1872: Victoria Woodhull, the FIRST female candidate for the United States presidency

Sorry Kamala fans....you're LATE!

The Revolutionary Rhetoric of Sydney Owenson (Lady Morgan)

My collection of books written by Sydney Owenson (Lady Morgan)

From page 17 of my book: 

Revolutionary philosophy of the sixteenth through nineteenth centuries provides momentum for the transformation of consciousness, circuitous pathways of innovation and circularity within societal parameters, creating awareness of cultural change, often through literary articulation. During the long eighteenth century, Sydney Owenson constructs her national tales by configuring lexical combinations of Irish, English and European colloquialisms, drawing upon the historical and philosophical perceptions of René Descartes, John Locke, and Immanuel Kant to transform her romantic tales into narratives of political inquiry. She incorporates the German philosophical influences of Johann Wolfgang Goethe, Georg Wilhelm Friedriech Hegel, and Arthur Schopenhauer, initiating innovation in forms of cultural awareness. 

As her writing matures, her nineteenth century contemporary scientific approach to human dignity resonates with Auguste Comte’s philosophy, revealing her personal experience with societal expectations. Her voice maintains a necessary fortitude in terms of her feminine perspective, placing Irish ideology into the center of English culture at the onset of the Ascendancy, while she illustrates foresight in challenging the political stance of the United Kingdom in the early decades of the nineteenth century. 

God's Peace

God's Peace

On this sea of doubt, 
I long to sail away
with a guiding breeze 
of everlasting peace, 
Peace with God. 
Through the ebb and flow
of fervent prayer,
I find confidence  
as He moves my heart 
in the direction of Infinite Love,
magnifying Joy,
discerning 

His Divine purpose.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

Flow: "It Don't Mean a Thing..."

(Click HERE to hear Ella and Duke Ellington)    

 Click HERE to hear Beethoven's Symphony #9

As I considered the music that this 'flow' poem describes, my first thoughts went to Beethoven's 9th. Then, I thought a little more and considered the jazz musical artists, Ella Fitzgerald and Duke Ellington as they collaborate to perform "It Don't Mean a Thing If it Ain't Got that Swing...."  I chose both. Click above to hear the jazz and/or Beethoven. 

Flow

Waves of sensuous melody

gently stroke the basilar.

The chamber of each hair cell

bursts with the flow

of pulsating charges

stimulating selected neurons

that stir the memory's charm.

Blood flows faster,

determined as voices surge

through the vibrating membrane.

Physical synchronizes

with emotional energy,

aching- soothing,

dissonance resolving

harmonies coalesce

in this resonating

flow. 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(To hear my reading of this poem on Pod-omatic, click HERE.)

Aurora Borealis

When the local meteorologist suggested that we, in Connecticut, would be able to see the geomagnetic event, an Aurora Borealis, I thought, "Okay, I'll check it out." Well, I looked out my backdoor window, which faces northward, and there it was: a beautiful, pinkish maroon sky amidst the stars. My camera barely captured the view. This was exactly as I saw the sky in Connecticut:

Aurora in Western Connecticut, Oct. 10, 2024

Auroras in Pleasant Valley, New York, Oct. 10, 2024

Aurora Borealis

I search the evening sky to see

the stars staring back at me 

at their usual positions

in the heavenly firmament.

Then, my eyes, are they deceiving me? 

There it is... softest glow of pink and maroon,

enveloping a fluffy mass of light clouds.

It makes me wonder if another's eyes 

are viewing this heavenly sight,

a shared brilliance from stars and aurora.

I thank God for allowing me 

the glorious view of the rosy hue, 

this geomagnetic event:

Aurora Borealis. 

 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

 

Comfort is a Crackling Fire

My Fireplace 

Comfort is a Crackling Fire

Another one of those days!

But now she is home;

it would all be better.

Except it wouldn’t -

cold, ice cold, here, there.

Her thoughts darken:

nothing familiar about

their contrived 'door'

through which she’d never

be granted permission to enter.

So she lay down her head

weary of the insanity

surrounded by frigid cruelty.

Even her warm tears,

now icicles crudely formed,

dangle precariously

from her drifting mind.

The sound of the crackling fire

in the fireplace 

envelops her

as she sleeps to surrender.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos