by Janna Hill
I run into the rising sun
For hope & truth & good, I run
Through dampened clover kissed by dew
By weeping willows without a clue
O’er hills of heather and dunes of sand
Through paradise and no-man’s land
By babbling brooks and babbling men
Against the grain, against the wind
Snarled lips hiss, “It can’t be done.”
To them I whisper, “That’s why I run.”
The fountain of youth is a murky pond
Fed by deep springs of optimism
Where no one dares to swim
Doubting toes splash at the shoreline
Mouths turned down like fingernail moons
A nervous frog leaps,
Still, the ripple marks the flesh.
Above the Noise
by Janna Hill
Above the noise
I hear your voice
With an oh so mellow
Where sunbeams rain
Through nicotine stains
That remind me of your
… and I miss you.
It’s that time of year again…
And here we are–the same bat time, same bat channel as last year.
April is National Poetry Month/NPM. Whether you read my poetry or that of someone else, I only ask that you read; expand your horizons. Poetry is not only for scholars or ‘esteemed’ individuals – it is for everyone!!
There are a few days left in April but this is my farewell to 2017’s National Poetry Month.
(Cue the mice in the attic!)
Thank you to everyone who participated and to everyone who endured the participants.
If you have read, written or shared a poem this month congratulations – you have truly expanded your mind as well as your horizons. Now [for me and the mice] it is back to the
surreal world. Speaking of mice (urrumm) this is one of my favorite scenes from August Wolf which happens to be zero dollars right now. Yep, $0.00 April 28th – April 30th.
Excerpt from Chapter 3
“What do you think he meant?” Dale asked, running his thumb over the mouth of a half-empty bottle. “What could they do to you that would be worse than killing you?”
“I can think of a few things.” Jason answered, as he slowly pushed away from the table. “Any number of things.” His eyes remained fixed on a dim corner of the kitchen while his hand quietly seized the shooter at his side.
“Like what?” His friend asked, following the bead of his gun.
“Oh, they could…” Jason slowly cocked the pellet rifle and braced it against his right shoulder. “They could lock me up and throw away the key.” He squeezed the trigger and the pellet landed with a dull ping, leaving a miniscule hole near the baseboard.
“But your record was wiped clean. The bogus charges are gone, the punk that caused the trouble is gone and heck Jason, I think the judge is a goner too.”
“That doesn’t matter. They have more punks and more judges – they always have more.”
Dale craned his neck in the direction of the shot. Between the barrel of Jason’s gun and the hole, lay a small brown mouse. The creature immediately rolled onto its side; its tiny chest rising and falling; its caviar eyes staring frantically at nothing while its front legs scratched hopelessly at the air. Jason propped his rifle against the chair, and walked toward the mouse.
“They could cripple me.” He said solemnly as he picked up the tiny crippled mammal. Jason stroked the mouse with the pad of his finger, studying the wound he had inflicted. “They could torment me.” He clasped his palms around the animal and pressed. “They could mess up my mind and lock me away in a nursing home… just like they did August Wolf.” Dale watched the color drain from Jason’s face, saw his eyes glaze over with tears as squeezed until the panting and twitching stopped. Jason snorted, cleared his throat and regained his composure. He gently laid the mouse inside the garbage can. “I can imagine a lot of things that are worse than being dead, old pal.”
Okay, that was just one mouse but you know there were more lurking in the shadows – or the attic. There’s always more…
Q: Why The Titmouse by Ralph Waldo Emerson?
A: Because I have a few photos that need a home… and Titmouse’s are adorable.
Here was this atom in full breath,
Hurling defiance at vast death;
This scrap of valour just for play
Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray,
As if to shame my weak behaviour;
I greeted loud my little saviour,
‘You pet! what dost here? and what for?
In these woods, thy small Labrador,
At this pinch, wee San Salvador!
What fire burns in that little chest
So frolic, stout, and self-possest?
Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine;
Ashes and jet all hues outshine.
Why are not diamonds black and gray,
To ape thy dare-devil array?
And I affirm, the spacious North
Exists to draw thy virtue forth.
I think no virtue goes with size;
The reason of all cowardice
Is, that men are overgrown,
And, to be valiant, must come down
To the titmouse dimension.’
This was just a small snippet to accommodate my poor pictures. If you would like to read the poem in its entirety I borrowed it from Poem Hunter.
Oops, I almost forgot to plug Getting Me Back (The Voices Within)
Mary Mary quite contrary how does your garden grow?
😉 Now that is a poem anyone can appreciate.