A Bunch of Lofty Thoughts

Yesterday I was in a very philosophical mood. Sometimes people just put me there.

I have been thinking about what’s next in my life journey. Here it is, the end of the year and time to reflect on what transpired the last 12 months and what goals I have for the new year. It is a beautiful blend of manifestation, dreaming and visualization, along with this masculine energy of getting things done, crunching numbers and making an ACTION plan.

Maybe it was the story Elizabeth told me of her having cancer. Her jaw bone needed to be replaced and the doctors used a portion of bone from her leg to build her a new jaw. Her scars make her interesting and intriguing to me, and I was thankful she shared her story with me before my curiosity had me ask. She’s a beautiful woman, smart and well-traveled, blonde hair and brown eyes and a very gentle, kind spirit. She didn’t plan to have cancer. It was hard. But she made it and is living life to the fullest.

It didn’t work out as well for Donna’s cousin. He took his life this week. I don’t know why. None of us really ever know why. We see people endure the most difficult challenges imaginable, and others just can’t beat the emotions they feel deep inside that tell them there is no hope.

It didn’t work out so well for Carol’s cousin either. Blind, diabetic and in kidney failure, he died before the disability he applied for could be approved, or rather, denied again. Meanwhile, Dorothy, a friend of the family, still gets disability checks despite a clean bill of health and being able to resume full time work.

Kathleen and Peter sold their home to buy a top of the line RV and stick a nice nest egg in the bank. John and Pamela worked their whole lives and saved, but still work, still save, still pray for health and the ability to work, because once that is gone, they’ll ask for death to take them before their money runs out.

Today, I received a text from my ex-husband. Ex for the last ten years. He admitted it took him nearly a decade to be humble enough to say he was sorry. Sorry for taking my light. Sorry for hurting me in his fear and survivalism. It’s amazing what ego is capable of when it runs untethered.

There are so many broken systems. And yet, there is so much hope. There are so many plans, and so few than pan out. There is so much self, and so much generosity.

Those of us who are brave, we try again. We wipe our tears, rub our sore butts and start anew.

We get stuff done, crunch numbers and give our action plans our very best – even if only for a sprint of time. We dream and visualize and create downright miracles. We hurt, get disappointed, feel anger and resentment… and try again.

What I’ve learned in the last few days is this: hold on loosely. Dream and take the next right step, but don’t push – let it be. Plan only to land among the stars. let go the best you can of expectations as those are only an illusion of control. We don’t have control. We neither have control of things going wrong nor of them going right. Let go of the illusion.

Above all else, remember time heals all wounds. Just give it time. Living a life without regrets means taking chances – even if they fail. Breathe. Begin again. And,

Be Brave Always,



*names have been changed to protect privacy


The Tourist’s Camera 

The Tourist’s Camera

poetry by Kris Jordan (c) 2018

I find cameras utterly unreliable 

It can’t snap the depth of the Grand Canyon 

Nor how it brings goosebumps to my skin when the wind blows 

Nor how my mind wonders if I am truly seeing into the past 

Questioning what I’ve been taught and what I’ve been told 

Weighing science against fiction and wondering if, and when, they collide. 


A camera can’t capture that red hue on the sunset over the ocean 

Nor the eerie bubble and roll of the clouds that bring texture to the sky 

Nor my longing for it to last just a bit longer, to not fade so fast 

Questioning if it will look as beautiful tomorrow, and if it does, will I take it for granted? 

Holding gratitude like my last supper, my only hope until the morning. 


The blink of a shutter can’t capture the mystery of a geological sink and rise 

Nor the turquoise blue that appears endless and serene 

Nor the massive trout safe from predators who make me want to take a plunge in 

Questioning the frigidity of the water and if my demise would be the peace I am looking for 

Learning I don’t know it all and never will. 


The camera doesn’t see it all. It sees the smile, not the falseness of it. 

It sees the 2-D, not the life. 

It sees the impression, not the adventure. 

It is framed. It is posed. It is altered. 

The camera captures not what is. 

