Praying Mantis on Sunflower Stalk
Mantis hangs on, this has been the way
for millennia. Her skin blends in with
stems, her abdomen expands daily.
Sinewy forelegs extend and sway
until her stealth brings a fly to mandibles.
Yellow bulbous eyes shift in a triangular head
towards a door closing, dog running
or perhaps my voice. She speaks
in mantodea--no human translation.
Mantis does not need prayer, but as queen
she is full in late August, she balances
on thin stems in sunlight and darkness.
Every morning, I look for a translucent green among
among yellow flowers. Mantis will lay eggs
in an ootheca and then shrivel to become still.
Does she know her nymphs will hatch
next spring and also find sunflowers
in summer heat?
Four Desires
What if the dishwasher
could unload itself?
First the glasses would glide to their shelf,
then cups, plates and everything else
would rise and drop into place.
Suppose my bag of failures and regrets
had a hole and leaked
into the ground of my garden.
Would sunflowers and lupines grow
from flops and blunders?
Imagine hope coming through
the last shadows of night
with a prolonged release
to take me through
the news of deportations
and families starving.
Instead of a decade of countless doctor
visits, waiting rooms and prescriptions,
what if this body alerted me while asleep
that my end was in months
and dreamed me the universe?
Root Systems
Fruit tree leans into a force of wind, branches
succumb to the weight of winter spheres.
There is too much ripeness all at once.
Yellow —orange leaves scatter on pavement.
Mockingbirds and warblers feed on glistening
sugar until an army of bluejays swoops
in—wings scatter to a higher crown.
Persimmon heartwood waits for cold nights.
A generous taproot supports this tree’s
repose and eventual return of green.
Early on tendrils spread through
hard soil despite cement and drought.
Veins anchor life’s persistence
like generations of families long forgotten
who set the roots of what—we are today
and how—we stand in this shifting tomorrow.
Janette Jameson has lived in the Central Valley for the last thirty years. She was born in Santa Cruz, California and grew up in Torreón, Coahuila, Mexico where she learned to navigate between two cultures. She is a retired social worker who specialized in working with children through play therapy and implemented an infant mental health program for Stanislaus County. As in play therapy, she strives to bring words to complex or incongruent experiences of life. She is a member of the Modesto Stanislaus Poetry Center Board. Janette has published in the Song of The San Joaquin, a poetry magazine for the San Joaquin Valley and in Penumbra, a literary journal from Stanislaus State University. She has also published in the City of Modesto and Poets Corner. She engages in numerous open mic occasions in Modesto.
Mantis hangs on, this has been the way
for millennia. Her skin blends in with
stems, her abdomen expands daily.
Sinewy forelegs extend and sway
until her stealth brings a fly to mandibles.
Yellow bulbous eyes shift in a triangular head
towards a door closing, dog running
or perhaps my voice. She speaks
in mantodea--no human translation.
Mantis does not need prayer, but as queen
she is full in late August, she balances
on thin stems in sunlight and darkness.
Every morning, I look for a translucent green among
among yellow flowers. Mantis will lay eggs
in an ootheca and then shrivel to become still.
Does she know her nymphs will hatch
next spring and also find sunflowers
in summer heat?
Four Desires
What if the dishwasher
could unload itself?
First the glasses would glide to their shelf,
then cups, plates and everything else
would rise and drop into place.
Suppose my bag of failures and regrets
had a hole and leaked
into the ground of my garden.
Would sunflowers and lupines grow
from flops and blunders?
Imagine hope coming through
the last shadows of night
with a prolonged release
to take me through
the news of deportations
and families starving.
Instead of a decade of countless doctor
visits, waiting rooms and prescriptions,
what if this body alerted me while asleep
that my end was in months
and dreamed me the universe?
Root Systems
Fruit tree leans into a force of wind, branches
succumb to the weight of winter spheres.
There is too much ripeness all at once.
Yellow —orange leaves scatter on pavement.
Mockingbirds and warblers feed on glistening
sugar until an army of bluejays swoops
in—wings scatter to a higher crown.
Persimmon heartwood waits for cold nights.
A generous taproot supports this tree’s
repose and eventual return of green.
Early on tendrils spread through
hard soil despite cement and drought.
Veins anchor life’s persistence
like generations of families long forgotten
who set the roots of what—we are today
and how—we stand in this shifting tomorrow.
Janette Jameson has lived in the Central Valley for the last thirty years. She was born in Santa Cruz, California and grew up in Torreón, Coahuila, Mexico where she learned to navigate between two cultures. She is a retired social worker who specialized in working with children through play therapy and implemented an infant mental health program for Stanislaus County. As in play therapy, she strives to bring words to complex or incongruent experiences of life. She is a member of the Modesto Stanislaus Poetry Center Board. Janette has published in the Song of The San Joaquin, a poetry magazine for the San Joaquin Valley and in Penumbra, a literary journal from Stanislaus State University. She has also published in the City of Modesto and Poets Corner. She engages in numerous open mic occasions in Modesto.
