She Draws Her Circle:
Selected Poems

by Joanna Leigh Osmond

For the chirping of birds

That pressure you feel
in your chest
in your toes
in your heart

that gooey tar
like
a car
wheel that
has melted into the pavement.
The car can no longer move.

It only
takes everything to
pull it from hiding.

Command it, I tell you
with the collection of voices
from the earth women
wild women
who crouch down sweating.

(You remember
their sounding
from the birth of
your child.)

Now they are here
for this and for you.
Yell it.
Sing it.
Command it all OUT!

And then—but only then—
as it flies away from your body
like some bitter smoke
from a chemical fire
you may send across it a
whispered blessing

may you know love
may you find transformation in
the eyes of eagles and
by the watching wing

Return to what’s yours
what has always been yours.
Like a piece of buttered bread
like a child’s hand grasping
like the softest of chirps
outside your window.

Listen dear one
for the chirping of birds.
They are reminding you of what
you have known for lifetimes.

Listen dear one
for the chirping of birds.
You have always been one with
the community of wings.

Listen dear one
for the chirping of birds.
Sing out, yell out—

All that rises must be heard.

--joanna leigh osmond

Second Chimney

Did you ever imagine

You could have a second chimney

That doesn’t show itself to you

Until way past your fifties?

It remains for you

To sweep it out tenderly

Blow on the embers—

Burn a new way.

—joanna leigh osmond

The Return

There is magic in the losing of one’s hair

falling out in clinging pieces on the floor- at the grocery,

in the shower, the first few strands to the widening part

like the parting of the Great Sea — it

opens a way to some heroine’s journey

into the abyss of darkness —

the grasping for air, sea salt licking at your

broken lips, air up, belly down

you give in to the tide of emotions

no more me, no more you

perhaps an end to the journey on this round ball entirely—

The loss of an image, community, story,

friend — whatever it is you are losing —

is nothing less than helping yourself into the beast of the

whale, one day to be coughed up and free. You were not

to have followed that vanity,

that teacher, that siren’s call — after all —and yet

it brought the beasts beating heart so close you could

hear it, projected you out onto the thrum of the ocean’s

wave that now carries your bruised,

tired, sometimes broken bones

onto the shore and plants you

in the warm and magical sand.

The hand of all that is Good is under you, (at last

you feel it),

and you are thankfully and finally here.

—joanna leigh osmond

Counting

1.

One is for…two is for…
One is for…two is for…

Out my art studio window there fly a gaggle of crows -

I know it’s a murder, but I don’t like the word.

I get to choose my words carefully now. It’s my poem.

2.

Visiting my son at college I find my anxiety

rising; we cartwheel off each other as we walk

down the hall.

I must remember to choose my words

carefully. I say the wrong thing anyways.

Twice.

One is for…two is for…
One is for…two is for…

3.

My arms are covered in blues and whites. I’m repainting

the kitchen to feel like the ocean. All morning long this

crow sits out my window

as if waiting for a sign that it’s time to fly.

4.

Sometimes my words are blurred letters

moving; sometimes I want to pin them in place

with a stiletto’s touch.

Sometimes I think they are filled with my

meaning, but they have always been moving.

We have always been moving.

5.

I am seventeen at her bedside, watching my mother’s

breath intently. I need words from her

lips so I won’t go hungry without her. She

is delirious and frustrated as she tries to communicate:

One is for…two is for…
One is for…two is for…

I don’t understand it — and in a week she’s gone.

6.

I grow up looking for signs everywhere. Will

this animal be my answer? Will this song be?

This dream?

7.

Walking with my son across campus, he is

irritated and anxious and wishes I would say

less. I scroll on my phone when an image

shines up at me — there’s a line of crows

heralding an old nursery rhyme:

One is for sorrow,
Two is for mirth,
Three’s a funeral,
Four’s a birth —

I look at our breath blowing a mist out

ahead of us.

He says he needs to head back to his dorm.

He says he needs to take a nap.

He says we are both so sensitive.

He holds out his arms and says

I love you, Mom.

—joanna leigh osmond

And What Lies Below


We are mother, counselor, woman, driver, pink

hair streaker, baby boo-boo kisser. We

inherited this body with these spiral of genes.

Below that is the place where we are born,

where raised, where in this culture, where.

Below that, deep in the bones, the soul stirs,

wanting to sing, down in the earth she sits with

her magnificent clay pot, stirring and mixing it all up and

together—the bones , and the dirt, and the pieces

of leaf skin, she turns them over and over. And

somewhere, deeper still, she starts to stir, to

sing from the bones, to blow back the life

without using words, just single simple softer

sounds; first whispers, then pain stirred,

eerie, then sweet, now deep and soulful—

bringing back the connection between the me inside her

and the beginnings of time.

Below the trees, down in the soil, under the

mountains, down in our bones, is where we

let go of all of our faces, 

where we drop,

and join, held with the earth 

in its deepest of hummings.

Back to our center,

and the humming whole. 

—joanna leigh osmond

For the chirping of birds

That pressure you feel

in your chest

in your toes

in your heart

that gooey tar

like

a car

wheel that

has melted into the pavement.

The car can no longer move.

It only

takes everything to

pull it from hiding.

Command it, I tell you

with the collection of voices

from the earth women

wild women

who crouch down sweating.

(You remember

their sounding

from the birth of

your child.)

Now they are here

for this and for you.

Yell it.

Sing it.

Command it all OUT!

And then—but only then—

as it flies away from your body

like some bitter smoke

from a chemical fire

you may send across it a

whispered blessing

may you know love

may you find transformation in

the eyes of eagles and

by the watching wing

Return to what’s yours

what has always been yours.

Like a piece of buttered bread

like a child’s hand grasping

like the softest of chirps

outside your window.

Listen dear one

for the chirping of birds.

They are reminding you of what

you have known for lifetimes.

Listen dear one

for the chirping of birds.

You have always been one with

the community of wings.

Listen dear one

for the chirping of birds.

Sing out, yell out—

All that rises must be heard.

—joanna leigh osmond

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Intuitive Paintings by Joanna Leigh