Selected Poems From Jenny Olson

Jenny Olson wants her words to make people both feel and think. She writes from the extremes of the human experience. From human trafficking to freedom, addiction to recovery, abuse to redemption. A survivor of complex trauma and a widow forging a new life, Olson is a fearless poet whose work has appeared in online and print journals, as well as multiple anthologies. Her writing confronts the hard truths people often avoid—what is done to us, and what we do to ourselves—with an unflinching, no-holds-barred intensity. Her debut collection, Winter of Pink Flamingos, is available on Amazon. More of her work can be found at JennyOlsonThePoet.com.

 

These poems are the musings of an angry woman.

always trying to cross

those barbed wire fences

can't take the easy, the short way

go over

gets stuck, bleed

clothes tangle in the barbs

as do my feelings

tangled and mangled

why am i kept out?

better question

ask myself

why do i need to get over?

what's on the other side?

barbed wire

needs a pair of wire cutters

i know the dangers

of barbed wire

i know if i get stuck

on the fence

and winter comes

i could die

of exposure

but that doesn't stop me

not today at least

and not tomorrow

keep trying to get over

barbed wire fence

wait!

over there! that way!!

concertina wire

something to make me feel

pain again

since the men in my life

numbed me

to feeling the jabs

of barbed wire

Published Text to Power

Summer 2024 Issue

Revised 10/13/25

 

 

Something from my upcoming collection "Jenny's Story - Poems from the Street"

 

 

it was our own sect

so, so small

was two

you and me

master and slave

a cult of one

you knew every move

everything i would say

and everything i wouldn't

because they were your words

no way to climb out

from under you

just stopped trying

i guess you won

the prize of me

 

you had me where you wanted 

 sent me out

and i went

took care of you

from the streets

to the corporate offices

from the corners

to the cubicles 

from your ho

to your wife

 

you ran the tiny group

took me hostage

by whatever means it took

for almost forty years

from eighteen and knowing nothing

but thinking i did

until i was too old

with no fucking where to go

 

you convinced me

that no one else would love

the woman i had become

and the woman I was

 

even with your death

i still hear these words

it's what

my heart hears

when i hear your 

ghost voice

whisper to me

when i walk by yourn

where you reside now

on my living room hearth

my dear, dead husband

it's been almost five years

it was a tiny cult

so very small

it was just me

but now

the cult died when you did

no more cult of one

 

 

Jenny Olson 4/6/25

Jenny Olson The Poet © 2025

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the piper

always calls

playing his flute

can't escape the 

notes on the air

as he comes

those musical notes

draw you in

make you follow him

you can 

count on this

and the bargeman

always collects the taxes

of a life lived

and no matter what

we have to pay

and we pay willingly,

behind every rock

the tax man

holds out his hand

but we pay 

in some manner

in some way

we pay

the piper always calls

make no mistake

he comes for you

when you are least ready

girl, be ready he's coming!

listen for the song

of his flute

the bargeman won't be far behind

 

i know the price

i'll pay for the life I lived

but until i hear

those notes on the air

i'll just live my life

knowing that for now

there's nothing

piper to collect on

Jenny Olson 5/7/23

Jenny Olson The Poet © 2024

Revised 8/6/25

no elephant in my family

was a hippo in the room

one of the most dangerous critters

jaws will chomp you,

take you down

it was turning around 

in circles in the living room,

nowhere to hide

the hippo said

"Let's keep her invisible!"

why did the hippo

want to take me down?

i was so young

and scared 

never hurt anyone

but i told about daddy,

got blamed,

tried to die, failed

young girl passed out

on living room couch

saved by my boy scout

baby brother

and then the hippo 

moved in to stay

keep down

nope, i refused 

to be unseen

make enough noise

they'd have to notice me

not talk about me

like i wasn't there

no therapy for us—

she's at fault

and the hippo said yes

so I had to fight

that hippo for years

until i left

when i left

the hippo went back

 to wherever

he came from

but it didn't know

that i would be back

stronger than ever

and loud

came back screaming

like a banshee in the night 

a warning to the hippo 

that a lioness

came back

not a scared girl

the woman

who roars

no more

hippo in the room

Jenny Olson 5/19/25

Jenny Olson The Poet © 2025 

 

 

i was just little piece of lint

in your pocket

stuck far in the corner

where no one could see

hand in your pocket

pushed me where i should be

stuck and out of sight

where you played me with

when you felt the urge

if i was dust on your sleeve

out for anyone to see

you could have flicked me

off at any time you pleased

even if accidentally

instead

i was lint in your pocket

for no one to see

and lint doesn't cry

isn't  sad

when you picked the speck out

tired of the lint in your pocket

and threw me away 

finally, on that drop down to the floor

i spread my wings, and flew

no  more than lint in your pocket

i fight you calling me back

freedom feels too good

 

Acknowledgement

Poems from the Rebel Outpost 2025

Before You Left

i never got the chance
to ask you to leave
my heart
when you left
give it back whole
and unscathed
healed from the
years of "us"
you just died with no real remorse

and no one told
me what being
your widow would mean
no one prepared me for
the grief of loving you
no one told me
that i would have to
make decisions on my own
what to eat, what to wear
trying to do these
and step out into a world
i don't know how to navigate
without you telling
me what to say, how to manage

and i never got the chance
to say i hated you
as the mantle of abuse was lifted
and i had to figure
out how to live
how to move forward
and would never forgive you

before you left me
broken and alone
standing in the middle
of all the parts of me
with a heart that
may never heal

Jenny Olson 11/1/24 - rewtire 11/27/24
Jenny Olson The Poet © 2024

somewhere west

off Route 66

is a truck stop

that's seen better days

formica counter tops

red, fake leather booth backs

 

teased blond hair

too much makeup

hair in a messy bun

typical waitress on the strip

but she had dreams

of being a writer

a poet

 

truckers liked her boobs

her smile, her laugh

hit on her every day

but she was a writer

a poet

 

 

served their coffee

on poem-covered napkins

laughed too loud

 

 

too much lipstick

always smiling

teasing them all

no enemies in her realm

typical waitress on the strip

 

they started coming

not for her boobs

not for her smile or her laugh

stopped hitting on her

they started coming

for her words

 

they shared those words

with other burly truckers

reading poetry out loud

she leaned back against the counter

and smiled

pulled a notepad out

of her apron pocket

and wrote poetry

like she was born to do

she was a writer

a poet

 

smoke is in the air
something burning somewhere
it's her, she's burning
the little life she has is burning
his sickness takes away
the last thing she had for herself
the life she fought
so hard to make within the walls
he built around her
no more chats before logging in
no more bitching after meetings
no more meetings
truth be told, she liked meetings
no more working from hospital
instead of working from home
her career, her identity of her
she had made something of herself
all burning up
like the end of her childhood
burned up for him, he took and took
she knew she didn't get back
but there's smoke in the air
and no way to put that fire out
It burns down to coals
that crush under her feet
smoke is in the air
Jenny Olson 4/3/2024
Jenny Olson The Poet © 2024

 

 

i hear you drumming

against the walls,

of your urn

what remains of you

is angry

    no little drummer boy, here 

i move forward

leaving you

leaving the life we had

   all behind

telling the secrets

that almost took me out

but now i realize

many were yours

   not mine

stop your banging

on that fancy ass urn

wish it was anywhere but here 

   most days

but our kids know

where to find you

and so do i

   all too well

 

rataplan

when i don't answer 

you chase me in my sleep

i need peace

    quiet

i hear it in my dreams

trauma nightmares 

you chasing me

down some dark alley

    footsteps pounding

the beating of my heart

frighten, i wake

sit up, unsettled

   again

 

rataplan

time for quiet

fucking leave me alone

Jenny Olson 2/19/25

Jemmy Olson The Poet © 2025