Hey you.
You who writes.

You who keeps on writing.

You who pours out your hurt and your joy and your bliss and your ways of being and existing and understanding onto page and screen.

You who hits the submit button again and again. Even though you’ve papered an entire wall in rejection letters, because you know that somewhere there is a home for your words and if you keep trying you will find it.

You who writes in private, in secret, in the darkest back corner of your closet after everyone else has gone to sleep just so you can write the whole of you.

You who writes to follow the trail, to chart the course, to make your own map through the mystery.

You who writes the path to your own redemption, because you know that clawing your way back to forgiveness of self is the only way through.

You who writes in silence, in a whisper, in invisible ink.

You who writes with the risk of being dismissed, dishonored, ignored because the risks of not writing are even greater.

You who writes because nobody else is willing to tell the truth and the truth must be told.

You who writes to bring the perpetrator to justice.

You who writes to fuel the revolution, to feed the fire, to create the necessary unrest.

You who writes to bring the people into the streets.

You who writes so that your children and their children and their children will know.

You who writes until you are bleeding and then uses the words to staunch the flow.

You who writes to lift others even when you are writing through the thick haze of your own tears.

You who writes to shine a harsh and uncompromising light on what is unjust, on the wrong doing, on the abuse occuring in the shadows.

You who writes to unbreak your own heart.

To you who writes to weave the magical stories that lull the babies to sleep at night.

You who writes to make visible the ones who do the hard and lonely and dangerous work and who risk it all just to stay alive.

You who writes in gratitude and thanks that you are able to bring worlds to life on paper.

You who writes to give voice to the things nobody else is willing to say.

You who writes so that the invisible can be seen, the marginalized brought to center, the spotlight moved away from the stars and onto the ones in the background who make the show go on.

You who writes to make a thing real, to recreate the past, to return to yourself, to mark in ink the path of a new beginnings. 

You who writes the body. The heat and salt and sex of it.  The truth of blood and vein and the secrets the bones hold. The soft and wet and want. The body that winds and dances in the shadows. The body that heals trauma by naming and claiming her own pleasure.

You who writes to claim space, to name yourself, to create a new world you can stand to live in.

You who writes to own your history or accept your present or shift your future.

You who keeps writing love letters to the one long gone or the one not yet arrived or to fall in love with the miracle of your own being.

You who writes to make peace with the ghosts, to release the steam, as a substitute for the therapy you cannot afford.

You who writes because the world inside you is so magical and so real and even if nobody else believes you it must exist somehow, represented in concrete form.

You who writes because to not write would be like a form of death, and you’ve died too many times already.

You who writes to bring us all back to life.

You who writes to set the record straight, to hold the story, to alter the dominant narrative.

You who writes to bring hope to the hopeless and give voice the the voiceless, to share the stories of the ones nobody bothers to hear.

You who writes in the face of all that would silence you.

You who writes to craft beauty in the midst of devastation.

You who writes because the force of creation is what gets you out of bed each day.

You who writes to brighten hearts and lift spirits and to make the sun rise in the sky.

You who writes like the ocean, like waves crashing and crashing and crashing again against the shore of what is real.

You who writes the dance, the movement of clouds across the sky, the way the flowers blow in the breeze.

You who writes outside of the lines. Who ignores the rules. Who has no idea about grammar or punctuation or the correct way to spell things, but who writes anyway.

You who writes in an illegible scrawl on purpose to keep the stories safe from eyes unable to see the the beauty of your truth.

You who writes words that rise like smoke and fall like ashes, still alive from the fire.

You who writes to take the swirl of chaos and confusion and, waving pen like magic wand, makes the spinning stop and the truth rise to the surface, clear and true, like a fortune teller conjuring the future from her crystal ball.

You who writes only the necessary, who casts multitudes from scarcity, who takes the story of the entire universe and reduces it to the exact few words that say everything that has ever needed to be said.

You who writes even though they told you that you could not. That should should not. Who writes over the red pen marks and bad grades from teachers who thought writing had to follow the textbook.

You who writes the things that push people up against their own limitations, their prejudice, their hard edged bias, who forces us to see the things we would rather ignore. You who are willing to endure the discomfort of pushback in order to help us all grow.

You who writes the edges and pushes the boundaries and then calls the words back into the center.

