On Mary Jane, my name

Image found HERE

On Mary Jane, my name

Once the first cry was out
it was branded “the coming of peace”,
noted as quiet and tame,
but it is not how I know it;
I always see it as just
my grandmothers name
and if I was born a boy,
I would be called different,
a variation where the nickname
is the same.

Always the peace
and my march supposed to bring it,
crowned in old wives tales
like wherever she sits
there will be a hundred devils
peeking from underneath the chair,
to folk songs equating it
to clear, baby blue skies
that one would beg
not to toy with their soul,
to illegal herbs
once you cross over from my native lands
and sit atop a foreigners tongue
while they wait for deliverance
of the blurry mercy
that lets one get closer to the stars,
to my friend Henry who simply
pronounces it wrong,
like the spice, with a soft sparkle on his lips
and making sure it still always starts with m
and how all the interludes
never start with it
but wanting and wanting and wanting,
like a resolution after a battle
or the churchbell thining
into the air and across the feathers of seagulls
and the pen detaching itself
from the last curve of the letter
and the daylight sun
yawning and dipping into my cheeks
to dream up the dawn;
like the index finger over a shushing mouth
while the hearts are mingling about
like a swarm of crickets,
popping with some certanty of love
that cant be broken
and how my lover raises it monuments
with his clumsy inability
to roll its R
and command me to soften
as the foam of a wave
trickles over the sand
before drowning in it.

At least, thats what im hoping
is in the concoctions
of the pronounciations,
or denotations, of recited requests
and poems, desires and heaves;
the peace, how I give it, oozing
from a forest of wildly swaying trees
and dusks
laying their red mantles
over the rooftops
and boats
roraring towards those sunsets
with a furry to step first
into the coming nights kingdom –
when you ask me myself
and when I say it
it just means

*For NaPoWriMo day 14 prompt, fashionably late

~ by Oloriel on April 15, 2021.

7 Responses to “On Mary Jane, my name”

  1. И моја баба се звала Мириана. 😂

    • Znachi, sve babe i ja 😀

      • Немој ми рећи да те зову Мира. 😂

      • Da 🙂 Jedna od najdrazih uspomena mi je kad sam za vikend bila kod babe, isto Mirjane koju jelte isto zovu Mira, i zvala moja drugarica iz skole da me pita nesto za domaci; baba podigla slushalicu, moja drugarica kaze Dobar dan, mogu li dobiti Miru?, a baba moja mrtva ladna kaze Ja sam! 😀

      • 😀 Ми смо нашу звали бака Мира, а њена мајка Марија је била (пра)бака Мара. Meни се свиђа како звучи Bloody Mary. 🦋

  2. Haha, hvala komentaru gore. I was thinking: Maria Juana, Mary Jane… what kind of name would that be in Serbian? And then I saw the comment above. Luckily I can still read Cyrillic… Peace be with you!

    • Cyrilics can be a nightmare, so as, apparently, pronouncing the letter J in the name in various different countries 🙂 I do enjoy it though. Thanks for stoping by for a read and I hope you are having good, marvelous days!

Tell me something

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Punk Noir Magazine

The Only Crime Is Getting Caught

Hazel J. Hall

Writing through the chaos

Quixotic Mama

some may think I'm just a fool tilting at windmills, but maybe I'm not

Celine Aubert

Explore my books, works-in-progress, side projects, and random brain machinations.

The Violet Hour Magazine

A showcase of literary & artistic talent

Horned Things

A Literary Journal for the Discerning Creature


Colorful~ imaginative ~ Contemporary Art

One Million Photographs

Follow along with me as I travel the world on a quest to publish one million photos

Daydreaming as a profession

Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.

Pungent Sound Journal of Pulp Poetry

Poetry and Commentary that Smells


Author of "Within Paravent Walls", "Daughterbody I", "Daughterbody II", "you ate popcorn in my house of grief" & "mutterseelenallein und splitterfasernackt". Pentalingual Idealist. Hypercreative homebody. Transgenerational Poetess.

Tricia Sankey

poet and author of The Light in the Cave

Brave & Reckless

Reclaiming my inner badass at 50

%d bloggers like this: