Crazy Real

the official blog of author and poet Jennifer Wilson

Category: poetry (page 2 of 4)


There are
bruises you can’t 
remember getting
and pains
whose origins
you can’t recall
there are
rough patches
that used to be
and when 
did that happen?
where once
purity reigned
not to mention
aches in the heart
from longings
long forgotten
but sometimes
the voice in your heart
of those ages-dormant
and that spark
that is buried
blows up 
and ready to devour
and then you feel
alive again
and ravenous
for life.


Tomorrow, tomorrow,
that wonderful word!
it’s marvelous, mystical,
not the least bit absurd
to think that the things
I ignore every day
will all get resolved
in some later way
for no matter how big
insurmountable seems
it’s never so bad
in those future dreams
tomorrow, tomorrow,
you’ll always be there
unwavering and constant,
and able to bear
the brunt of indolence
and all good intentions
the I’ll-get-to-it-laters
and procrastinations
tomorrow, tomorrow,
I’ll get to it when
tomorrow arrives
and not worry til then.

The End

Oh if I were
A tiny bird
I would not think
It all absurd
To flit and fly
From stem to sky
And worry not
and never cry

And if I were
A senseless thing
I’d never think
What days might bring
I’d rest beneath
A shady leaf
and never know
the hand of grief

To be so small
Would be, to me,
Most providential
For I would stay
Out of the fray
And never care
From day to day

The goings-on
Of higher planes
Would never cause
Me any pain
I’d turn my back
And have no lack
In sunshine
Or in rain

Yet woe is me
Human I be
And as such
Cannot be so free
I seek and strive
To feel alive
And find that I
Can’t be so blithe

Yet some day now
Both large and small
Will find their end
Is all in all
the scythe will come
we’ll be undone
and fall to earth
as one 
by one

So life as dust
we’ll leave behind
we’ll shake it off
and never mind
then souls 
as winge’d things 
will soar
away from pain


There is a heaviness upon me
and it is not just the ten or so pounds
that I want to lose
there is
a density filling the gaps in my brain
where the synapses are supposed to fire freely
it weighs me down
fastens me firmly to the earth
though I long to fly
I would unhinge my skull
if I could
release the accumulated detritus
from the many long years
of self-incrimination and excoriation
watch it ooze away
into the sewer grates and drains
where it belongs
wash my brain clean
in the scattered rain showers that fall
in the late summer days
and wet,
and healing
and I would dance
in the puddles
of grey matter
the edges of my head
lift my mouth
to the unburdened clouds
and know freedom.



I want to do the great big things
that startle and amaze,
that turn the world upon its ear-
cause all to gape and gaze.

I want to do the major works
that echo throughout time,
that beat a tempo of their own
within the banal rhyme.

I don’t want repetitious things
that never seem to end;
The road that travels straight and long
with never any bend.

I begged my god for broader scope
upon which I could dwell.
He said “just take this little thing
and learn to do it well.”

I yearned to be the big event-
the grand-finale close-
He filled my life with day-to-day
and told me “I’m in those.”

“You ask to be a bigger part
but you don’t see my view.
If you would truly know my heart–
The little things are huge.”

flight risk

when things
are going well
the pull
to be gone
is strong.

when all
is balanced
it’s there.

the pain
never goes
it gnaws
at the marrow.

and the
idea of death
is one that
and soothes
and beckons.

when I
can see
the myriad
to stay

when things
look fine
the desire
to fly away


Some wounds are plain
when we do fall
requiring help
and seen by all

Some wounds we hide
deeply within
let no one see
let no one in

and we don’t want
to seem too weak
remedies shunned
no help we seek

Forgoing care
all logic flout
smiling brightly
while bleeding out.

Poem #17

Sometimes people
you love
disappoint you
and do things you wish
they wouldn’t do
sometimes they don’t
think it will hurt
but it does
and it’s painful
to look at their 
because they just
don’t get it
and they probably
never will
so you have a 
decision to make
will you let go?
or will you hang on?
and it reminds me
there is no love
without forgiveness.


Poem #16 is an oldie. Flashback to 1992, six years into marriage and three wee ones on the ground. I found this poem in the garage last week while cleaning. It solidified my grasp on the fact that Bipolar Disorder is something I have truly struggled with for my entire adult life…
What is it like to be a tightrope walker?
I think I know.
It is to hover
on a thin thread
between sky and earth
and yet
being a part of neither one.
It is to balance–ever so tenuously–
between fear
and self-control
and rationale.
Caught with a scream
held tightly
between your teeth, too busy
on your next
to let it out
let it out
let it all out
and risk falling, not knowing if
the net is even there.
Is it there?
Is it gone?
Can I trust, and not hang on?
Can I fall, or did somebody take it
away when I wasn’t looking?
I think it’s gone
but it was no stranger who removed it
it was me.

Halfway there….Poem #15

The octopus
With legs of eight
Or are they arms?
But let’s just wait
And dwell upon
This mystery
Conundrum great
Beneath the sea
If they be arms
Now think of it
His mouth is in
His own armpit
But if they’re legs
(Is it icky
To have eight legs
All long and sticky?)
Then when he eats
You shouldn’t watch
His mouth is there
Within his……………..

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