Blue
Blue is for me, blue is for you, Blue is for the whole world, and we know it's true. Sky Blue – where dreams float high. Cerulean – calm only oceans know. Azure – stitched into horizons. Cyan – dancing off wave tips. Turquoise – salt and serenity shake hands. Teal – wisdom of deep bays and quiet sails. Ultramarine – a depth the sky tries to touch. Periwinkle – soft-spoken, the dusk sitting on a dock. Sapphire – bold cuts through time. Ice Blue – a chill note in the sun. Steel Blue – a whisper of the storm’s intent. Navy – the edges of the sea. True, we know, the whole world is blue, you are blue, and as for me, blue is me.
Shared Sufferings
by Jennifer Wren Call
Together we left
others behind.
Rock and roll,
in dungarees and grime.
We slept in heat,
woke in noise,
shared one spoon
and called it joy.
The air was JP and salt,
our bonds grew thick.
as Laughter cracked
where time felt set.
You remember that?
The storm that stayed.
The tired mind.
The games we played.
Since that time
every home is a palace
compared to that can—
Hell spent
became our cement.
We moved off the grid, to the grids,
through perils to safeness.
A time became a gilded epoch.
What makes it gold?
Not comfort’s call—
but who you have
when comforts fall.
Grandeur
by Jennifer Wren Call
What is grandeur,
but walking a crust
no thicker than trust
on a paper-thin, horizonless plush?
This floating parchment breathes,
folding beneath—
my feet, the scrawl
scribbling lines.
Each step, a child’s mark,
a scratch in time,
my wandering script
on a fire-filled sphere.
Crusted,
I tread—tales
of memories and dreams
only my skull can carry
to a world unseen.
I leave no signature,
only prints in the dust.
Still, I wonder,
in awe—and must.
Know this venture—
I share some, or maybe none,
with those who scribbled before me,
drunk in wanderlust,
feet full of questions,
stepping—
never crushing answers.
A Child’s Secret Garden
A Child’s Secret Garden is about a place one escapes for a moment to let everything go, clear your thoughts and just feel warm.
by Jennifer Wren Call
Behind the house was a garden.
Beyond the garden, a path.
Down the path—through the hush of oak trees,
where squirrels whispered stories of my coming and going,
where branches greeted like old friends—
was the clearing.
A perfect square.
One hundred feet by one hundred feet.
I was five.
Fall was my favorite.
No one talked about it
because I didn’t talk about it.
No signs. No fences. No owner.
Just there.
A secret fabric,
stitched into the quilt of my life—
golden threads of tall grasses
woven by sun and wind.
It was mine, though no one said so.
It asked for nothing.
I offered nothing.
There was no one to ask.
No one to tell.
When the stems turned to straw,
I’d press them flat into a bed
and sleep.
The trees held the edges.
The sky leaned in gently.
The earth and sun were warm—
and knew not to tell.
No chart. No map.
I was the only one who could see.
The meadow was only for me.
A gift from the spirits
who kept me free
from the pain of the loss.
A child, old enough to know—
what it is to be separated
from her mother.
Just memory now,
a small square of wonder,
tucked forever
into the roots of me.
"Before the World Spoke"
by Jennifer Wren Call
I was Younger.
The first impressions—,
before their words
Stuck like burrs to my cognition.
It was Clover.
Bees delight
My first flower
I crouched,
They took flight.
It was Petals
Neon florets
I softly pinched
My mouth sweet
A memory begets
I was Older
Final impressions
After their words
Fell harmless
to my reflection
As for the Clover?
My first flower
It remains sweet
As for me?
I am complete!
Tide Within
by Jennifer Wren Call
Beneath the calm, the churn—
waves that never stop.
They crash covert,
under skin,
beneath the practiced grin.
We walk like still water,
but inside?
Swells.
Riptides of thought,
undertows of memory
dragging anchors
while we sip our tea.
So how do we calm it?
How do we hush the inner sea?
We breathe—slow as driftwood.