You who writes the trauma. Writes the pain. Writes the ugly words that we don’t want to read but can’t turn away from, not because you want to, necessarily, but because you know we all we need to stay present with what is real.

You who writes the worst of the hurricanes and tornadoes of reality and then keeps writing all the way into the eye of the storm where everything is peaceful and beautiful and true.

You who writes the imaginary, the fantasy, the fiction, and in the writing you conjure a world that is deeply real and alive. 

To writes who writes with irrepressible joy bubbling up through your cells, giddy with the knowledge that only you could write this particular story.

You who writes in service to the cause, to the greater good.

You who writes the birth, the death, the honest everyday mundanities of our humanity. The messy and the boring and the deeply human.

You who writes to honor who has come before, to uplift the wisdom of your ancestors and the truth of those who walked the lands long before we were here.

You who writes in the stolen moments, on the grocery store receipts, who scribbles poems on the inside curve of your elbow, inking skin with novels that wash away in the shower but that mark you forever.

You who writes to create a truth that is more true than reality that you are living. 

You who writes under a name not your own in order to write the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

You who writes to understand what you already know and to learn what you need to understand and embrace the unknowing of all that exists beyond comprehension.  

You who writes to remember the details your brain will not hold.

You who writes your way into your own wide open life.

You who writes. Period.

To heal the world. To right the wrongs.  To save a life. 

Because you couldn’t stop, even if you tried.

It is a brave and beautiful thing to create stories in the face of all that would stop you.

You do that. And it is everything.

The post For the ones who write appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

listen to the audio recording | listen to the soundtrack on spotify

when she finally leaves, you will not want to let her go.
when she finally leaves, you will not be ready.

no matter that you thought you were fine
no matter that you thought you were moving on
and even healing and shit.

sometimes the heart plays tricks like that

when she leaves you’ll know better.

and no matter how much control you like to wield
over the proper folding of the towels
and the direction the toilet paper goes on the roll.

you won’t get to have a say in this one.

you’ll want to think that you’ll handle it with grace
but you won’t.
you’ll ugly cry.
you’ll drink too many whiskeys and not eat near enough food.
you’ll beg. and plead and send ill-advised texts and show up at her doorstep
unannounced and uninvited
your hopeful heart an earthquake, ready to take the house down to the foundations

you will not drive away happy.
you will drive right over your heart, splayed on the hot august pavement.
you will drive away not knowing if you will see her again.

when you get back to your apartment
make yourself some tea. add honey
you need to learn to give sweetness to yourself now
play all the songs that speak her name
sink into the sad like it’s the only home you’ve ever known
you’ll be living here a while
you might as well make friends with it.

don’t try to convince people you are trying to forget
when you are determined to not to let go.
when you’ve got a box tucked beside your bed
filled with two and a half years of love notes
and a hell of a lot of empty space
it’s okay to hold on for a little while
demons are not exorcized overnight.

but just a warning
what comes next is not going to be easy.

soon you’re going to have to forget her phone number
forget her birthday
forget the way she smiled at you first thing in the morning.
the way she said ‘sleep good’ and you bit your lip every time to keep from correcting her.
the way she poured a whole mug of coffee and barely drank any of it.

your memories will play tricks on you anyways
turning ordinary moments into magic.
and right now is no time for magic.

right now is time for hard truth
and tough love.

it will take a few times of ignoring good advice before the hurt is
deep enough for you to listen

please remember to be kind to yourself

listen
i know you don’t want to hear this
but stop texting her.
everyone will agree with this.
they will say that if you need to – you should get a journal and write your love letters there.
where she will never see them.
better yet. write them on your own skin and let them wash away in the shower
somethings were never meant to stay forever.

listen when they tell you that you are romanticizing things
listen when they tell you that it’s all for a reason
listen when they tell you that it’s for the best.

it doesn’t matter if it’s true right now
it just matters if you can believe it long enough to get through the night.

next:
change the playlist
change your favorite coffee shop
change the sheets
you deserve cloth that doesn’t hold the memory of her skin.

bolt the doors
stop waiting for the sound of her knock
it is not coming
she is not coming.

do you hear me – she is not coming.

walk alone at night and remember how safe you used to feel.
make the food she never liked to eat.
don’t go to the grocery store near her unless you know she’s at work
it’s too early to risk a run in with a ghost.
make new memories.
make new friends.
get a tattoo
get another dog
go dancing. go to the ocean. go to sleep earlier.

god knows, our bones could all use a little more rest.

and listen.
for real this time
stop trying to cram your heart into the hands of girls with clenched fists
stop trying to cram your heart into the hands of girls with open palms

there’s safe space somewhere between holding on too tightly and letting things blow away in the breeze.

someday you’ll learn this.

but or now, don’t even think of trying to give yourself to the next girl you see
she deserves better than your heart in pieces
she deserves better than your mouth still shaped into an echo of the past
and anyway, it’s time to stop being afraid of your own company

and cry as much as you need to
it’s okay to be all the way broken.
that’s the only way to let the grief do its holy work
so go ahead
cry so much that the rivers flood the oceans
and the forecasters announce that the drought is over

and then be done crying.
be done.

steady up girl
you are way better than this

_________

The post steady up girl {you are way better than this} appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

so when you find a poem like this
-and you’ll know by the
chill that rises along your arms and travels
down your spine
the one that pulses truth
the one that says
this poem may one day be the
one thing that stands between you
and the siren song of the shadowlands –
when you find a poem like that
write it by hand on the prettiest paper
careful cursive, just like they taught you in grade school
fold it carefully
edges lined up with precision
make the crease lines just so.
take it out
every so often
even when everything
is perfect
and tomorrow looks like infinity
and you swear you will never
sleep alone again
but just in case
memorize the words
and the words between the words
you may need them again
quite likely, dear one, you will need them again
and again
on blue black nights at 3am
and the days when the sun has baked your bones dry and
still the rains won’t come
and when the ground is too hard for rest
but not steady enough
to rise from
when you call and call and they do not come home.
when those days come
you won’t remember right away
so deep will you be in the sweet mess of grief
but eventually you will remember
and when you do
take the poem out of your back pocket
unfold it carefully
smooth the creases and lay it flat.
brush your hair and your teeth
maybe put on some lipstick
whatever it takes to
remember your beauty and worth
then take a breath
because even though it seems impossible
that a poem could have so much power
it is quite entirely possibly that
this poem will
remind you of truth
when heart and ego are wrecked and ruined
it will sustain you
when food loses it’s lure and the air is so heavy
you stay in bed until noon.
this poem will be talisman and guide
on the journey back home to yourself.
so give it a chance
what is there to lose, anyway?
you have already lost it all, after all
you were holding so tightly and you lost, anyway
so go ahead
read it aloud
through your tears.
give it the cadence
that is the exact opposite
of the love song you don’t think
you’ll ever be able to hear again without crying
speak in in a voice that sounds nothing like the one you used to whisper her name
this is where you get your voice back
roll that poem around in your mouth
suck the letters between your teeth
blow them out like rings of smoke in winter air.
take them into your fists and throw them into the darkness
after all
there is a reason your body quivered
when you read this poem for the first time
there is a reason you listened to me
and took the time to write it out and
that you saved it for today
there is a reason you remembered to do this.
so dammit – read the poem.
put your whole being into that poem
breath and body and blood and guts and tears.
read it again
and again
let the refrain rise
until the truth of it is a light composed of syllables
until the light is a bullet proof vest made of words
until the bullet proof vest is enough to protect you from your own fury
until your fury becomes the vast heat of power
until the power lodges in your belly, red hot and burning true
and then, and only then
howl that poem at the night sky with every ounce
of fire you have ever known
call it back to you as if you own it
and then stop and breathe for a minute.
slow and steady.
and see if you don’t feel differently.

this is what it is
my bravely broken one
to let a poem save you.

The post to let a poem save you appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

But then, I came across this article. And as I watched the video (please, please watch), of this beautiful, fiercely alive transwoman of color moving so free – to the beat of drums and the chants of the crowd and in the face of the line of guards in front of the Governors mansion – my body and soul started moving to the rhythm of the dancing and my voice rose with the chanting and I got to thinking big about resistance and revolution.

And I watched her dance, completely mesmerized and overcome with how this particular revolution moved through her body and translated into the crowd. How everything became one – the dance, the chants, the drums.

How everything and everyone was so fiercely alive, pulsing with movement and resistance.  Everything and everyone except for those stationary guards doing their jobs. How did they feel, I wonder? Did they have to still the natural movement of their own body? Did they question the side of the line their jobs had put them on?

Did part of them just want to dance?

We make meaning of our stories and our struggles and our fight for visibility in so many ways. In every moment of resistance from the beginning of time. There are some things that carry across language and culture and country.

And dance – especially the dance of revolution – is one of them.

The last few years – we’ve heard a lot about revolution. We’ve called it uprising, resistance, revolt, or riot – depending on who we deem to be leading the charge and how we feel about their cause or whether we claim it as our own. We watch it from a distance and we take to the streets. And the personal becomes political and the political becomes personal.

And sometimes – at the end of it all, the facebook rantings and marching and shouting and campaigning- when voices are hoarse and spirits are united – no matter if everything has been won or all seems lost…

Sometimes – all there is to do, is to rise up and dance.

————————————————–

Revolution, my friends, looks like this.

Revolution sounds like the beat of drums and the rhythm of clapping and the sounds of wild cheering. It looks like dancing in front of a line of guards standing there to keep you out.

Because dance is always the way in.

Revolution is bodies – and voices – in motion.

Revolution looks like showing up for what you believe in. and standing ground against the things you don’t. It looks like staying – even when you’re weary of the fight. It looks like saying yes and saying no – and saying NOW. Not later. We have waited long enough.

Now.

Revolution says I am with you – and if this your struggle it is also my own.

Revolution looks like every protest sign I’ve ever held with my hands, and every single one I’ve lifted up in word.

Revolution is reclamation and visibility and the willingness to be seen.

It is fists raised up and bodies laid down.

Revolution says no matter how often you try to erase me, I will still be here.

Do you see me? I am still here.

Revolution is my birthright and my humanity and my responsibility.

Revolution is loud. It’s defiant. It’s the hard cackle of laughter that rings through the streets and the call and response and the demands for change. It’s the walk outs and the sit ins. And yes, it’s the huge risk it takes you to share that post on your social media, when you know there isn’t anyone who will understand or agree.

Because even small acts of resistance count toward the revolution. And even small acts of resistance can feel terrifying.

Revolution IS resistance.
Resistance – even your own, will sometimes make you uncomfortable.
Resistance asks – are you ready to be uncomfortable?
It is time for you to be uncomfortable.

Resistance has no time for your comfort zones.

Revolution is the small things viewed large and the big things made even bigger.

Revolution is righteous and disobedient and inconvenient and yes – sometimes it’s angry.

Right now I am angry.

Revolution is the amplification of voices frequently made silent. It’s the appearance of faces often invisible. It is arms linked and bodies bared. And the rumble that starts low in your belly, and rises up through your lungs and out into this world.

It sounds like the marching of feet on pavement and chants in languages and accents and voices too numerous to count.

Revolution is a network you will never unravel.

Revolution is truth.

Revolution does not ask what is allowed – it says I exist.

Will you still try to stop me?
Go ahead. Try to stop me.

Do you see me?
I am here.
And will not be going away this time.

Revolution is standing up and fighting back.

Revolution builds in the silence and the shadows left by oppression and privilege.

It is pride and desire and fierce determination – open bodies and unlocked doors and people spilling into the street.

The people will always, eventually, spill into the street.

And when they do, the drums will pound, and the voices will rise and the people…

the people will dance.

Eventually, the people will always dance.

Because sometimes, my friends. Resistance looks exactly like dancing.

And sometimes dancing is where revolution is born.

PS: Looking to give birth to your own revolution? I help passionate change-makers raise their voice and harness the power of story. Get in touch to learn how we can make your words dance.

The post Sometimes dancing is where the revolution is born appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

Let us please her.

2. Poetry is not always literal. Do not assume our poetry means what it says. Sometimes it will mean the exact opposite. Sometimes I love you means I hate you. Sometimes come here means go away. Do not twist yourself into a pretzel trying to figure out what it might mean. Let me repeat this again. Poetry is not. Always. Literal. Except when it is. You risk madness trying to figure this out.

Let it be.

3. Poets fall in love easily. Regularly. Messily. With people. With ideas. With food. With the way the light falls through your hair and crosses your cheek. With the sound of our own thoughts. Love is fodder for our art. Love is the root of it all. So much love, and not all of it for you. This is the danger of loving a poet. This is the bliss of loving a poet.

Let us love.