It twists it all. 

I find cameras utterly unreliable 

I choose instead to go see it all for myself. 

Author’s Commentary

This idea came to me after watching the sun set on South Padre Island and seeing the camera couldn’t capture even a portion of the beauty I was seeing. This wasn’t the first time this had happened either. While I have traveled, I’ve seen so many new things and the photo my camera shows me doesn’t at all capture what my eyes see and my other senses bring to the moment.

I also notice in seeing these beautiful places, I often reflect on life. I learn things I could have only learned by experiencing them. I feel new emotions, or more intense ones. I am living an adventure and all is well.


Fear, Freaking the F Out, and Becoming Independent

Becoming independent has been my journey lately. This morning a simple Facebook meme had me emotional. It read: “Your independence comes from knowing who you are and being happy with that. You have to learn to trust yourself.”

becoming independent

What made me cry is that I have been working on independence, but never as much as when I bought a travel trailer, and a truck to pull it and hit the road on May 31, 2018. In the last 90 days, I have had to face my fears, and myself in entirely new ways. My fears and my mindset can’t be drown in busy work – I don’t have a job to report to. They can’t be silenced when I’m driving long stretches of road – they are ever present, echoing in the cavity between my ears as miles of pavement pass under me. These thoughts reveal the dark parts of me. I thought I was positive and happy, but my thoughts tell me otherwise. They’ve told me things like:

You can’t tow a trailer.

You don’t know a thing about auto mechanics- what are you going to do if you break down?

You can’t drive that far.

You don’t know what you are doing.

You can’t afford that.

You will be stuck. Alone. Abandoned.

Is this even safe?

Are you crazy?

What are you thinking?

You did what?

No job?!

You can’t do this.

Just quit.

Go back.

You need someone better than you here.

You can’t do this on your own.

You are not capable.

You are not enough.

My Own Worse Enemy?

It’s overwhelming. It’s like I am my own worse enemy. If the person in the car beside me said these things to me, I would find a way to take off at the next gas station and leave her behind. And, they are ALL lies! For 90 days (and more to come), I HAVE been enough, capable, doing it, knowing enough, learning what I didn’t know, unstuck, towing like a boss, asking for help when I need it, driving, making money (in fact I had one of my best months in August), and not stuck.

I’ve had someone tell me that my carburetor was cracked, but I was pretty sure the smoking was my brakes- because I could smell them. I was right and stopped riding my brakes. I was told my axel was bent, but I was pretty sure the ground was sloped- and I was right. I was told I had a gas leak- and they were right, but I was given a work around that was free, rather than a repair that was several hundred dollars. Everything has worked out. And the people I asked, two out of three times, didn’t know what I knew in my gut.

Did I freak the F out? Yes, I did. Apparently, I needed that burst of adrenaline that I am clearly addicted to. Let me explain:

I had the joy of ghostwriting for a Buddhist Monk and he shared with me that when we imagine bad things, we flood our systems with the fight or flight adrenaline. In fact, we do this so often, we become addicted to it, but we all do it and don’t even think about how sick it makes us. He equated it to having something happen and slamming a pitcher of vodka and our friends don’t see it as a problem, because they slammed one earlier in the day when they couldn’t find their car keys, or got angry in traffic.

Anyway, the point is that me freaking out, didn’t serve me. But that’s ok. It showed me 1. I know more than I think I do and 2. I like drama more than I want to admit.

Becoming Independent

So, to bring it back to independence, I’ve learned, it is about mindset. I can think and believe I am independent and capable or I can not. It’s my choice. And I found God seems to be conspiring to reinforce my belief, whatever it is. When I believe I am growing in independence, I am given experiences to give me proof. I am learning more about ME- what really makes me tick when I’m freaking out, like that at my core I don’t think I’m capable, and therefore want to be “saved”. I now know this about myself, and I didn’t before. I can now choose to feel capable, competent and successful in my endeavors, and that makes me happy, and in turn, causes me to trust myself more.

How are you growing in your relationship and understanding of yourself today?


