\
6:41 AM ~ poem
In this early morning, break-of-a-new day light
In this cooling, new-day air
I could live
forever.
(c) poem and photo credit – Jessan Dunn Otis|Writer – August 30, 2016
\
6:41 AM ~ poem
In this early morning, break-of-a-new day light
In this cooling, new-day air
I could live
forever.
(c) poem and photo credit – Jessan Dunn Otis|Writer – August 30, 2016

Let’s begin by understanding one thing – I wasn’t always a writer. After all, once I accomplished the required rudiments of beginning to become a human being – i.e. sitting up, eating human food, beginning to learn language, walking and all – I was just a little girl, growing up.
Somewhere along the way, however, I learned that words have meaning – often, deep meanings. That speaking the right word can either encourage or profoundly discourage myself and others; and, unfortunately, that words can be used as weapons.
Some time later I, also, learned to write words. Sometimes they were “funny words”, like “sword” (that I learned how to spell by emphasizing the “sw” sound and, then, adding the remaining “…ord”). I have a long and growing list of “funny words”. Another one might be “gabberflasted” (intentionally flipped ’round for memorability, emphasis, and humor).
Eventually, I began to, somewhat, “eat” words – rolling them over in my mouth for pronunciation, “digesting” the deeper meanings, learning the human history of words. I think, at that point, I was hooked; but, didn’t consciously realize it yet. I was on the path to becoming a writer; whether a public writer or a private writer didn’t matter.
Subsequently, the unconscious became conscious as I wrote more. I thought, as a returned undergraduate, I would major in English and, then, earn a J.D. in law to, eventually, specialize in international law, with sitting on the World Court as my goal.
Halfway through my undergraduate degree (I went back as a sophomore), what can only be called a phenomenological occurrence happened. My World Court goal took a one-week hiatus. I talked with two writers and two lawyers that I knew and respected. At the end of one week, I decided to go into writing not law; and, didn’t know it was poetry until I wrote more.
The rest of this story is my continuing history as a writer – earning my graduate degree, a Master of Fine Arts (MFA) from Brown University (Providence, Rhode Island) with the concentration in poetry. Sending out submissions, receiving acceptances, being published in various literary journals; and, eventually, teaching at the college level for eight (8) years. From time to time I continue to be invited to be a Guest Lecturer and Visiting Artist. These days I’m, also, invited to be a presenter based on my adventures as a woman-owned entrepreneur.
When my teaching gigs ended, I began to develop my skills, expertise, and acumen as a commercial, independent, strategic freelance writer and editor. I had come to understand that the world wide web, hence the internet, is founded on and completely driven by words. That was in May, 1996. I became a bootstrapped, solopreneur founding Jessan Dunn Otis|Writer.
At this time, poetry continues to be the foundation and inspriation I have as a writer. Thankfully, poetry continues to flow. Clients continue to reach out to me when they feel that my experience, expertise, and skills best match their well-funded projects.
Finally, the following quote by Mark Twain are the words upon which my logo was created:
“The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug.”
…and, that answers the question (more or less) how and why I became a writer.
Enjoy this day you make/are given.
Dance On…
~ Jessan

Swimming Under Water – poem
Walking away from home the macadam is still warm
black and sticky and the air air is
feeling the line of day and night as another mystery
To the end of the concrete walk
across cooled grass and over the warm stone to
the smell is sweet rotting fish and seaweed that is home, too
I leave my clothes on and swim south to the sea-thing
away from shore under water hearing my air rise
to be the ocean holding me all over in phosphorous, as eyeballs
ache, blurring the stones and the crabs scutter away.
(c)1983, 1989, 2015 – Jessan Dunn (DeCredico) Otis – 1989 American Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, Great Lakes Poetry Press, Chicago, Chuck Kramer, Ed. & Publisher, p. 88.
Falling Into Your Eyes
for CKW
Two black birds fly together
as if the shadow and the object
were coming to the same place
A tongue wags from the stump
as if the song of presence
that lament brings speaks
after so much silence
A white star flashes on a dark blue
directly over the heart
and you say
who will come to us
who will give us solace.
(c) 1981, 2015 ~ Jessan Dunn (DeCredico) Otis

The Day After Thanksgiving 2015 – essay
Today is Friday, November 27, 2015 – the day after Thanksgiving. Yesterday was a quiet, thank-filled, beautiful day.