4. When the voices in our head start speaking we don’t talk back or look for a doctor to make them stop. We write them down. On whatever we can find. Receipts. The last letter you got from your late grandmother. Dollar bills. The entire surface of our right arm. If you happen to be bald, the top of your head is fair game in a pinch. Do NOT fall asleep while we are holding anything that can be used as a writing implement. We will write at traffic lights. During happy hour. Right in the middle of a particularly romantic moment. Our words must find a home or they will consume us.

Let us write.

5. You have never been as beautiful as you will be through our eyes. You will have never known that the hard edge of your hipbone was worthy of poetry, or the curve of your smile or the husk of your voice or the caress of your cheek against our own. But if we love you, we will turn you into a poem. You will be made immortal by the power of our words. You can count on this.

Let it happen.

6. When you start to date a poet we should read you your rights: Anything you say/do or think can and will be held against you. We will write about what an ass you were that one night, about how you drive us bonkers by singing REO Speedwagon in the shower, about the ways you have brought about betrayal. Still, if you censor yourself, we will know this too. You might as well speak your truth. It’s all poetry to us.

Let us write you into life.

7. At some point, we will get ink stains on your good sheets. Your best dress shirt. That super important report you stayed up all night finishing for your boss. This will drive you crazy. But know that we will also make love to you with ink stained hands. Finger paint typewriter font onto your skin, brand a masterpiece into the spaces between your ribs with the words flowing from our palms. Tattoo you with the imprint of our hearts. Together, we will become a living poem.

Let us get messy.

8. We will love you well, with words and nuance, with bodies and phrasing, with kisses and passion, with poems and love letters scratched on coffee shop napkins. So that no matter what happens between us, for the rest of your life, something in your soul will always be searching for the poem that we were together. This will make it very hard to be your next girlfriend.

Let us love you.

9. Poetry has a long, long memory. After our love is long gone, we will still be reading your poems. You will not be the only one whose heart this breaks. Know that we will stand , reading the words written about our love – and we will ache for you  The body will remember the way you shifted and sighed as skin met skin and those words will pay tribute to the lines that were composed while we moved through this world together. Because of this, we will never truly forget you.

Let us remember.

10. If you’re going to love a poet you should know this. Our words are our truths. Our blood hums with verse. We break easily. Our words save us. Our stanzas keep us alive. If we loved you at all, we loved you truly. And you will never leave us but live under our skin and beneath the tips of our fingers and in the ink spill on blank page.

Because poetry, like some love, is forever.

The post 10 things you should know {if you intend to love a poet} appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

But in any life there is also a time to keep quiet, spaces for words that have not yet found their fullness, or where the speaking of them would bring hurt that would serve no purpose.

There are times when truth telling will lead you down a path toward a door you know is best left closed, regardless of the sweet temptation of the opening. There are backwards glances filled with the bittersweet melancholy of regret, and the words trapped in throat that have passed the time the universe gave for their expression. There are interactions where the energy required to set things straight would cost more than the setting straight is worth.

There will always be questions that must remain unasked, and things known but left unsaid. There are spaces where silence must carry the day, because language is powerful and yet entirely and frustratingly inadequate – and nothing could say what needs to be said, and so to say nothing at all is the only sensible thing that remains.

And these times too, hold power and deserve reverence.

 Listen closely love, even the deepest silence carries its own sweet wisdom.

Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.

