Tissue thin, transparent bits and pieces by the millions I gave to you…
To be received, to be tended
or to be rendered useless as you deemed fit
old inhabitants of terra firma.
Slivers of my soul….
What did you do with these pieces of me?
Where are the misplaced microscopic stars of my spirit, where are they laid?
Did they dissolve beneath a soft autumn rain?
Or burn in the heat of a cruel summer day?
Were they consumed by the dust mites of fate?
Giving me away was easy….
Getting me back seems nearly impossible.
I saw a fleck of glitter this morning,
caught in an abandoned web of time.
I retrieved it ever so carefully, pulling away the tiny choking strands; polishing it in the palm of my hand till it shone bright like a minuscule star… exploding…
and I recognized it as the twinkle I once saw
in a smiling photo of me.
*The poem Getting Me Back lent its name (and guidance) in the memoir styled book of poetry. It also lured me back from the land of “bat shit crazy” 😉
Before I share let me say, I am aware of the cynical tone of this piece.
I said, “of this piece” because I am not a cynical person. Sarcastic, yes, but not cynical.
It’s not the quarantine or the Covid 19 bug that is bugging me, hell it’s not even the empty shelves in the grocery stores or having to wipe with an oak leaf. That is not a big deal, remember I was a piss poor country bumpkin so this just reminds me of happier days as a child.
So what brought about this Friday’s Free-For-All on this Good Friday? It’s the peee-puuul! Well not ALL the people – and definitely not you friend. (Insert winky face, smiley face and through in a bunch of virtual hugs)
Sigh. People never fail to amuse me.
So while I am feeling amused during this holy time I thought I’d get up on my Hickory stump podium and compose a poem. (And a picture)
Costumes
You look for your Jesus in a cheap red suit in December and a bunny suit come Easter.
You dress Him in costumes and [unknowingly?] mock His sacrifice.
You keep Him naked, wounded and nailed to a cross; not to remind you that he was the Passover Lamb but to have him languish in his suffering. You sacrifice him over and over again, creating molten images to hold him on the cross.
You have married Him to Santa and a goddess named Easter/Ishtar; you worship their imaginary offspring of pretty packages and hard boiled eggs, savory sweets and bunny rabbits… none of which can save you. Ha! These objects of your affection are inanimate – they cannot even save themselves!
You dress for the occasion – Sunday’s best. Is this your costume?
Donned in your fetching attire you sit down to feast and stuff your belly with unclean meats and your spirit starves. But it’s “holy”. .. So holy! You take it all in and shit it out. Cleansing?
Amidst fearful news you fret over toilet paper and regurgitate biblical verses [verses you haven’t taken the time to read, much less comprehend] and warn of Christ’s coming… of the great rapture.
The Real Janna Hill 