And Not Or: What Are You Choosing?

This morning I wrote a Facebook post and used the hashtag #AndNotOr. It felt really good because I am one of those people who had ingrained in me a black and white mentality. Things were often one way or another. Or, maybe I made them that way because the land of gray was just too hard to navigate.

Do you know what I mean?

Black and White says:

Don’t eat carbs. Choose a cruise or a beach. Pay a bill or blow it on new clothes. Save or spend.

Gray, (and my reptilian, fight-or-flight mind), says:

Find moderation in what you eat. (What the hell does that mean? I don’t know what moderation is. I can’t trust myself to be in control. Please give me a box or plate or rules to guide my uncontrolled heart).

Choose both a cruise and a beach- find a way to have both in one trip, or look for a way to take two separate trips. Research more. Find possibilities. (Possibilities? But then I get my hopes up. Who am I to have it all? That takes too much time. I may need to ask people for help. That sucks. It’s easier to pick one.)

Moderation again- pay a bill and buy something fun. Where can I cut back on a bill or bills so I can have more money for the things that bring me joy? Can I make a partial payment and get a much deserved and needed massage, pedicure or new blouse? How long can I put myself off before I burn out? How resentful will I be at myself if every dime goes towards bills? Balance. Create balance. (Balance is hard work. It takes time for me to prioritize and examine how I got myself into a place that bills run my life. I don’t want to look at what I don’t have. I don’t want to look at how this job isn’t working for me. I don’t want to take a bus, rather than have a car I can’t afford. This is painful, I’d rather not see.)

Save or spend? Why not both? Even change adds up, it that’s all you can save. We’ve heard it said different ways: Live like there is no tomorrow, plan as though you’ll live forever. This is balance where we live every moment we have. (I can’t afford to live, let alone plan for the future. What if I’m stupid in my investments? What if I lose my money? I don’t have the skill to know how to save. A financial advisor will think I’m stupid. I don’t want to be stupid. I’ll just spend my money. It’s easier. Someone else will take care of me when I’m old. Or, I’ll die young. They say good people die young, and I’m good, so I’ll count on that. I’m sure cancer will get me before I need money. I blame Monsanto.)

So, I invite you to dive into more gray- dive into the power of ‘and’, because in doing so, you enrich your life. You learn more about yourself. You question and discover your perspectives so you can challenge them and see if they are working for you or if you can shed them for something different and try it on for awhile. Just because you choose, it doesn’t mean something will or has to change, but it gives it some light so you CAN. And, in not choosing, in not having awareness, you are making a choice as well. That’s ok, just don’t be lazy about living your life. That, you only have one of.



Candace and Ivory, Prose by Kris Jordan

prose by kris jordan

(c) https://www.deviantart.com/yassou31/art/inner-conflict-387134576

Candace looked over at the passenger riding in her car. Her best friend, Ivory, had the same long blonde hair as she, but thinner, prettier features. Candace’s round face had never been something she liked, but rather caused her to watch beauty tutorials on how to apply shading to give her a more defined jawbone, making her look less young and cherub-like.

As if Ivory could read her mind, and maybe she could after all these years, she looked back at Candace and bit the inside of her lip before saying, “Why don’t you think you are pretty?”

“I don’t know. I mean, there are times I do. But, I’m overweight. My feet are wide. My front tooth is fake. My face is too round. My hair is too thin.”

Ivory laughed. “Do you think there is only one type of pretty? Like, have you ever met someone overweight who was also pretty?”

“Well, yes. But it’s different for me. Like, those girls know how to dress. And I haven’t seen them try to be sexy, or be naked. I bet if I saw them naked, I wouldn’t think they were pretty anymore.” Candace checked the rearview mirror – a habit she had learned from her dad who told her to always been aware when driving. She caught Ivory’s profile with her deep in thought, as she often was.

“Girls that are overweight aren’t sexy?” Ivory questioned.

“No, I guess they aren’t.”

“They are just lucky to be loved? The desperate sacks that are with them are just depraved?”