Wendell Barry

~~~~

Sometimes, at the end or the beginning or deep in the middle – those silent spaces demand a reckoning all heir own, and they itch to find voice, and a safe space to surface.  A place, in their own quiet way, to become.

An incomplete lifetime of things I have not said aloud.

I really, really, really hope you don’t fall in love with me. This would be a spectacularly bad idea. Especially right now. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I want nothing more than a small cottage. A weeping willow hiding a front yard hammock. Streaming light and hours upon hours to write. I do not want any of this with you.

There is a plea trapped in my throat. It is one word. Stuck on repeat. You. Youyouyou.

You are cute. Like really. And funny and smart and wow. I think I want to kiss you. Please don’t tell my girlfriend.

My greatest salvations have been right at the center of my deepest sins. I cannot apologize anymore for the ways I have hurt you. They have been the saving grace of my own survival.

You make me feel giddy. Like my butterflies have butterflies. Jesus, I hope you say yes.

When she one day has your baby, it just might kill me.

In the center of my empty, it is teeth on bone I remember, and I am filled with longing.

I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. Until the end of my days, I am sorry.

In what world of male entitlement do you exist that makes it okay for you to touch a stranger like that? I am not property, nor do I need to qualify my no. The patriarchy has not served you well, you chauvinistic asshole.  Fuck. The Hell. Off.

I want to kiss your tattoos. All of them. You have a lot of tattoos, in so many delicious places. I hope you don’t have plans later. This could take a while.

When I see a penny on the ground, before I make the inevitable wish, it will be to you that my mind travels, and I will remember.

All the you’s in this poem are not the same. All the me’s in this life are not the same. Walt Whitman said he contained multitudes. I am my own multitudes. And if you are all also multitudes it makes tremendous sense why we can’t quite get ourselves lined up to finally get together. I lie awake at night wishing we could get back together. We will never get back together.

I sometimes dream about the rasp of your five o’clock shadow against my cheek. I look for substitutes just to feel this again. None of them will ever be you.

I will never tell you where I hide the chocolate.

To me, you – and what we shared – will always be the definition of holy.

Will you ever go home so I can just be alone?   I am far more enamored with my own company than I will ever be with yours.

I want to twist that curl of hair that falls over your eyes around my finger. I’m obsessed with it. I’m scared you’ll think this is strange.

In some parallel universe, one existing outside of time, I believe we are what we could have been.

More than anything, I’m afraid I’ll never reach beyond the confines of this small life and step into all that I know I could be. More than anything, I’m afraid you don’t want me to. More than anything, I am afraid it will take me years longer to find out for sure.

Oh. We’re talking about you again? Gee wiz, how fun. Let me settle in here. Get comfy. History tells me that this is going to take a while.

I want. I want. I want. Please.

I will always think I am too much. Or not enough. Or both at once. I wonder if anyone will ever see through that and know that I am neither and both, and that it’s okay – either way.

Are you sure you’re not gay? Goddammit.

Where’d you learn to be such a goddamn asshole? Seriously. You. Fucking. Suck.

Come home. Comehomecomehomecomehome. Please.

You are a better writer than I will ever be.

I see you sometimes, barely contained in your own skin. I see you pushing against the walls, feeling for a crack or a sliver or an escape hatch. One day you’re going to blast out of that safe little life you’ve built for yourself. I want, quite badly, to be there when you do. Please, say that you one day will. Perhaps, if you do – I will be waiting.

It all the ways that truly matter, it will always be you.

~~~~

In the spaces inside the silence, in the depth and breadth and weight of these spaces, it is sometimes true that entire lives are lived.   Inside of the silence we love and we lose. We hurt and bleed and rejoice and become strong. We fight, and we lay down arms and either surrender or walk away.

Inside the silence we find truth. We wither and we bloom. We grow into and out of people and relationships and ways of being and entire lives, both lived and unlived. We learn the boundaries and edges of ourselves. Inside the silence we discover the wisdom of choice. Of choosing, again and again, what we offer to the world and what we keep close and just for us. We learn that there are seeds that will only germinate in quiet.  We come to know the voice that speaks without words or sounds.

We get comfortable with the tenor and timbre and cadence of the voice with which we will one day speak aloud.  We discover her  resonance and we do battle to honor her and save her and bring her to life, again and again. We come to call her our knowing, our intuition, our gut. We honor the wisdom of all that can never be said.

