Charlotte Street Foundation identifies the needs and fuels the evolution of an ever-changing multidisciplinary arts ecosystem, acting as its primary provocateur. We cultivate the contemporary, the exceptional, and the unexpected in the practice of artists working in and engaging with the Kansas City Art Community

The Writer’s Life

harris_headshotIt’s one of those early Autumn Kansas City mornings where the sun is sleeping in and writing poetry at dawn feels a lot like writing poetry at midnight – just the rain and the sirens to keep you company.

I don’t know how I wound up here at Charlotte Street studios other than I am obsessed by writing and I couldn’t think of any other way to spend my life other than pursing the endeavor of being a household name, more Anne Lamott than Hemingway, though I see the validity in both. I have high hopes and big dreams, an insatiable appetite for success – I do not subscribe to starving artistry. This pen and page, this laptop and the way I can’t have any experience without writing about it – the Muse moves through me and I do not resist her. This is my purpose.

You can learn about all the things they’ll put in my obituary here:

You can have access to my weekly writings here:

This one you can just have:

I said: 

Your lips are stained the color of pomegranate, like you’ve been consuming something tough and small for a very long time, hoping to feel full.

I offer you the field of ripe strawberries that are my lips, taste the flavor of the sun and the rain in every breathless embrace.

There is a darkness in the arch of your eyeshadow tonight thematic of every woman who’s ever left me first.

I get scared sometimes.

Recollections have that power.

You are not a recollection.

I do not hold you to my fear to drip like wax against heat.

It’s just me, trying to trust me – again.


You kiss me like you know

what being in love on Christmas morning is like.

You fuck me like you know

what being in love with a careless person is like,


like if you don’t show me what you’re capable of now,

there’s a chance I won’t go looking for it later

and you want to be remembered, returned to.


Two weeks ago you lay coughing and aching

from all our breath running through your veins,

it took everything I had not to come to you

even though you told me not to,

there is something in the way

you tug at the zipper

on the costume of who I am

asking me to step out or let you in.


You have these lips that suggest you’re willing to try,

eyes the depth of surviving

watching someone walk away,

it’s how I know you’re strong enough to withstand

the distance and the potential.

Your delight rumbles awake a giant in me,

whose been waiting to play with someone its own size.


I am alone tonight,

with silk across my breasts

and wonder in my thoughts.


You are Wonder

I am Full.


I picked these strawberries for you.

Poet Jen Harris 

About poetjenharris

The deets are on my webpage. IG @poetjenharris

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This entry was posted on October 12, 2016 by in Uncategorized.

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