(Stoned & Poetic)
He lives in a shack
with a dog and a cat
The shack is out back
by his mama’s house
In the house there’s a couch,
I think he has a wife and a mouse
And they are all full of crack,
except the dog and the cat.
Do these crackers make me look fat?
…
*THIS IS WHY SOME PEOPLE should not get high and say “write this down. ” You old hippie, you know who you are.
Poem published in Getting Me Back ( The Voices Within)
Well we mixed things up a little bit this year. We are skipping Christmas celebrations entirely and roadtripping instead.
There are a few that will miss having the traditional country Christmas at the Hill house and I regret that. But, our friend/family unit is large so I know they will still have a happy Christmas; at least I pray they do.
As for myself I need this for a number of reasons. I think it will be good for the hubby too.
You know it is not healthy to stew in your own miseries. God did not intend for us to be unhappy but… somehow we find misery. Misery might not even have us on her radar but we’ll jump up, waving like a fool yelling, “Yo, misery, here I am. You forgot about me.” Yep, we are a sottish lot!
So now, my spirit and my flesh feel distressed along the hatefulness of winter approaching…. I don’t love it. It worsens the feeling of despair.
The harshness. The coldness. The dying of everything around me…
Misery and Winter are soul sisters and all I have to say to either of them is, “I do not love you. Either of you! So f*<k off!!”
Sooo, instead of stewing in all the woes I cannot fix I talked to God, said my prayers and then… I said fuck it.
I know that word offends some people- it use to offend me too. Now…
I say it a lot. Fuck it.
Thank God my mother cannot hear me.
Ahhh. With all of that out of the way let me share a bit of poetry that has become a tradition for the winter solstice.
Keep an eye out for misery and do not invite her in. Guard your hearts, keep them warm my friends. Brighter days await.
She would be 66 years old today. Instead, she is frozen in time at 17 and I ….
I sit with what I have left of her – a lot of cherished memories, a handful of photographs, her purse, her wallet, her 45 records and her old scrap book.
𝘏𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳. 🥂
Our formative years shape our perspective and the culmination of our experiences spark the creative juices.
Sometimes the juices they spark are as sweet as honey and nectar … or as tart as a key lime … as sour as a pickle … but sometimes they are bitter.
So so bitter.
May usually has a very positive influence on my mood despite being the anniversary month of the death of my older sister 48 years ago and my mother eleven years ago.
I think May has got me in my feels. A little too much I might add because my emotions are running the gamut friends!! Not in a creative kind of way either.
I just miss them. I miss my mother.
And.
And I find myself rehashing the days that sparked a few of my creative juices.
Today I was going over that stormy day eleven years ago- the day that inspired the following poem.
The Last
The last bit of sorrow swelling
from closed eyes…
sitting as if waiting…
near the temple at the outer corner…
The storm outside was magnificent!
Sheets of rain surrounded us like walls of glass, but we broke through at 90 miles per hour.
Rolling thunder rattled the windows, as if mumbling words
only we could understand.
Brilliant shocks of light
from every direction lighted the way;
each dazzling strike followed by ostentatious paternal claps that said, Enough! Take my hand – hurry!
The thick charcoal sky parted in bilious shades of gray like the Red Sea…
And I saw…
The last moment –
the last millisecond
the last breath.
The last bit of sorrow
and pain
and worry.
The last tear sitting –
as if waiting
near the temple
at the outer corner of her left eye.
I caught it…
I watched it soak into the edge
of a paper napkin and sealed it in a tiny bag.
No words were necessary.
She was out of earshot –
out of the audible range
of the childlike pleadings of stay.
She was at last where she longed to be;
the two of them as one again.
Somewhere safe above the storm,
laughing like children and holding hands.
It was the last time I saw
her and daddy together.
*It was the worst spring storm I can recall. I had barely made it home before the bottom fell out and I was enjoying the heavenly show. I know it seems ‘abnormal’ but I do love a good storm. This one was raging an hour’s drive in any direction.
I was on the phone talking to my youngest sister when the doctor called.
I had just told her our mother was alert and talking, she looked good and her condition was stable. Moments later the doctor was contradicting me.
“Your mother went into cardiac arrest blah blah blah. I was not aware of the DNR blah blah blah. We are in the process of trying to restart her heart, doing CPR blah blah blah. Do you want us to continue blah blah blah?”
There was no problem with the connection yet his gentle voice came in shrill broken fragments. I had him [the doctor] on one line, my youngest sister on another and I was frozen between them. I must have asked, “what should I do?”
I recall my sister choking out the words “let her go.”
My husband had the truck ready before I could hang up the phone.
The photo above is where I laid flowers on the memorial today; the memorial I made for myself – where I planted the last tear that I mentioned in the poem.
Purple was her favorite color. There is only a small red sandstone (from her native east Texas) marking the teardrop’s final resting place.
I was cleaning house (so to speak) and look what I found in the drafts folder.
Dadgummit! You did again old woman!
Oh well, I will not be deterred. Late— but not deterred.
Thank goodness there’s not a late fee for such oversights.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a *jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Jocund was a new word for me —or possibly one that was stored deep, deep, deep somewhere in the cobwebs of my memory.
Of course, I had to look it up. I’m a good student like that. 
I’m also one that likes to share information so in case you don’t wanna look it up here you go. Complements of Merriam-Webster dictionary.
Jocund
jo·cund also ˈjō-(ˌ)kənd: marked by or suggestive of high spirits and lively mirthfulness.
“a poet could not but be gay, in such a jocund company” —William Wordsworth
Between the garden and the grandkids I have completely neglected NPM. tsk tsk tsk
I must somehow set aside a bit of quality time for National Poetry Month in days remaining. I just must! Maybe I’ll set an alarm for that too. I only have fifty-gillion to five-gazillion alarms already.
So today I said to myself, “self you need to read one and post one.” Of course that won’t catch me up. So I read Too Much Pain by Donna Ashworth. And for a post I went willy-nilly and typed “22” into one of my files and this is what popped up.
Some people do the same thing when looking for a bible verse to inspire/guide/comfort and swear that fate will always give you an appropriate response.
I’m just over here going hmmm.
Happy reading & writing. Now y’all go read or write something poetic.
Write on!
I can hardly believe that I first shared Edge by Sylvia Plath in April 2013.
It seems like yesterday and a lifetime ago at the same time.
I honestly enjoyed revisiting the discussion and dissection of Edge and poor Sylvia Plath. You should give it a read.
Meanwhile I present to you…
Edge by Sylvia Plath 1963
The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
Welcome to April. Welcome to NPM (National Poetry Month) and welcome to my home.
Well, my blog home. Feel free to hang out, have a drink & peruse the smorgasbord.
Heck, feel free to shoot me a line and/or a link to your favorite poem or poet. Old or new- I love `em all.
I don’t know if I should feel bad that I’m a week behind in getting started with NPM.
Shoot I run behind on a lot of things in my old age.
And since being electrocuted a year and a half ago… well I ain’t been quite right.
I’m laughing at myself a little. Not because of electrocuting myself but because I use it as an excuse sometimes.
The truth is I have never been quite right. 🤣
Anywho, I digress.
As I was saying, it is National Poetry Month. To kick it off I’ll share a tiny poem and the cover reveal for Getting Me Back.
The new cover has only updated on the ebook. We’re running into delays on the print.
Because It hurts deeper, tastes sweeter, laughs louder, and lets me know I’m alive.
The epiphany has passed –
now gone are the 12 days of Christmas.
The winter sun is setting low; his colors scattered like coals of fire across the western sky.
Our souls are satiated and hopeful of the things to come and so we sleep.
And we sleep.
And we sleep.
I was just pondering, a thing which I do often these days, while enjoying a glorious Texas sunset and these words came to me.
I think it is the first creative thing I’ve written in… well I don’t know how long.
And now, while sharing this with you all, the vexing lines of William Butler Yeats come to mind.
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
More to ponder no doubt.
Here in the northern hemisphere today is the winter solstice, the first day of winter, aka midwinter. It is reportedly the shortest day of the year hence the longest night.
It is also that time of year I routinely share this bit of poetry with you all.
Torn from the pages of Getting Me Back ( The Voices Within)
Keep your hearts warm my friends. Brighter days await.
The Real Janna Hill in 