“Well when you say it like that, it’s shitty.” Candace shifted in her seat.

“What makes people love these fat girls?”

“I guess they have good traits too. Like more than just their body.”

“Are you loveable, Candace?” Ivory prodded.

Candace sat quiet. “Can we talk about something else?”

She was starting to wonder if it was the length of this particular trip that was having Ivory be so chatty and philosophical. It wasn’t meant to be a therapy session. It was just a drive to check out a college they were interested in. A long drive, past vast farmlands and through small towns, some which had gas stations and others that offered nothing more than a small circle on the paper map they had.

When her dad gave her the map, it seemed silly- after all, they had the Map App on their iPhones. However, the map did come in handy when the phones were out of range and the app wouldn’t load anything more than the blue dot that represented them. A useless blue dot on a nameless grid, or even a white background without a single line to show the road they traveled.

Ivory began to bite her nails. It was a disgusting habit, according to Candace. It was mostly done when deep in thought. The click-click sound of her teeth knocking into each other when they slipped from her fingertip made Candace cringe. “Can you stop?”

Ivory sat up, pulled from her trance. “Stop what?”

“Your noise. That noise you make when you bite your nails.”

“It’s no more annoying than when you pop the spit bubbles in your cheek,” Ivory retorted.

“It just bugs me.”

“Then put on music, Candace.”

“Why can’t you just stop?”

“Why can’t you just put on music? There’s more than one way to solve a problem. There’s more than just your way.”

Candace punched the button on the radio and remembered why she turned it off in the first place. The scanner just spun, from the lowest numbers to the highest, not picking up a station, or at best the disjointed beats and scratchy melody of a song that just wouldn’t get through.

She pulled her hand back when she saw her short, stubby nails, chewed down in anxiety. The polish she had applied was worn down, making them look childish rather than sophisticated, like how she wanted them to be. She hated being anxious. She hated being scared.

“What are you most scared of?” Candace asked Ivory.

“Not knowing what I think I need to know. Failing. Never being successful. Never making a difference or positive impact. I’m scared I’ll never be in love. That no adventure will make me happy. That passion is a lie.”

Candace sighed. “I don’t know if I’m more afraid of feeling or of not feeling. Do you think that way?”

Ivory turned to look out the window. “Yes.”

Candace hated that about Ivory. She hated that Ivory couldn’t just turn to her and give her a pep talk. She hated that Ivory, only in moments, would show this wild, warrior woman and rise up and pull Candace up with her. She wished she was always confident and full of hope and faith so she could be too.

In fact, it was Ivory’s hot and cold – so hot you would follow her into battle, sword on fire, dinner warming on the stove for when you returned, as you would surely return – so cold you wondered if all she was a glitter-throwing, mirror-bending, sunshine-making fairy who would disappear in the rain like dust on an unpaved road – that made Candace question everything. Was she real, alive, impassioned or was she aloof, disconnected, a liar and imposter?

In all these years, she had come to the conclusion that she was indeed both, but she liked the wild Ivory better. She loved being sparked into dreaming big, believing she could create anything she put her mind to. She loved being scared and on the lip of a boundary others talked of but never went towards. It was why she kept Ivory around. Those moments seemed to be the climatic highs that balanced out the daily low Candace felt.

She didn’t know if it was depression, or just being bored, tired, unhappy, or if it was just life.

“Do most people think about dying?” Candace asked.

“Yes. But not daily, like you do.” Ivory said flatly. “Not everyone thinks that at 7am the world is good and at 7pm they pray they don’t wake up the next day.”

“Are people really happy, or is it a show? Does everyone wear a mask?”

“I don’t know. I’m not everyone. But, I would guess, based on how many people are alive, and not just sitting around killing themselves…”

“But they are!” Candace interjected, “They smoke cigarettes they know are killing them. They take drugs. They are addicted to porn and Facebook and work and have affairs and abandon their kids in search of living. They are killing themselves in order to live. At best, they are numbing themselves to not feel the bullshit they feel in living.”

