dreams, nature, weather

sweet songs of winter sparrows


her breasts like birds
that shape upturned
he likes to call sparrows
and “stand there by the window”
narrow, profiled shadow
he commands and clothes like cages
open, free him under the gentle press
of birds upon his feathered chest.
kisses for the small of the back
the foreign curve of hip
on your collarbone she perches
purses her lip and before the rest
can come undone
the sparrows take their leave
in December’s twilight sun.

~ Andrea E. Janda


snowfall. first of the season here. white-throated sparrows gather in bare thickets and dig at the ground by hopping backwards with both feet, scratching at the surface and uncovering food.

i haven’t felt much like eating, though i do like sleeping. something about winter sets me into hibernation. squelches my desire for anything besides warmth and quiet. a grizzly-bear stupor. a need for nuzzled affections and nesting places.

outside the snow drift spackles the window and surprises the spider webs with its glittery gather, hanging under the eaves like pulled out sweater strands. you’ve seen raindrops this way – but have you ever seen snow in a spider’s web?

silvery mists of powder catch the wind – aimless, circling, whispering cyclones. the icicles begin to weep from the edges, long witchy, translucent fingers pointing the way down, showing the snow where to land.

i am scratching at the surface. i am looking for the unknown hunger in the fallen leaf bed. i am sleeping in unlocked dreams. my blanket is snow, the web is taut, my fingers reach, begin to weep, i set my nest, warm to the affections and look for directions on the place to land

friends, weather, writing

let. me. clear. my. throat.

you know – i am not one to meow meow meow
and my even having to preface it now, you can fully
expect a little hissing, but more, i implore you:

tragic darling dears, get out of your beds,
off your couches, your haunches, your
hands and knees and for fuck’s sake PLEASE
point the camera out the bathroom, the window,
outdoors, out of self-respect, his, hers, mine
the worried cat and dog and yours
take into consideration that we’ve no need
to bear witness to your public bleeding
i have seen every configuration of stocking
stunt-cocking, macro of labial fold
(god DAMN that shit gets OLD . . .)
and your face pulled down into mask of despair
mascara, wings, and blood everywhere
and more tits than i could ever use.

Now, mind you, i like my dark days too,
and these things can be done in 32 flavors
and then some, but it won’t make me come
find you in your self-absorbed hip-o-drome
it’s just more i have to scroll past –
to find actual, breathing, human

i believe you – you are real and so are
the rest of the enhanced blanched
oversaturated things you possibly feel
but i’d like to see more of your real life
pooled at your feet, than a pair of your
panties, your bathtub, the Xs & Os the
utter lack of prose and pause and thought
given to the extended forearm-as-tripod
still in the shot and those webcam eyes
so tenderly wrought.

i am not asking you to find/define your depths
i am not trying to damage your emotional
intelligence – i see the dress pattern you
are after, but i’m afraid you’ve dropped a stitch.
i will allow you the feline quality of female
i will ask you, however, to remove your ears
and that silly tail. There is NO pair of
breasts or handcuffs or shoes that will fix
what your expression
and vision
and your camera
will never do
in ultra-uncandid

food, gardening, writing

tiny zen moments

shopping at Target (tar-zhay)
for fuzzy socks with small
grey smiling cats on them
and small lambs because hey –
they are a DOLLAR.

re-packing old storage and
throwing things away i have not
seen in over a year – this includes
the over-abundance of bath products.

remembering that most girls
who draw when they are young
go through a dragon & unicorn phase.
my artwork and books attest to this.

smudging with white sage,
sand from North Beach and
a good abalone shell
will clear the bad ju ju out.

talking with friends who allow you
all that you are, will purge
all that you are not, and all
that you have adopted

when you forget what warmth
and goodness and youth is like
cook peanut butter cookies
press the fork prints into them
and drink plenty of wine.
move a room around
and buy new lighting
to infuse new vision.

merge old life
with new life
past with present
and always
buy new plants
and make
new promises
when the old ones
have exhausted.



the muse is a strangled messenger tonite
hands clenched, cloth-bound
thoughts escaping from tendrils of hair
like so many red-ribboned kite strings
up there searching out safe clouds yet
snarled in the black fingers of trees,
tethered to snake-skinned telephone lines
and no one electric is talking on the wire.

words backsliding, kicking and biting
doubled-up, dropped, uncoiled nonsense
a tired, escaped lover leaves
a cold kiss like the pelt of sleet
a callous, sandpaper caress.

the endless white noise of fictional rain storms
and his name so close to water, pours
through my broken, cupped hands.
but the words won’t come with tapping
nor gathering –
no puddle collects in sand.

into hopeful shallows, a shining line is cast
while empty hooks come back, silver glinting
eyes and teeth smiling still, the dead promise
of sleep.

the muse he used to keep me up at nite
incessant chatter until i heaved a sigh
and agreed to write.

but the muse is a strangled messenger
the scribbling not a song, just a rhythm of
the t cross line little e open eye
half me still i m tied up in the two-looped
l and the double-hump of m
waving goodbye dropping two consonants
g (ee)
(wh) y
below the line.

two cat tails switching in time
to music i cannot hear through my
own wild whispers
and deafening cries.

