A Cento of Emily Dickenson By:Jessica Frohling

A spider sewed at night 1138
He Forked his way along 1136
Till sudden I perceived it stir 1057
How terrible a thing 879
With ropes of sand 884
Adored with caution—as a Brittle Heaven— 680
Of a shapeless friend-- 679
Beyond my limit to conceive-- 646
Drop, liked a Tapestry, away 275
If grief—the largest part-- 246
Seductive in the Air— 1239
Such are the inlets of the mind-- 1421
In my own grave I breath 1632
Unto a Silent Sky 1084
At Heavenly- Hopeless Distances-- 805
And when adjusted like a Seed 804
Dropped into Ether Acre-- 665
Witness, is not here-- 667
I think to Live-may be a Bliss 646
So Midnight’s—due—at Noon. 415
Death twists the strings-- 1059
Air has no Residence, no Neighbor, 1060
Contained in this short Life 1165
Recollect the Face of me 1305
The Infinite a sudden Guest 1309
I pray the Lord thy Dust to keep-- 1539
Yet blamed the Fate that flung it- less 747
All but Death, can be Adjusted-- 749
‘Tis customary as we part 440
The bosoms where the frost has lain 132
Has lost a blush today? 82
Many a Worm 66
To comprehend a nectar 67
Then take my flowers—pray! 32
So has a Daisy vanished 28
The satyr’s fingers beckoned-- 9
Art thou the thing I wanted? 1282
A stagnant pleasure like a Pool 1281
So intimate with Madness 1284
The Wind begun to rock the Grass 1955
Pounce on His bruises-One-say- or Three-- 793
A Half a Dozen kissed the Eaves-- 794
The Needle—to the North Degree-- 792
The Wayward Nun- beneath the Hill-- 722
It slipped—and slipped-- 723
Such Guilt—to love Thee—most! 394
Who visits in the Night-- 391
Through the Dark Sod—as Education-- 392
Can the ecstasy define-- 136
Then how the Greif got sleepy—some-- 577
How good his Lava Bed, 1447
Permitting to pursue 1753
Just long enough for Hope to tease-- 762
The Racket shamed me so-- 486
Stooping—plucking – sighing—flying 94
I took my Power in my Hand-- 540
The River reaches to my feet-- 537
Of His Profound To Come-- 672
Essential Oils—are wrung-- 675
Never Bride had such Assembling-- 649
The Twilight stood, as Strangers do 1104
We do not know the time we lose-- 1106
Between his Holiday 1107
Developed from within-- 795
Growth of Man—like Growth of Nature-- 750
Sufficient to enfold him 606
It’s easy to invent a Life-- 724
Eternity’s vast pocket, picked-- 587
The solemn contract of a Life 580
As if before a child 574
The ones that disappeared are back 1690
And life hath Immortality-- 549
Her smile was shaped like other smiles— 514
The Lover—hovered—o’er-- 512
And bore her struggling, blushing, 91
Exhilaration-is within-- 383
But whom his fingers touched-- 391
Smiling back from Coronation 385
The Soul selects her own Society-- 303
And so with Butterflies-- 257
Rowing in Eden-- 249
How Death’s Gifts may compare-- 382
Each Other’s Convert— 387
How far is it to Hell? 929
Swift as a Freshet’s Tongue 945
All forgot for recollecting 966
A nearness to Tremendousness-- 936
Is best disclosed by Danger 974
The murmuring of Bees, has ceased 1115
Paradise is that old mansion 1119
A great Hope fell 1123
Oh Sumptuous moment 1125
Without discreet alarm-- 1128
Tell all the Truth but tell it slant-- 1129
The Merchant of the Picturesque 1131
Step lightly on this narrow spot-- 1183
Remembrance has a Rear and Front-- 1182
What we see we know somewhat 1195
The Past is such a curious Creature 1203
Let my first knowing be of thee 1218
Without this—there is nought— 655
Sip, Goblin, from the very lips 512
No Power can untie 423

Ponderings with my cup of tea...

Jessica Frohling
Blog 3
Words 636

The desk’s name is Loretta.
My eyelids feel like sandpaper-filled anvils
Which I must continue to lift.
Easier to hold up except for every moment they are open,
More sand sneaks in.
Staring ahead,
Trying to listen,
Wanting to learn
While the brain turns to standby.

