Those of you in the Southern Hemisphere are (hopefully) enjoying summer while us folks in the Northern Hemisphere are entering winter and the longest night of the year.
Though it is the Northern influence that spawned The Long Long Night, I wish you all a happy December solstice and warm poetic evening.
so without further adieu I give to you …
The Long Long Night
He would sculpt and I would write to get us through this thing called life – what seemed to be an aimless plight
The long, long night
I used pen and he used clay to cope with all the pain filled days which lived within our slow decay of
The long, long night
But in between the words and mud we found the art of making love and pacified the angst and blood of
The long, long night
Forsaken pages ripped and torn, spattered earth across the floor, graphite tales of love and war and
The long, long night
Come into my bed sweet angry lover, your tender calloused hands beneath the cover.
Find the place where none has been, beneath the ink and turning pin, get us through yet once again
Well there’s no partying for me tonight, unless you count Jimmy and me shaking our shoulders to Dick Clark’s New Years Rockin’ Eve.
I have succumbed to the winter crud. I don’t know if it is the flu, pneumonia, some foreign undiscovered disease or the common cold, but it has snapped the ‘party’ right out of me.
It is winter and `tis the season so… Que sera sera. I [or we] have to stay positive and find something to look forward to.
So here is a little something out of Getting Me Back for the home-bound whether by choice or circumstance. (The rest of you pArTy oN!)
Winter in Texas
The first frost arrived this week
Spit forth from the infinite stars like a sneeze leaving sprinkles of sugary ice on the landscape.
The remaining blades and leafs gave way and withered at daybreak leaving nothing but the scattered evergreens to give us hope…
No blooms worthy of expectancy.
However there is hardly anything more beautiful than a berry laden Juniper dotted with Cardinals; the Christmas tree with all of her ornaments pales in comparison.
Oh Christmas, we have that to look forward to – with the Santa Claus fable, the forgotten Jesus and colorful lights draped over bare limbs and the cherished red-nosed reindeer standing pretentiously on brown turf.
And New Year’s Eve – ah, the kissing; corks and fireworks detonate in unison to commemorate the failed promises yet to come. We gorge on black-eyed peas and cabbage, not earnestly expecting anything more than flatulence.
Let us not forget Valentine’s Day – the heart shaped holiday; a cardboard cutout of romantic blossoms; proven love with sentimental cards and candy and flowers…
V-day — a cruel occasion for the lonely and broken hearted who would today be happy with
that so-so dinner date and obligatory sex.
The days are so short – yet so long.
Alas, a reason to utilize the fireplace – don’t forget to plant your potatoes.
Gaudy clumps of snow, bulky and shaped as if they had been intended for hail, tumble down like chopped feathers. The pansies are happy, their pastel petals rise and smirk beneath the thin white blanket of ice mocking the frost bitten flowers beside them.
Next week’s forecast is warm and dry. We will take it, we have no choice.
We will ride the weather-coaster, counting the birthdays of dead leaders and full moons and scattered days of sunny and seventy-five while we wait for the ides of March to come marching in.
Firstly, my condolences to all those affected by Saturday’s hellish tornadoes. My thoughts and prayers are with you.
Many of my fondest early memories [as well as imaginative ideas] were born in Houston county among the pine trees and red dirt, particularly a tiny community called Weches.
Some of you may know a few of my characters have roots in Louisiana, Alabama and Mississippi – that is not happenstance. Those just happen to be a few of my favorite states.
Again, my heart goes out to those suffering loss and I hope you’ll forgive me for choosing this poem for today.
Confession: My afflictions are bitter-sweet.
In the Storm
I
reach for you…
With
every crack of thunder
I
hear you laugh…
Your
smile is every bolt of lightning.
The
drops of rain, you touching me,
with
unsalted tears…
No
more pain; no more regret.
I
raise my arms,
as
a child beckoning to be held
and
it pours.
My
grief is washed away by
stinging
pellets of a spring rain
Leaving
behind a clean slate
with
only memories of the most mundane,
most cherished moments of my life.
Credits: I created the heading image (Inside the Storm) from a compilation of images I found at Pixabay. (Thank you Pixabay contributors).
The poem, In the Storm was taken from this twisted book of poems. And… guess what?
For a limited time my partnering experiment with Smashwords lets the reader decide what they will pay. Yep! You decide.
Bear with me, I am feeling a little [selfish] nostalgia today. I’m not sorry either. Ahhh, I am wallowing in this stuff. No worries mate, I am still promoting poetry for National Poetry Month. That boy is a teenager now and those sweet dogs are no longer with us. Remember, lyricists are poets and lyrics are poems too.
…
Don’t blink Just like that you’re six years old and you take a nap and you Wake up and you’re twenty-five and your high school sweetheart becomes your wife Don’t blink You just might miss your babies growing like mine did Turning into moms and dads next thing you know your “better half” Of fifty years is there in bed And you’re praying God takes you instead Trust me friend a hundred years goes faster than you think So don’t blink
I will file this under Tusdays Tell All as well as the Poetry category because “Notso Fearless” has taken a big step in finding her voice and telling her truth.
Once
You told me once you sold your soul – in hopes that you would fly, you said angels wings were fairy tales and scripture? Lullabies.
The only trip we ever took was with a needle in our arm. I remember once – you shit yourself – after we had left the farm.
The farm that you grew up on where once you dreamed of fame – where mine was the only cherry picked – where once you knew my name.
In hindsight getting high was low – and I was as low as I could go. But not you, oh no.
When I finally kicked the habit you had no use for me. Turned out we had nothing in common, except the lunacy.
A million times I’d heard you sing and once I heard you cry. And once, just once, before they laid you to rest I thought I saw you fly.
The Real Janna Hill in 