Ivory sighed. “Again, with your negativity!”

“It’s realism.”

“And how is that working out for you?”

Candace blinked, unsure what to say. “Well, I’m still here, aren’t I?”

The car was silent for several minutes.

“How much further?” Ivory asked.

“I’m not sure.” Candace answered, looking once again in the mirror, but this time Ivory wasn’t there. Only Candaces own eyes looked back at her.

Author’s Commentary

This prose was inspired by a long drive I took while traveling in my RV. Road trips can be a time for a lot of self-reflection. I often found myself “arguing” with my inner thoughts and in this prose thought about what it might be like if our inner self sat next to us, just as a real person would.


Steak and Lobster

parental alcoholism


Prose by Kris Jordan

Theirs was the worst kind of love. Dreamy and hopeful, sad and primarily one sided. He saw all her good and accepted her bad. And her bad looked like her passed out on the bathroom floor, her kid alone in her room, again. It was the nearest objects being hurled at him when she couldn’t take “it” anymore. He learned “it” was life, bills, sobriety, work, cleaning, eating… at any given time.

He fell for her hard. Played her the guitar and sang. She listened, eyes fixated on him in a way that he never felt before. Seen and saturated with the warm glowing light that only her heart could radiate. When she kissed him, everything in him melted. He burned for her. Ran his hands along the curve of her back, her hips, her thighs. Every bit of her feminine he loved. He breathed it in as deep as he could, hoping it would become a part of him, stored away for the times she was as cold as the northern glaciers.

During the day he worked, sometimes at the studio, sometimes on the yard. He was a peaceful and quiet man and considered himself the perfect balance, the yin to her yang, or visa-versa. He knew they were both light and dark. Everyone was. Maybe her dark was more visible, less socially acceptable. His dark included the cigars he would sneak, the steak lunches he would have when he knew groceries were needed at home. But he grew tired some days of hoping to come home to a hot dinner, or any dinner really, and making a sandwich. Her dinner was a glass of wine, or a pot of coffee. But it was still wrong, and he knew it. He said for better or worse; for sicker or poorer; in sickness and in health. He vowed and a lonely steak lunch that he relished- and did he- didn’t honor his wife. When he wiped the juice off his mouth, it felt no different in his gut then had he wiped a woman’s juices from it. And while he wouldn’t cheat with another woman, he would cheat with a steak. A fat, delicious, still bloody sirloin.

It seemed to bring him alive for those moments. Those twenty minutes of passion. The fire of the grill like the fireplace in Aspen all those times they made love when they were still young. When their bodies were fit and they had dreams of the future. Her blonde hair and blue-gray eyes were all he could see, despite the rich girls who slipped him their numbers when he played at the bar. Whether or not she was there. Whether or not she watched him on stage, she was the reason he strummed. She was the reason he kept rhythm. He imagined making love to her as the music, band and audience swayed. She became his song and moved through his blood.

He wanted her to bear their children. He pictured them. He pictured teaching them to read the classics and love great music and respect the earth and love the world. As it turned out, she came with a child already and wasn’t able to birth more. But he loved her, so it was ok. He adopted her daughter and raised her just as he would if she was his biologically. After all, the girl still deserved love, a dad, a family. The daughter was smart, gifted even, and took after him and when his wife left, not just the times she left for a day or two, but really left, for good, he took care of her and taught her everything he could. So what if she didn’t wear makeup? So what if the school nurse was the one to answer her questions about being a woman. So what if she came home to an empty house, lots of kids these days did. She was a quiet type anyway. She’d sit and read books. Her friends were characters in books, not in dangerous video games like those boys like- boys who commit violence.

He must have done something right, because his daughter loved him. He knew because her eyes lit up when he came home. It reminded him of her mother. Her mother who he still loved. His daughter kissed him on the cheek and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Let’s go get a steak,” he said. “And lobster too?” She asked. “Of course,” he answered. And they did.