Inside of the silence, we come home.

~~~~

Tell me, of the spaces inside your own silence. How have you learned to trust in those spaces? Do words live there, or music or colors or just shadows and light? Share, if you wish, in the way that feels safest to you. Leave your name behind. Take a new one if it feels right.   Post it here. Write it in your journal. Close your eyes and name the silent truth within your own body.   Send me an email and know I will keep your truths as close to my heart as my own.

Above all, honor the wisdom of your own silence. Know that it is true and strong and whole and good.  Know that it needs no explanation or justification. Know that it is what it is, and nothing more or and nothing less. Know that it is everything. Just like you.

The post Even The Deepest Silence Carries Its Own Sweet Wisdom appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

and i feel the pull of the wild moon
calling me to witness
her brilliance
the way she cycles from a shadowed sliver of herself
to full radiance
over and over again
like such a thing is normal
and expected
and good

just like we become more and less of ourselves
just like we succumb to the shadows
and then spin to the light
over and over again
as if we had a choice
in the matter
as if we didn’t deserve holy reverence for
our relentless insistence on
surviving that very thing

outside
bare feet in wet grass
slow circle spin
arms out
head back
breathing in the night
footprints on warm cement
sharp rocks pressed into tender skin
forehead against metal fence
looking up
through twisted branches
to a sky filled with clouds
obscuring it all
even that wild and steady moon

but there
just there
in the one sliver of visible sky
a single star
strong and steady
only one
solitary and still
further away than my limited abilities to
fathom distance
yet still
resolved to shine

what more is needed
than just the one
one star. one body. one voice in the relentless dark.
to remind us
that there is always something ready to hold our fervent wish
something to close our hearts around
something in which to believe
to give us hope

a reason to be still. to wait. to trust.

{Jl 8.21.13}

The post wait. be still. trust. {a poem for quiet nights and wild moons} appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

steal words from the past and
ink them along  your lower left rib
in a promise to never risk this.

then risk it.

let it get fucking messy.
get naked and swim around in the
havoc you’ve brought forth
by loving
claim fiercely only the brief moments
you are given.

then take more
take everything
take with relentless fury
take until the taking looks like giving
and the giving looks like a prayer.

love like holy looks when it says your name
like a confession booth redemption.
and like on your knees supplication
to gods you don’t believe in

then see what happens if you believe in them.

love like the cadence of poetry.
like nails down your back
like a battering ram
like a mother holds her child.
like a consecrated temple
and like a seedy hotel room affair.

love like everything depends on it.

because it does
and it doesn’t

so love them both
love wrong till it’s right
love like they tell you
you could not
should not
can not

and then do.

love like you had the chance and didn’t take it
love like you did and didn’t make it.
and in the quiet, desperate moments
before giving up everything.
love like you’re just about to come…
undone

now hold on.  don’t let go.

love with your hands
just like your grandparents, arthritic knuckles clasped tight on their 50^th wedding anniversary
like a newborn baby
palm curled around your index finger with a  grip so fierce you’d swear he could hold the weight of the world.
then let it all fall down.
and love like a fist fight
like a palm reader
like fingers trailing across braille.
like rock paper scissors
and like sign language speaking silent truths from across a crowded room.

love with your mouth.
like the sweet expectation of  the moments before your very first kiss
and like the screaming match where you hurled words like they were the weapons that would set you free.
love like the taste dark chocolate and red wine mingling on your tongue
and licking a cherry popsicle on a hot summer day.
love like leaving bite marks on pale skin
and like swallowing bitter truths so you don’t hurt him anymore.

Love like the past
like wandering through an antique shop and feeling the whispers of long ago memories in dust of discarded things.
Like old, soft leather and the hard crack of a whip,
Like a long forgotten love letter slipped in the back of an old book.
Like a typewriter with sticky keys that keeps on spelling his name no matter how many times you tell them you’ve moved on.

love like the day you walked down the aisle and the day you signed the divorce papers
like the way you drew in that shaky breath right before she touched you for the first time and
like you stopped breathing the day he went away forever.
love like you haveall the answers to all the questions you’ve ever asked and like you’ll never know a single one.
love like a tangle of hands and mouths and limbs
that goes on forever
and like it all ends.  Right now.

so love in the brutal tearing apart of everything you’ve ever known.
and like your scattered pieces are finally being gathered together.
like your wholeness matters more than your goodness.

your wholeness is the only measure of goodness that love will ever know.

love like you loved Superman when you were five
like you loved New Kids On The Block when you were twelve
like you loved that boy in math class when you were 16
and that girl at the bus stop when you were 22.
