i just work here

the dream of a place belongs to the dreamer
there are people who own disneyland, as in
they profit from it or pay to maintain it
and there are the people who do the work to keep it running
none of them own the dreams of disneyland that keep people coming back and excited and willing to go through all the frenetic hoop-jumping and long lines for it
the owners and the workers might make disneyland happen
but it’s the dreams that make it special: what it means to the people who have to work hard and plan and struggle and sacrifice to get there
because they need all that to be worth it

i don’t dream of america
i just work here
bless the dreamers, and maybe pray they never wake up

“Insert Title Here”

Every word is a lie that tells itself true.
Before we gave it a sound, what color was blue?
Before we said it sang, did the wind have a voice?
What’s the flavor of home, what’s the weight of a choice?

Without words don’t we know what’s right from what’s wrong?
What did we feel before love came along?
These pearls of power, these kernels of truth,
Exist between tongue, lip, throat, jaw, and tooth.

The marks that we make out from mind, eye, and hand,
Spell out the stars, tides and sea, rising land.
Gone, forgotten, the things never given a name…
Yet unspoken, they lived, loved, and died just the same.

(c) 2015 Jane Bartley Hozier


On a cold and snowy Tuesday, I saw a representation of sadness: a Lost Cat sign, taped to a signpost no more than two weeks past. Top corner torn away, paper foxed and bedraggled and almost illegibly wet.

My prayers to lost pets everywhere.

An Old Poem

I am cleaning the entire house, from top to bottom. I am ruthlessly purging every malfunctioning gadget and outdated scrap of paper. I am leaving no stone unturned.

Boy does it feel good. I refuse to hold onto anything that does not add to my life. If it’s going to take up space in my home, it had better earn its keep.

During the course of this purge I found a ridiculously crumpled piece of notebook paper with a poem written on it. Based on where I found it, I’m guessing I wrote it somewhere around 2003. I don’t think I can bring myself to keep the original anymore, but I’d like to preserve the poem itself. So here it is!

A Worthy Yet Once Removed Subject

When did I see the beauty of today,
or have I seen it yet? Am I still blind
and trapped inside the things I’ll never say
because the language chains them in my mind?

I lay within a cage within a cage
(whose bars are made of feelings unexplained),
mocked by the words I write upon this page,
for they do not express the whys of pain.

Shall I believe the words do not exist?
If so, then in this world man is word,
and men struck mute will not be sorely missed.
But silence by its action still is heard…

© Jane Bartley Hozier