Poems in Progress: Joan and Joni

Joan and Joni

Joan and Joni floated ethereally
Above me most of my life, just like poems
I never took the time to fathom, or 
Thoughts that left my brain before memory
Had a chance to collect them, or pieces
Of art only my eyes could absorb, but
The rest of me, both conscious and not, missed
Everything beyond the paint and colors.

Whether it’s me or my culture, something
More sophisticated has overtaken
Me as of late, and both Joan and Joni
Sing to me in their own ways, their own voice,
Still ethereal, but suddenly sounding
Like a rainstorm while sitting underneath
A porch, a snowstorm while by the fire.

Joan’s prose, never slouching themselves, which left
Too much to my young imagination,
Now become crystal clear in their cloudiness:
The hippies are idiots; they’re kids, they’re hard
To find. The other Joan is aloof, void,
Empty, with a complex past, she’s still trying.
And those winds, wild, intoxicating, like
A younger version of me, we don’t get it
But that’s ok. We’re not supposed to.

And Joni’s songs, beyond blue, which left
Me confused because I couldn’t sing along,
Now lift me with chords of ambiguity,
And leave me wandering through uncertainty
Wondering where her voice will take me next.
It seems better here, harder, but more aware
Of the subtle details that entail 
This challenge which I youngly thought just
Needed an answer to be hammered out.

Whether it’s me or my culture, something
More sophisticated has overtaken
Me as I age. These women get it:
There’s nothing to get. While nothing’s easier–
Harder probably if anything–
It’s nice knowing that others have lived
Without resolution for far longer than me.

-Jeff