Author’s Commentary

I was inspired to write this after I heard a man say that he used to play the guitar for his wife when they first met. Because I’m dark and cynical about love (lol), I of course made it sad. I also thought about the young girls raised by their fathers because their mothers aren’t available, for one reason or another. Because I identify as a ACA/Alanon, alcoholism and those themes resonate with me.

I love when fathers parent their children, biological or not. I love when mothers parent their kids, biological or not. Parents make mistakes, myself included. Some deserve to be forgiven because they did the best they could – successfully or not. Others don’t deserve to be forgiven and did very harmful things, sometimes intentionally. In these cases, we chose to forgive for us- for our own healing and health, to the best of our ability at any given time. Our forgiveness can ebb and flow, and that’s ok. Forgiveness and grief, (and fear and faith for that matter), change like the phases of the moon.

With love,



This Small Town

americana poetry

Americana Poetry by Kris Jordan

This small town has a shower in the laundry mat.
A man, soap on his face and a towel around his waist
Walks across the tile towards the change machine for more quarters.
“Oh my” says a woman in cut off jean shorts
Her foot propped up as she paints her toenails red and gold
As she waits for her towels to dry
Within the cool air conditioning of the laundry mat
Rather than the 90 plus degree heat in her farm house
During a drought.
But it rained a little today
Just a few drops
Not enough for the corn or hemp or cherries or peaches
Or to soothe the fires that have the volunteer firemen wondering
If they should use the precious resource of water to stop the burning or to just let it go
Try to fight it with dirt, the red sand from Moab.

The Chamber sells tacos and baked goods and juice and booze
To raise money for the firefighters so they can have showers.
The auctioneer teases the crowd to get them to raise their bid cards
And the quilters display their beautiful handiwork beside handmade biscuits and lemon crème pies
While little girls giggle at the ribbons won from their cookies that they spent the morning baking with grandma
When they weren’t in the trough cooling off
Watching calves hopping around playfully and being butted by mama cow to keep them aware of the dogs on the other side of the fence.

The other side of the fence where Johnny shoots those damn prairie dogs
And further yet boys jump into the icy reservoir, water lower than it’s ever been
Looking for relief from the heat and
Old men throw their fishing lines looking for dinner.
And locals head to the bar
Over the train tracks
Past the coal mines and the dog that’s always on the corner
To the bar with beer on ice
A friendly poker game with
Grandma who carries a corn cob pipe
Junior who looks like he works harder than anyone
And smells like it too
Sue and Sue and Mary and Mary and Chris and Chris and Chris

This small town is America
But if you don’t take the journey, you’ll never know it

Author’s Commentary

Americana poetry has always been interesting to me – capturing a photograph or collage of American culture through written word captures our diverse heritage, economy, demographics and geography. The journey of discovering the nooks and crannies of our United States is in the hearts of most of us, pushing us to travel in any way we can. At the writing of this Americana poetry, I’ve been on the road in my travel trailer for several weeks. I am grateful for the life I have and look forward to the blessings that continue to come.

What does “exploring America” conjure up for you? What does “small town” mean to you? What part of history do you like to experience through Americana poetry?


To Show Me You Care, Poem by Kris Jordan

To Show Me You Care

poetry (c) 2010 Kris Jordan

Reach for me
Reach for my hand
Keep an open mind
Don’t tell me what to do
Think of me and show me you did
Tease me
Wink at me
Smile at me
Make me laugh and laugh
Surprise me
Tell me about yourself
Hug me
Whisper something to me
Learn my favorite things
Initiate fun
Be honest
Have passion about something
Look into my eyes
Tell me I’m beautiful
Love my mind, body and spirit
Respect my time and space
Ask me questions
Think about me and tell me you did
Wash my car (and never my laundry)
Spend time with me
Fight for me
Reach for me


Author’s Comentary

Communication is crucial to relationship building. Without it, we make a lot of assumptions.

This is one of my older poems and it’s really more of a list I had created when my partner asked me what he could do to show me love. I orginally posted this on Facebook and asked others what they would add to the list. What would you add? Anything you would take away? Could you make a list and share it with someone you love? Could you ask them for their list as well?