~ Andrea E. Janda




Colorless, the cat finds the arc of pointed feet
dancing a frozen ballet towards the wall
climbs towards the soft moon curve
of my belly and curls against me for sleep
all of this in utter darkness.

Open mouths inch along the green leaf
eager, hungry, greedy, until there is twig
and sloughed skin.
Silk trails left behind as proof
of crawling towards

The blind carve out a new darkness
a stick angling in front of them
rapping lightly, then beating, prodding
at the invisible barriers of their world.

Fighting and fucking look the same
sound the same without vision.
sometimes there is pleasure
mostly there is change
always there is release.
fire contained, fatigue
often follows.

I look now for this eyesight
which is not mine
slip from my skin
scale the leaf
to the edge of the forest
mouth wide
en pointe
stick in hand
to defend
and to define
the bounds.

~ Andrea E. Janda



::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: :::

“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?” asked Alice.
“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat.
“I don’t much care where,” said Alice.
“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,” said the Cat.
“–so long as I get SOMEWHERE,” Alice added as an explanation.
“Oh, you’re sure to do that,” said the Cat, “if you only walk long enough.”

::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: :::

there is a stillness in contemplation
of the next motion.
there is this silence, for pain for rapture
overlapping hush and wonder.

all of it all of it tumbling smooth
like stones in the water
strange circular sickness
sugar-drugged apathy
for sameness
and hurt

and what delectable pain . . .
and all of it from a curious picture
and a linen kiss.

i am still inventing something
for the morning.

i am hoping to re-invent morning.

i am wrapping the last threads
off immeasurable dreams
around my wrists
so i float
to where

when you feel a tug
it is a (t)ether
you should tie it tightly
about your waist
and pulsepoints will lead
where they may.

and i will come nearer
to your ground.

and i pray you will wake up.
and the last silvered tail
of whisper will ask:
are we there

~ Andrea E. Janda


Bridging the Gap

A white and precious citing
you in a smile
and blue jeans.
Lighthearted truant,
returning from your venture.
i’d forgotten how i’d pray
standing proxy to my center
a guarded, guilded innkeeper,
holding out for a witness.
And still you created
this spacious torture,
ran your fullest length
to deny the symmetry
to outskirt the gentle fringe.
But could we
mix again,
bridge the gap,
and still this subtle hesitation
fearsome and uncertain.
We are secretly wedded
be it a languid ceremony
And though you’ve given me no ring
you left a hollow fingerprint
in my heart.

~ Andrea E. Janda



There are two bullet holes
and three closed fists
and a bird crashing into the highway
with stones tied to each wing.
And I don’t know who you are
and I can’t remember
who I was supposed to be for you
… mighty despot.
And the cries are heard
seething in from the desert.
You will remember me –
and I promise the recollection
to be a savory search,
reaching back over miles
and mice
and minutes spent in the rapture
of near-death.
Those reptiles lay ahead of you.
You are left to fulfill the expectations
of more masterful gods.
That good-night is golden …
the death of sentiment awaits your arrival.
Birds dashed against the pavement,
a dish fit only
for regal mouths
with an appetite for sand.

~ Andrea E. Janda


Circling Hunger

Hawks are circling in Springtime skies
looking below, angling prey.
the boy in the magenta t-shirt passes by
it reads “Real Men Wear Pink.”
Gentle hunter for a modern age.

Something golden, small, successful
clutches the side of tall, bare tree
from its talons hangs a whip-thin rope
snake and hawk, one for the other
one sounds as it moves
one sounds as it calls.

The boy smiles at me.
i nod appreciatively.
i move.
he calls.

Turkey Vultures greedily amble
a black parade at the side of the road
wings spread like dark-toothed combs
the torn edges of overlapping parachutes
crowding in, crowding out the landing space
near their carrion comfort.

The screech owl wakes me,
it’s time to hunt, pretty, open your eyes . . .
we used to keep those same hours he and i
and just now, i am an indigo mouse
small, blue, running in moonlit fields
squealing with fright, but quick, clever.

He clutches my hand, i slither
but allow myself to be carried.
He tugs at my velvet ear, i twitch
but allow myself only to listen.

The hunt grows tiring, a body grows slack
wings fold in to rest awhile, and a jaundiced eye
watches the world grow old around it
but cannot bear to turn the eye inside.

Not yet.
Not now.

The shadow of wings play against the wall
a cloudless nite so opportune,
gathering strength, garnering sleep
he calls, I move.

~ Andrea E. Janda