Why can I hear the ocean in some seashells
And hear nothing in others?
My ears trick me.
my heart misses the water,
while my mind is uncomforted by it.
On the shore,
Toes in the sand,
Gentle waves pulling,
And disappearing.
I remain in the sand
And fight for the unstable earth.
To wade,
Better than swimming,
Better than walking,
Best of both worlds,
Of the seas,
Of the land.


When it gets cold,
It goes in circles around.
The Metal cold,
The Heart warm.
Metal steals the heat.


I miss the fire of the southern sun.
It warmed me to the core,
Awakened my soul.
I awoke refreshed,
Each day precious.
Unlike the southern sun,
This northern sun is temperamental,
Unsteady.
One day cold,
The next sort of warm and humid.
Dry heat ,
Please come to visit,
You make me feel alive.
The spirit of the ancient
carried with you.
The beliefs of those who now make up the desert
surrounding me.
I felt their presence,
I was at home with them.
I can’t feel them now,
I feel different nature spirits here.
Time to go back,
To the land of the sun,
Where the desert creatures reign.
To the land of the cactus and orange blossom trees.
The scent that is carried through the night,
As the scorpions awaken.



Rain comes here,
The storm whips the trees,
They sway with the wind that brings the storm.
I watch from my flat home and wish to sway with them,
Be one with nature,
Be carried with the wind,
Washed by the rain,
Dried with the air,
Grounded by the earth.

I am not the angel whose wings are torn and bleeding,
Or the vagabond,
Or the creator, though I have my role,
Or the wisp of a shapeless cloud,
Or the end of the beginning.
I live and I breathe,
I wander,
Though not aimlessly,
As fate has sewn my path.
What strand of the web am I to follow today?
What other souls are strewn about?
What unknown path beckons before me?
Shall I see the feathers float down from heaven,
While I catch them and play here on earth?
Shall I roll in them and look to the sky,
Asking what have you done?
Or invite you to be with me?
Yes,
Come and be with me,
Accompany me on my path,
As I try to accept it,
While fighting to form it.
Let me learn from the ages,
As I am but here a blink.


I love to watch the leaves dance,
As I speed over the hill.
Seeing the tiny effect of my presence,
Misplaced leaves,
The impact of a human.

Blessings being counted,
Taking an eternity,
Forgetting that to thank for them all,
Would be to pray all day.
Prayers as often as I remember,
Communication with divine,
To this little person,
In the expanse of the universe.


Rainclouds forming like ideas,
Splatting on the earth.
Each drop a tiny part of what makes an idea,
The earth,
The receptive sponge of creation,
And continuer of it.

Rug of white,
With butterflies,
Impractical,
Pretty butterflies.
Element of air represented,
Reality of dirt presented.
Can butterflies still fly,
If dirt is on their wings?

Poem in response to William Yeats “Brown Penny”
I read of a brown penny,
But what of the shiny nickel,
Is not her age more appropriate?
Even better, the dime,
For she is a mystery.
Oh dime, silver dime,
You are small,
Yet still divine.

Blog #2

Word count 625

Poetry, my lover, my friend.
You speak in ways that I can only imagine.
I admire your endurance through time.
I admire the way you can say something that means one thing to the world and another to me.
I feel your secrets,
I detect them, yet cannot always describe them.
How secretive you are on your counter.

A simple motion:
Fuzzy carpeting beneath my toes,
I drag my feet across the floor as I sit,
Enjoying the sensation.

Or as Harrison might say:
My Toes beneath fuzzy carpeting,
I sit across the drag as I floor my feet,
The enjoying sensation.

Running:
I started running,
My breaths harder,
My limbs working,
Feeling empowered,
But lacking endurance.
Endurance will come,
Easier breaths will come,
My limbs will be forced to work harder than they want to.
Too bad for them.

In Harrison speech:
Running started I,
Limbs, my working,
Empowered feeling,
Lacking but endurance,
Come will, endurance,
Come will, easier breaths,
They want to be forced, my limbs, work harder than will.
For bad, them too.

Fireflies:
I miss fireflies.
They are the sure sign of summer,
Glowing through the night,
Communication through light patterns,
Mystery when the lights go out.
What do you do during the day little bug?
I have seen you in your groggy state,
Being the light of the party can do that to you.
Would you like some Tylenol?
Make the party headache go away?
No, you just need rest.
Rest little bug so that you can enjoy the night again.
You have more than once, rested on me,
But never lingered.
Even when your light is not showing in your groggy state,
I miss you when you leave.
I don’t like the darkness either,
I wish I could glow.
I would party with you,
You could show me the way.
Perhaps it is better that I exist in the daytime,
My subconscious the only existence at night.
Perhaps I can dance with you then.
I can dream of you in a swirl of light about me,
Then I might glow.
Can you help me to glow?
Then I would awaken,
Hoping to find you on my window sill.
Alas!

Death Storm rising:
Hawks feathers,
Crazy weathers,
Flying high,
The storm says die.
Finding shelter,
Now it swelters,
Crazy sigh,
The storm says die.
Flying high,
Now you lie,
Now I cry,
The storm says die.
God says wake,
One more breath you take,
Now you try,
The storm says die.
One last soar,
Before you can take no more,
Through the nigh,
The storm does die.
Death behind you,
Death old and new,
Live the sky,
Make it “I”.

From a little person in the wide universe:
Stars watch down,
Their size unknown,
To us so small,
To others, the sun.
Are we the only ones who stare into oblivion?
Are we joined by others?
Do they see our sun as a tiny star,
Never to think that we are here?
Never to think we might look back?
How crushing would it be to humans,
If we found out we were not alone?
That we alone were not all that was created,
That earth is the smallest functioning planet?
That while we have destroyed mother earth,
Others might have done better,
Evolved or been created better?
Would faith increase or shatter?
Would our lives still mean anything?
The same as they mean now,
Just maybe not to others.
Look to the sky,
And you might see,
The others that might have eaten from the tree.

Sounds:
Refridgerator buzz.
Dogs barking.
Typing sounds.
Traffic driving.
Birds singing.
Wind through the trees.
Air entering and leaving my lungs,
Bigger truck passing now.
Computer fan kicking on.
Sounds of the last minute.

Jessica Frohling blog #1

1250 words not including my name by: Jessica Frohling:

Poetry can deny or exalt one’s nature,

But even the clouds can be kindly or cruel.

With one day a pleasant cloud could block the harsh sun,

The next it could create a tempest so horrible as to destroy life.

The duel nature of life

Cycles, motion, spinning, opposing, counteracting, unifying.

The contrast,

So much contrast.

Contrast is beautiful,

And yet how do we know it?

It is as we live,

And as the poets describe.

They melt the essential components,

Presenting their astute findings to the world.

If I am the poet,

What do I see?

I see irony,

It sneaks towards us, infesting our lives, our thoughts.

We laugh,

Otherwise we would cry when all goes wrong.

Irony mocks us as it entreats us,

Making our failures seem less blight.

A man buys a new car that he has been dreaming of,

Only to have it smashed as he pulls out of the parking lot.

The is irony woven into our fate,

Or is fate just cruel?

I see beauty,

It is everywhere the mind or eye would seek it, if only one had the heart to look.

We stand in awe at the things we find beautiful,

While the rest of the world walks by.

We are creating the tip of the funnel cloud,

As we pause while others do not.

Beauty of aesthetic quality,

Or beauty of the unseen?

One must ponder the differences,

Especially a poet.

The development is as a scale,

the more one has of one, the less they have of the other.

Some scales are more broken than others,

Or perhaps just in the process of tipping.

I see color,

It is more rich when in contrast and yet stands independent.

It surrounds us,

Nourishes our senses while sometimes overwhelming them.

We see and feel color,

And it exists without us, we are but a part of its magnificence.

Color bleeds, like people,

It feels, has a pulse.

Red, like blood makes us feel our own demise.

Color dripping like blood from the walls,

And yet we purposely paint them as such.

Blue drip,

Like rain or sky,

Why is it to represent sadness?

What does that say that we dress boys in it?

Green drip,

Like plants or illness,

Why is it said to represent envy?

Is envy an illness?

Can it be cured with other plants?

Yellow drip,

Like the sun or flowers,

Why is it said to represent happiness?

Can’t the sun burn one into a state of cancer?

Plaid: too many drips.

The very rainbow dripping from the paintbrush into our lives,

Watch out for the green.

It may look like money but be an illusion of the will.

The rainbow of color,

The many associations are the playground of the poet.

As I stare out the window,

there is green everywhere,

but never more beautiful than in contrast with white.

Outside there is a flowering bush,

The leaves are plush,

As though the very heart of the plant were worn on its branches.

The delicate white petals of its flowers so sweet,

And yet so strong.

Alone this bush stands,

But for the white columns of the house it decorates,

And trees whose shadow it still shines underneath.

True nature has no straight lines,

All are curves, ridges, or hills,

Even the horizon only appears flat.

Man has made the world flat,

Our homes,

The very pinnacle of our worlds,

Have flat walls,

Flat windows,

Flat floors,

Flat,

Flat

Flat.

Even the art we place on the wall is contained,

Framed,

Stuck on the flat wall.

It’s beauty is constrained,

Except for the vase.

All hail the vase whose form has survived.

How many homes have vases?

Not enough,

Only decorative, symmetrical frames.

Does a frame label art?

Does that it contains get more appreciation?

A picture,

A photograph,

Individually still beautiful,

Even for flat objects,

But stuck in frames,

Like we are stuck in our flat houses.

All hail the igloo,

The castle with it’s curved towers,

The Tag Mahal,

The tepee,

The ant hill.

The ants have the right idea.

They work in harmony and use resources in a non-harmful way.

We work in discontentedness and build flat homes.

We landscape our lawns to cover the mess we call a home, a lawn.

And yet where there is nature, there is not symmetry.

Why do we seek symmetry when nature is so calming?

People end up in retreats to escape symmetry and flatness, and yet it continues.

Boulevards,

The perfect example,

They make the prettiest of streets as nature prevails.

Ode to the apple in the cup:

Mostly devoured,

You sit in your splendor.

My teeth marks upon you,

You stand still.

Your perfect red remains in arc missing patterns,

Your ivory center exposed,

But you care not.

Your stem remains,

A sign of the mighty tree from which you came.

It goes to your core,

Which haughtily you declare yours,

As I will not eat it.

Individually shaped,

And yet similar to your counterparts,

Your identity remains.

No matter how much of you I devour,

Your seeds remain.

The possibility of life remains.

Like the seeds of the womb,

They can create more like you,

Even though they are small and hidden within.

The seeds form a pentacle,

A star,

What some might call a sign of the grand design of nature,

Thus the more of you disappears,

The more that is revealed.

While my body is nourished by you,

Your nutrients to flow through my veins,

I know your secret;

You do not mind being eaten because you then flow through me,

As does the essence of the tree you come from,

The sunlight that gave life to the seed that formed the tree,

The dirt and water that nourished the tree,

The worms that tilled the soil,

The very base of the earth that supported the tree,

The space that held the earth,

The pull of the sun,

The moon,

The stars,

The planets,

The universe,

Flows through my veins as you do.

Be one with me little apple,

And I will be one with everything.

Two hundred and twenty five words to spend, like money.

Shall I spend you on describing the heart of the one I love?

Shall I look the heavens and contemplate the purpose of life?

Shall I feel with all intensity every word I type?

Shall I attempt to let the world know me?

Shall I attempt to emulate the grace of a feather with delivery so soft, yet strong enough to carry the birds that I envy?

No for today, I shall spend my words on the openness of poetry,

The myriad topics that could be presented and extracted.

I shall enjoy the word of possibility.

I shall both bow to the many options,

While tilting my head as to not miss a thing.

Yet while I look left,

To my right is the unknown,

My perception so limited as to make me wish to look all ways at once,

While still enjoying the focus that life is encountered within.

The more that I look,

The more it is unclear whether focusing or looking at the wider perspective is more grand.

Forty five words to spend and my time is almost up.

I leave you with only a promise that I will never stop looking,

Never stop contemplating,

Appreciating,

Investigating.

I leave you with the promise that you can and do the same,

Purposefully or not.