a word or a phrase
I am sent spiraling back in time
and I am a little girl,
meek and timid,
quiet and shy.
No longer the well-spoken woman
the world knows me to be,
my mind is blank
at your questions.
What did you?
Why did you?
Explain to me.
Tell me.
And where once words
may have flowed easily,
and thoughts run free,
the usual chatter inside my head
is suddenly silent
in your presence.
There is nothing.
No words.
No thoughts.
Just silence.
And the feeling of
wanting to curl up
on the window seat
of my childhood room,
nestled against a pillow,
my blanket pulled up to my face.
Waiting for the silence that has filled my head
to switch places with the noise outside
so that I can once again
hear my own voice
instead of yours.
Lost
Clouds closed in.
Fog so thick it seemed easier
To let myself become engulfed
Rather than try to climb
To higher ground.
The peaks seemed farther away
Each day
I followed the path
That led down instead of up.
Did I have a choice?
Lost.
Lost myself.
I lost myself.
How does that even happen?
To stand on my own two feet
And
Let
Myself
Slip
Away.
What She Wanted
"This is what you wanted!"
screamed letters on a tiny screen.
As if she had a choice.
As if it were a matter
of deciding what to wear
or what flavor of ice cream she preferred.
As if someone had told her when she was small,
"You can choose to be anything you want
When you grow up."
You can be yourself,
or you can be loved.
You can tell the truth,
or you can be included.
You can speak your mind,
or you can be accepted.
As if choice was a luxury,
when all she ever wanted
was not to have to choose.
Heartbroken
This is what a broken heart feels like:
A pressure just behind my sternum
and suddenly I can't breathe.
An ache radiating in all directions
slowly rendering me numb,
as though a steady drip of Lidocaine
was running through my veins.
I want to move.
I want to find something to hold on to,
to pull me back into this moment.
I want to shut down the feeling,
to pretend that it doesn't exist.
But pushing against it only causes it to grow.
Spiraling
I sit down and feel the energy,
really feel it in my body.
Thousands of spirals swirling
just beneath the surface of my skin.
It is intense.
Not painful, but intense as hell and uncomfortable.
I want to fold,
to protect my heart and my core
even though I know
I am not in danger.
The woman sitting across from me tells me to breathe.
Breathe deeply.
And imagine
my body
making space for the energy,
making space for expansion,
for the spirals to unwind a bit.
"This is not a bad thing," she says.
"You just need to allow it."
That's when the tears start.
Awakening
I almost forgot that world was alive
As I lay in bed and looked at the
Quiet
Still
Life
Outside my picture window.
An old hackberry stands tall.
I can barely see a flutter through its leaves
from inside my sealed container.
I almost forgot the morning music.
Until I stepped outside
to a symphony of sounds
all at once familiar and hard for this city girl to identify.
I recognize the cardinals' call to come for an early breakfast.
Two hummingbirds flit from tree to tree,
sipping water from their leaves, perhaps.
Is that what hummingbirds do?
A lizard scampers across the railing of my deck
and I hear a voice calling from the oak.
Is the squirrel trying to tell me something?
I close my eyes and
listen.
The creek is full today.
I can hear it from my perch
high above the canyon floor.
Rising
We are all reaching toward higher space.
Watch me as I rise in an ever-expanding spiral
like the butterfly that crossed my path
at the bottom of the hill.
She emerged from the tall grass to my left.
I stopped in my tracks and watched
as she passed at the level of my gaze.
She was as high as the treetops
by the time she reached the other side of the street
and continued her journey until
I could see her only as a dark flutter
against a bright blue sky.
Have you ever seen a butterfly hesitate in its upward movement?
Neither have I.
If Her Heart Were a Flower
If her heart were a flower,
it would never cease to bloom.
Nourished by love from an endless spring,
lilac and rose and aquamarine buds
would sprout each day
on branches that reach
ever skyward
to dance with clouds and rainbows.
"And I can't stop smiling,"
she said, slightly under her breath,
though a stranger walking by might have heard her.
Excerpted from Brainstorms by Jennifer Bloom. Copyright © 2016 Jennifer Bloom. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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