We stretch like shorelines pulled by tide.
We smile without audience.
We wave to strangers,
build tiny bridges with nods.
We never catch.
We always release.
We drink water like wine.
We give thanks toward the sky,
touch the earth with our knees.
Peace isn’t silence.
It’s knowing the noise—
and choosing
not to echo it.
Another Direction
by Jennifer Wren Call
They’ll say,
Tell your story,
but keep it between the lines.
Make it sweet,
make it safe,
make it something
we’ve already heard.
But I came
from another direction.
Not the straight road.
Not the easy version.
I walked in sideways,
through fire,
in shoes I had to make myself.
This is not polite.
It will not ask permission.
It will not tuck in its shirt
or apologize
for surviving.
My voice does not echo—
it cuts.
It bleeds truth into quiet rooms.
It’s a map written backwards,
a compass with no North,
a story that still walks
even after you stop listening.
If it makes you flinch,
good.
If it makes you shift in your seat,
better.
Because comfort never
changed a thing.
I came
from another direction.
Whole, unapologetic, and enough.
Selective Memory
by Jennifer Wren Call
We talk of memory
as if it's the crown—
the treasured keeper
of all we've known.
But forgetting—
that quiet, stubborn grace—
is just as holy.
It lets us go.
Without the blur,
the ache would stay sharp.
Without the fade,
we’d never move on.
To remember is human.
To forget?
That’s survival
in soft disguise.
Toujours Prêt
by Jennifer Wren Call
Meet my driver through life.
Toujours Prêt
No knobs. No dials. No panic brakes.
Just a seat. Facing forward.
Facing what comes.
Don't need controls.
Not because I’ve given up—
But because I’ve given in
to trust,
to presence,
to the quiet skill of showing up.
My instruments are internal:
Imagination for terrain.
Curiosity for velocity.
Compassion for passengers.
And wonder—always wonder—for the present.
True control?
It’s not holding the wheel.
It’s not needing one.
Toujours prêt.
Not to steer.
But to be.
toujours présent
The Medium
An idea, untouched, travels like light through vacuum— unchallenged, unbent, inert. An idea, touched by a medium, is challenged, diverted— bouncing, alive. An idea met by a medium dense with questions is shaped, molded, made savvy. An idea, scrubbed by age, tested by time, is informed, incubated, chiseled Wisdom. Jennifer Wren Call
Tagged
by Jennifer Wren Call
Every tree deserves
a pair of shoes
nailed to its trunk—
for balance,
for burden,
for walking nowhere fast.
The 8-penny nails
did not ask permission.
They drove truth deep
into bark and bone,
binding shoe to consequence.
This wasn’t decoration.
This was
the crucifixion of deviation.
Dirty souls, nailed in disgrace.
Pontius, in steel-toed sandals,
led the brigade—
Shoe Police.
Citation:
Excessive individuality in a shared space.
The crime?
This tree leaned too hard
into feeding others.
Stood too confidently.
Shaded some
from the sun.
Now it stands,
silent and shamed,
an altar of indifference.
Fashioned
into notice.
Unspoken Feedback
by Jennifer Wren Call
You don’t need a mic
to make noise.
You don’t need to speak
to be heard.
Just stand—
And the world takes notes.
Just be—
And someone writes the story.
That rooster?
He wasn’t performing.
But he was received.
Rackety and exact.
Everything we do
is feedback.
Noise is silence.
Silence is noise.
A frown is a smile.
A smile—
a frown.
Confusion looks clear.
And clarity?
That’s just a myth
With better lighting.
Amalgamation
by Jennifer Wren Call
It begins with observation—
A globe of glass, a small fixation.
Beach and sea in odd rotation,
Upside down in contemplation.
Is it truth or fabrication?
A mind’s own recreation?
No trick, no cheap illusion—
Just light in conversation.
We crave neat explanation
But live in fluctuation.
The eye sees transformation,
The soul feels revelation.
Each shift, an education.
Each view, a meditation.