Recently, I began working with at-risk youth again after taking a few years off. One of the biggest frustrations is that of communication. These young adults are in a funny situation. Some of them have language barriers because one language is spoken at home and another is spoken at school, work, retailers and more. Some of them have communication issues because they don’t have a phone or computer or access to one at home. Some of them have communication problems because they don’t feel like they have a voice or can speak up.

Communication is a skill we can learn and develop regardless of our age, past or former competency. Hopefully, this poetic list opens up another way you can use to communicate to those you love.


The Warrior and the Dandelion Queen Poem by Kris Jordan

The Warrior and the Dandelion Queen

Poetry by Kris Jordan (c) 2015

I am a warrior and I will fight for her

Her, with the wild morning hair,

eyes that haven’t been fogged by hurt,

a heart full of wonder,

beating in rhythm with me,

fully intact.


She need not be locked up in a fridgid marble castle.

She is free to run

with bare feet

on the cool ground

and in the warmth of the sun.

I am a warrior and I will protect her.


That’s why she created me.

She created my flowing purple cape.

With a spin and a flick it changes me into any creature

imagined or real

or, with a snap, create a perfect boundary

of air

or distance

or concrete

or rose petals.


She created my scales, my feathers, my oversized eyes like those of an owl

so I can see more of everything

tangible or perceived.


I will fight

for her dreams, vibrant with hope

For her ears, not rusted form stinging salts

For her fingers that fashion crowns of dandelions.


I will fight

for her belief she can be anything

for her playfulness

for her joy.


My sword will be drawn on those who arrive with malice

those who tempt her with doubt and fear and comparisions

Those who seek to put out her light


I become a dragon and incinerate them

all of them

to protect us

to protect me

to protect the Dandelion Queen


Author’s Commentary

I felt very empowered writing this poem. The concept was this little girl, yes even my inner child and a guiding force I name “Krissy”. She is innocent and should always be. She is a creator. She creates a shapeshifter who is her warrior- one who can keep her safe from the world, internally and externally to keep her creating, as she was intending to do.

I also loved the idea of the boundaries she can create- those invisable, those of distance, those of concrete, and those that are lighter, like rose petals. I think as we move through life we need to know with whom to set the right type of boundaries, not being too soft or too firm, but trusting ourselves.

Who is your inner child’s warrior?


In Love with You Poem by Kris Jordan

In love with you

Poetry by Kris Jordan (c) 2011


I don’t read romance novels

have no silly ideas from those

no longing for gushy stories


so why,

when I listen to John Cougar Melloncamp on the radio,

do I think of us?

do I think of Little House on the Prairie

and the romance of a simple life

the passion of ending a hard day

with only you

and a quilt I made to keep us warm?


When I met you,

sex became making love and passion became more than lust.

Hurt became hurt like never before

and tears became a reality,

not just something seen on TV.


You woke me up, made me alive

I’ll take the pain with the pleasure

because I am thankful to be here with you.


I don’t watch love stories

have no thoughts of kissing in the rain

no wish for midnight serenades.


so why,

do I dream of a cowboy; my long hair whipping in the wind

and think of us?

do I think of your stinky boots

and my love affair with angst and struggle

the passion of ending a hard day

with only you

and a quilt I made to keep us warm?


When I met you,

love songs began to make sense and colors appeared much brighter.

Hurt became hurt like never before

and tears became a reality,

not just something seen on TV.


You woke me up, made me alive

I’ll take the pain with the pleasure

because I am thankful to be here with you.


why does it make me think of you?


Author’s Commentary

This poem felt more like a song to me. When I wrote it I was feeling this emotion of love, but I was reflecting on the nostalgic feelings of it more than the emotion itself. I had a feeling that love felt rugged, full of angst and struggle and I wasn’t sure why I saw it that way. While did I feel like being in love was like being a homesteader?

To me, love is passionate and yet feels like hard work, yet is worth every bit of pain.