Jennifer VanBuren

With degrees and a former career in science, education and instructional technology, 
Jennifer now does volunteer work while raising her two children. She works many hours writing 
and studying poetry, digital photography, taking long hikes and editing the online journal, 
mannequin envy. www.mannequinenvy.com

Over the past two years, she has been fortunate to have found many good homes on-line and in 
print for her work. 

Samples of her art and poetry can be found here: http://home.comcast.net/~the_editors/
 

 

Chiromancer

Hand scars reveal more
than the deep crease love line 
that stretches across his palm
tangled, looped and divided.

Auger torn and cement pounded,
each score is more significant 
than the long ancestral paths of life 
that trip over curves
before disappearing between fingers 
like a river under rock.

On the other side, 
white hairline scratches 
mark his earned identity 
in fishing line and barbed wire. 

Only the tips have worn smooth.
He uses them to autograph her back
with etch and press that melt flesh
and send her dripping
through cracks onto the floor.


A single stalagmite solidifies 
into the shape of she.

With tender twist of fingers
hands that worked lathe and harness, 
net and binder, gently claim 
this reconstruction as their own.
~
 
 
even in South America
 

Even in South America
the rivers carry shit down stream.
where acids leech metal from the banks
and mica sparkles a false
promise of gold. 

Waters foam with the madness of
rabid maids 
just like me,
as we smack dirt from 
our man’s underclothes.

Down on the rocks,
down on the rocks
we beat the shit into the river
wave it down the ocean, into the bay,
pray amphibians and our daughters
forgive us all. 
 
~
 
 
it is rusted I am blind 
 
 
The cock crowed three times
for Judas but only silence crosses 
my side of the line. 

He spins his feathers
to the wind, never admits 
that betrayal comes 
on the pussy feet of promise.

I think I hear a gurgled crow,
but he only reassures himself.
I am not convinced.
 
~
 

It is these days

It's these days that follow nights
packed in tight, time condensed
like honey.

It is these days chemicals battle 
for dominance in blood. 
Today, the dirty fighters win
and the hours until nighttime stretch ahead
like a mile of hot tar.

These days follow the nights
when laughing lovers dance around me
and toss pennies that have lost their shine.
Left alone with patina green and oxidation brown,
unable to convince myself what I know is true:
Lovers will be lovers, pick up the change
turn it into tide pool wishes.

I do not want this to end.
I keep cheating,
squeezing lines in between 
like paint by numbers
and numbers 
and numbers, 
each step cut in half, 
I never arrive.

These days I learn I am not
finished with you
as colors blend to brown
and monochrome my brush.

I need turpentine, gasoline, 
some petroleum based something 
to dissolve these stains and start again.

 I miss you on my pallet.
We are dried muddled cracked. 
When rains come, we blur.

And I would roll down a long tar mile 
to hear you love you know you one more time.
I believed these days were over
but like the crickets
and crocodiles,
the repeating sounds draw me into you
and again,