What is real needs no translation—
Just your quiet concentration.
So call it art. Or aberration.
Call it dream. Or affirmation.
This world is not deception—
It’s just your own interpretation.
This is the completion
of my contemplation,
in this collection—
or is it contribution
to my fascination
with innovation
in illustration?
A dance of refraction,
a silent jubilation.
A lens-shaped narration
of nature’s flirtation.
Call it reflection,
call it creation—
a fragile equation
of sand and sensation.
Perhaps, just perhaps,
it's an invitation—
to pause in elation
at life's wild foundation.
Bloom Where You’re Planted
by Jennifer Wren Call
This Pacific Rosewood—
Milo, Mallow—
grew where it fell.
Once a seed, dropped,
it couldn’t ask for better soil
or kinder wind.
And it grew anyway.
Life, an animate thing,
makes no promises.
It offers no ease,
no perfect place to root.
Still—
I chose color.
I chose growth.
I chose to bloom.
The heart blooms brightest
where it refuses
to wither.
Lying in the Sun
I found this today—peaceful, still, lingering.
Not every story is told.
But even here, in the silence,
there is consideration.
There is purpose.
There is sunshine.
Courage
by Jennifer Wren Call
Courage
to ask,
to wonder,
to sit quietly with a question.
Courage
to speak gently
when the world shouts.
To be soft
in a world that grinds.
Courage
to step forward,
even unsure.
To leap—
not because you're ready,
but because it's time.
Courage
to bear witness.
To love something fragile.
To face pain
without armor,
and joy
without apology.
Courage
to stand alone
and still be whole.
To start the fire
no one else will light.
Courage
to stop.
To rest.
To listen.
To hold someone longer.
Courage
to be you
nothing held back.
To walk into the tide,
knowing you may fall,
but trusting the currents
will bring you home.
Monument
Jennifer Wren Call
Once,
the sea cracked open,
and the Earth poured out—
boiling the ocean,
building a mountain.
Ridges—
not erosion.
Scars of the Earth,
from hot molten breath.
It grew green.
It summoned mist.
Rain into rock,
roots into stone,
birds into nest.
Now it watches.
A monument—
that makes you
look up.
The Familiar Stranger and the Sea
Today at the mall, I became someone else.
She knew me—Dori did. Or she thought she did. And I didn’t correct her.
I said hello, and it was good to see her. I even guessed her name (well, I read her name tag, but let’s not ruin the magic).
We hugged. We smiled. I told her I had an appointment.
And for a brief moment, we both believed something warm and simple: that we knew each other.
It’s happened four times now since I moved to Hawai‘i. Four times I’ve been recognized for someone I’m not—and every time, I’ve said yes to the illusion.
And you know what?
It doesn’t feel like lying.
It feels like being swept into someone’s gentle wave of memory.
That’s why I’m pairing today’s story with this image—this sea.
Unsettled. Shifting. Familiar in motion.
A horizon just far enough away that you can imagine anything is waiting out there.
Maybe even another version of you.
Sometimes, in this life, we are the storm.
Sometimes, we are the shore someone mistakes for home.
And sometimes, we just let it happen.
Am I a Spirit?
Since arriving here, something strange keeps happening.
Three times now, people have mistaken me for someone they know.
They greet me with wide smiles, familiar warmth, and stories I don't remember living. One even paused, really looked at me, and asked, *"Are you a spirit?"*
how
I laughed it off at the time, but sometimes, late in quiet moments, I wonder.
Am I real?
Or am I simply familiar—
some echo of someone they loved,
some feeling they once knew?
Maybe it’s my smile, easy and open.
Maybe it's the way I move through the world—soft around the edges, leaving room for people to find a piece of themselves in me. Ha ha ha
Or maybe we are all a little ghostly to one another—
parts real, parts memory, parts dream. Possibility!
Whatever the reason, I don't mind.
If I can remind someone of warmth, of friendship, of home—
then maybe being a spirit now and then isn't such a bad thing.