love like you learned to love yourself yesterday
like the way you’ve found only yourself at the end
of every choice you’ve ever made.

love is at the end of every choice you ever made.

love like maybe possibly mmmmm ok,  sure. If you wanna?
love like Yes! Yes! Yes!
and like saying “Hell no. I am worth FAR more than that”
and meaning it.
love like long lost soulmates
and like fucking someone who
could not tell you your own name.

love, you need to know your own name.

so love like a car crash
like a hospital emergency room at 3am
like a war zone
like a bomb shelter.
like a selfishness
like a submission
like a saint
like a sinner
like happily ever after
and like the sweetest one night stand.

just love.
stop pretending you can’t,
stop pretending you don’t want to
stop listening to them when they tell you shouldn’t.
love because you must
because you can
because you don’t really have to

but by god, you know that you will.

bring it all
down
on the side of
love

The post Bring it all down on the side of love appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

there is no way to save this.

there
is
no
way
to
save
this.

the ending
was written
long before
you ever heard
the tentative starting notes
no last ditch efforts
no swan song redemption
there is no rescuing
to be done
here

so, let it fall
let it all come down
crumble like earth quake
like forest blaze
like armageddon times
stand amidst the rubble
with trembling legs
and stardust skin

survey the damage
hold your grief close
usher it inside
name it truth
and go ahead
let it twist you
it has to
there is no other way

there
is
no
other
way

fall to the ground
let it take you down
on your knees now
so that the debris presses deep
into tender bone
marks your skin
with the harsh truth of
never again

because this?
this was fated
like the falling was fated
like the bliss was fated
like that night where
infinity touched your soul
was going to happen
no matter what
you could not have changed things

you
could
not
have
changed
things.

it’s not just good things
and beginnings that are meant to be
sometimes
endings
are written first
and we live
just to catch up
to the inevitable
finish

you know this
you know it lover
you held on
you repaired
you patched
and you kept it all together
as long as you could

but
now it is time
to let it fall
to release fists clenched
tight around emptiness
to open
to let go
to admit
that it is done

now
it
is
finally
done

forgive yourself
this ending
this aching unmet dream
do not name it
failure
or
catastrophe
it is not
another mistake
for you to own

it simply
is what
it is.
it is what must be
what was always
going to be.

lift your eyes
let it all out
all the full moon howl
and the primal wail and
the grief
you’ve kept locked
in bones.
let it all come
down now

let
it
all
come
down

release your walls
now
invite the potential
of wide
open spaces
all the way in
and know that
after endings
come the beginnings of things.

begin again, lover

always
always

begin again.

The post always, always, begin again appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

do not
look away
right now you are
mine

right now
i am
lifting hair
from neck
running my finger
gently there.  across
the line of
clavicle.
down curve of rib
following
concave of waist
coming to rest on
the hard of hip.

revel, now
in the shiver that
rises
along your spine

it means you are awake.

stay awake , lover
because this is
a treatise of touch

{image via unsplash}

this is
a dedication to
the divinity
of want
this is an ode
to the fierce hunger of
your
animal skin
so bless your righteous body
bless it’s ancient hunger
bless it’s sacred need
bless the magnet pull
the utter madness
of want
and the selfish haunting
of desire

right here
on electric hipbone
right here
on staircase spine
here on nape of neck
on hollow of throat
on line and curve
on slick and sweat
here in the space where
body meets body
where want answers want
where primal, exalted lust
delivers
you
to your
knees

we all
pray best
on our knees

so let us pray

sanctify the body holy
the wicked desire
the backroom covenants of flesh
the slow slide of acquiesce
the hallowed space of want
the heavy shudder of yes
the burn of craving
the bliss of the fire.

find now
the center of your
longing
meet it where it lives
coax the tender tremor
tease response from
edge to depth to surface
to bone
to salt
to sweat
to skin
to teeth
to yes
to this

this is the
consecrated profanity of
seduction
this is the space where
shame is shed
you are a vessel of want

you are a master of desire
you are the fierce of supplication
the gentle of domination
you are holy
you are holy

you are holy

ask for what you need, lover
take what you want
bring it home
refuse the disgrace
with which you were raised
claim your untamable
unbind your wild
petition the air for your
every desire

Image © chanelle sinclair

this body is not the enemy
your sex is not a scandal
your skin needs no censor
you are not here for denial
your pleasure is
what the universe
demands
it is the purpose
of your
creation
anything else
is
blasphemy

so tattoo want along your rib
name it religion and church
and the rite of communion
take the body and the blood
sprinkle it with holy water
let the salt steam rise

and listen
just listen, lover
always
our bodies tell us
where
to
begin.

Listen:
The poem:

The soundtrack:

Treatise of touch: the official playlist for shedding shame and owning desire}

30 questions to bring you closer to your wild heart.
Join me for a month of prompts and write your way back home.
30 days | 30 questions |30 dollars — begins Feb. 14th 2016

The post a treatise of touch appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.