As usual, I was up early – before sunrise. Quiet time. Focus. Reflect.
Bright sun. Dry, crisp Rhode Island air. Telephone conversations with family and friends. E-mails to others. Thanksgiving Day parade playing in the background.
Later in the morning – preparations of favorite dishes to contribute to the shared dinner in the afternoon. Mashed potatoes, with fresh-chopped garlic, fresh rosemary, sour cream, butter, salt and pepper. Baby peas and pearl onions in a light cream sauce. My mother’s recipe for pineapple upsidedown cake, with extra maraschino cherries as part of the decoration, begun, and, then, baked in a black, cast iron fry pan – as that’s the best way. The perfume of fruits, fixings and fresh herbs blending into an aromatic, Thanksgiving day memory.
After we (Al, Gus-The Wonder Dog and I) arrived at my younger son’s home, the first whiff of turkey, with homemade cornbread stuffing, wafted down the stairs. Added to our feast was: Al’s homemade mashed carrots and turnips, with sweet butter, and; Ces’ turkey, stuffing, homemade cranberry sauce and brussel sprouts. What a feast! All washed down with a glass or two of dark amber Duchesse de Bourgogne.
What was required next was to temporarily step away from that table, with a few remnants of the fixings left on the plates. One must leave room for the two desserts.
Stepping into the late afternoon air was a welcome respite, all three dogs (Gus, Betty and Lucy) bouncing around, still looking for a bit of extra food and (always) for our attentions.
By then, the day had turned unseasonably mild, with a damp sweetness beginning to come in. No jackets required. Sun lowering a bit more in the West. That certain slant of light. Three of us talked on the terrace of food and incidental things, attempting to wiggle out a bit more space.
After a sufficient respite, the desserts were laid out – the aforementioned pineapple upsidedown cake (served with Brooklyn Creamery Company’s Extra Thick, Single Cream) and a pumpkin pie, with pecan and praline crumble, decorated with rich, yellow whipped cream edging, courtesy of Pastiche; and, some rugelach, just for good measure.
I cannot recall that last time I was as full as I was yesterday. One more bite and it would have spoiled everything.
Another retreat to the terrace, sunset by now. Lights of the city coming up. The trio of red, flashing warning lights at the top of the three stacks at the electric company flickering like erratic fireflies through the branches of the de-leafed, skeletal trees. The low whir of other folks coming or going, crossing the I-Way, East to West to East.
More incidental conversations, each happily fed and full, enjoying the evening’s air and city silence.
The divided leftovers are still covered and untouched. I’m just beginning to feel hungry, again.
A singularly memorable Thanksgiving Day 2015.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
As a way of continuing to celebrate a Day of Thanks; and, to return many favors and blessings received, please accept The Thanksgiving Reader, created by Seth Godin and others. This is a free download; and, can be generously shared, individually and/or globally. Thank you, as always, Seth.
o k g ü z e l – poemfor Sarik, Lale, and Leyla – with Love
Your ash and smoke have
filled my skin
The silent music enlarges
my lungs
Celebrate and whisper on
each hand and eye that
loved me
Further than the green lights
from the opposite side
I love your home because
I know that you are there
From where I always stood
in the cool cathedral of the night
I could, at last, see further
than myself
Even stones spoke in an
eloquent tongue as soft
as flesh as liquid as constant,
washing water over turquoise tiles
and my mouth and hands and
feet were washed away
Leaving is another stone
that is dissolved in sleep
Mountains and snow are the
memory of separation in a
dream of leaving and coming back,
again.
(c) 1988, 2015 ~ Jessan Dunn (DeCredico) Otis
How Alan and I met is a short, surreal film. Walter Reed Hospital, January, 1970. Walking through miles of connecting corridors to find his ward. Once there, (in the older part of this hospital), two long rows of beds, his the last on the right; and, he was asleep. I waited in the solarium adjacent to that ward, just around the corner from his bed. Another injured vet rolled his wheelchair ’round the corner. He had no legs, missing just above both knees. He had a soft, Southern drawl. We talked, on and off, for almost an hour. Every once in awhile he’d wheel back, check and say, “No Ma’am, he’s still sleeping.” He and I were about the same age.
I was visiting, unannounced and completely unknown to Alan, delivering several copies of the Brown Alumni Magazine, in which was a beautifully written article by the Editor, Robert A. Reichley, about Alan and a fellow alum, both of whom had served in Vietnam, had been wounded, and wound up next to each other in that ward in Walter Reed. The other alum had since been discharged. Alan’s people were far away; and, he was alone. I also brought the review copy of a first novel, My Main Mother, written by another fellow alum, Barry Beckham. At that time, I worked for that magazine; and, my former spouse (a visual artist) was having a show in DC.
Just the walk through the corridors continues to be singularly memorable. Too many wounded. Not enough beds. Broken men, bandages, various body parts missing, unexpected sounds, unusual smells. As a younger woman, I made eye contact, said “Thank you.” and kept asking for further directions to get to that ward.
After he finally woke up, Alan and I talked for over three hours. We have sustained our friendship since. Operations. Healing. Law school. First marriage. More unexpected injuries from a lawnmower and a flying rock. Children. Divorce. Second marriage. Children marrying. Grandchildren.
Alan and I talked several days ago. We recalled (again) the circumstances of our first meeting and all that’s happened to each of us since. I recalled that piece I told him I would write once I got just the right words to describe the quality of light at the time he was hit. I mentioned it was finally finished. He didn’t even ask to see it. He knows he will.
There is no pain in these memories. There is nothing but love, honor, and respect.
This, also, goes out to my mother, Helen, and my father, Mahlon; both of whom served in World War II. Dad was awarded the Purple Heart. I have both their flags. Until we meet again…
The turn of a page and a new month arrives. For those of us who live in certain territories, we’ve either “gained” or lost an hour in our day (how is that, truly, possible?).
Leaves turn golden, brilliant red, shades of vermillion and, then, drop resolutely to the damp earth. Nature taking itself back into Nature – circles within circles.
As someone I know, often, says – “These are the days of the long shadows.” Sunsets are more intense, as if to linger just a moment or two longer. There’s a typical New England chill in the air that signals migrations, harvests, a kind of gathering together that, most likely, harkens back to archaic, atavistic times.
Today is, also, All Saints Day, a celebration of all saints, known and unknown – preceded by Halloween and followed by Day of the Dead (Dia de Muertos). These, too, are ancient, atavistic, deeply-held, socio-religious ceremonies.
All of this speaks to me in a language of smoldering embers, after the heat and brilliance of Summer. There’s a kind of “dampening down” at this time of year here. Perhaps that’s why Rumi’s quote holds a certain meaning. If it’s true that there’s beauty in everything, even this “dying down” and celebrating saints and Spirits is mysterious and exciting. This is a kind of “call” that ignites me.
As I move through each day, there’s a singular sweetness because of the drying hydrangeas outside my window, the pungent leaf mold from the cut back urban garden, picking the last of the tomatoes, hearing the migrating calls of flocks of geese heading south, remembering other places, other people.
I hear Rumi’s call to respond to that which excites me, transcending apparent barriers of time and space.
What excites your Spirit?
Today is Sunday, October 4, 2015; and, I celebrate three (3) birthdays.
My mother – Helen Smith Dunn – who loved me (and continues to do so) more than I knew. Until we meet again…
My sister-in-law – Rita Verardo.
A young one, SweetBoy, gone too soon – Turul Kaan Cilam.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“The first step is, simply, everything.” ~ jdo
To His Holiness, the 14th Dalai Lama
Your raised eyebrow and shy, quizzical half smile Who
could have known where your boychild would walk and
how far
Circles within circles
High in those isolated, beautiful, brutal mountains
Prayer flags
Meditation
One sought and found
Turning away, finally, from politics to passion, the road
to peace is begun with one step
Turn and turning in a widening gyre, come close in the spiral, into
the center of our truer heart
“It’s as easy to laugh as it is to dance,” she said; as shared laughter
rose up, as if prayers rippling through air as flags, flapping and tethered,
as if we could touch it simultaneously
“Throw sparks. Create fires.” she said
You said, “Patience and compassion.”
Dream peace
Learn to recreate it within This is my wish, too
This moment, this moment,
this moment, only this moment.
Jessan Dunn Otis – (c) 2012 – written at the request of Leon Stuparich, Director, ROAD TO PEACE, with thanks