poverty

LIFE BEHIND THE RAILROAD ( #TBT )

/ Janna Hill / Leave a comment

I have been doing a lot of reflecting these past couple of weeks. Convalescents affords me that luxury; and let me tell you all of life feels like a luxury- a new lease on life.

If you follow me on TikTok you know I survived being electrocuted late last month. The after effects are a pain and still manifesting. Still, I am sooo grateful to be on the topside of the soil.

Anywho, I thought I would share some of my reflecting with this poem from Getting Me Back.

A little aside: My last visit to the old place was about twenty years ago. It was one of those random stops; my youngest son was in high school and we were on our way home from a dental appointment.

I said, “Hey you wanna see where I lived once as a child?”

Being the adventurous soul that he is he said, “sure!”

So, without further adieu, here you go.

For illustration to feed your imagination only XoXo

🖤~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~🖤

Life behind the railroad tracks

We called home a wooden shack

Lulled to sleep by passing trains

A tattered roof deterred the rains

Chilling winds crept through the walls

Carrying echoes of coyote calls

Two to three in every bed

With coats and quilts to cover our heads

Winter’s cruelty calmed us none

We unfurled early to meet the sun

Neither ice nor snow could hold us back

In hopeless times we crossed that track

Coon hunts and rat kills, boy we had fun

Don’t think it strange, it’s just what we done

June bugs and fireflies, the games that they sparked

Freeze tag and chase we played in the dark

We watched the train as it come and it go

The height of intrigue was to see a hobo


My life was carefree, the world a front door

I wasn’t concerned about being so poor

Our laughs outweighed most of the pains

Life came and went just like the trains


I sometimes reflect on that little old shack

And life behind the railroad track

Laughter rings over a muted cry

With a smile in my heart and a tear in my eye


No times are not tough but times are not fair

We done what we must to get here from there

For ice nor snow could hold us back

In hopeless times we crossed that track.

  • True story. Forney Texas 1970 something

Poem from Getting Me Back (The Voices Within)

About the Author ( #TBT )

/ Janna Hill / Leave a comment

1998 About the Author was literally the bio I picked for my first book of poetry Pose Prose & Poems (My Thoughts Exactly)

Ahhh I was so naïve. In hindsight even my most sinister & darkest moments at that time were no more than a cloudy day.

I was cursed with curiosity

Blessed with being poor

The fifth of seven children

Who could ask for more?

More fun than one should want for

More fights than one could win

More plates than food to go on

Yet I’d do it all again.

A SPECIAL THANKS TO all who have touched my life and allowed me into theirs. Remember, light casts a shadow, so stand in the light.

Friday’s Free-for-All (A Quick Snippet)

/ Janna Hill / Leave a comment

Famine & Fortune sharecropper's son (488x800)

Click the cover and get a copy.

From his seat in the rear he could see the entire café and a portion of the adjoining store, the same store he was determined to visit and purchase a decent bill of groceries before the day was up.
** Liam studied the room; watched as men felt blindly for cups and sopped dry biscuits in air while soaking up the news of investors going broke. All eyes were on Wall Street but truth be told, the market crash paled in comparison to the Navarro county drought.
**He watched as a billion dust particles danced overhead, swaying recklessly in rays of smoke stained sunshine until the weight of grease and nicotine and worry forced them to settle.  The grimy mist settled on everything – on everyone. It covered every field cap and fedora. Without prejudice it landed on burnt necks and white collars alike and no one, other than Liam appeared to notice. He listened to the moans and grunts that followed each turning page. Some lingered on the specifics, others on the gruesome photographs but at the end of breakfast they all shrugged their shoulders and went back to waiting.

Excerpt provided byBooks2Read & Janna Hill

A Poem & A Picture (Hungry Eyes)

/ Janna Hill / Leave a comment

I said I would try to focus on unknown poets this year, and I will, after this digression.

Merle Haggard passed away yesterday, he was known as “the poet of the common man” but we called him the poor man’s poet. It’s no secret that I grew up poor, and now the fact that I thought the name of this song was My Mama’s Hungry Eyes, is no longer a secret. These lyrics always made me think of my own mother. They make me think of her now, no longer with hungry eyes… her and daddy, no longer struggling.

Rest in Peace & Happy Birthday Merle.  Say Hi to Mama & Daddy for me.

Merle Ronald Haggard (April 06, 1937 – April 06, 2016)

Six or seven years ago
Hard times
Better times

Hungry Eyes by Merle Haggard

A canvas-covered cabin in a crowded labor camp

Stand out in this memory I revived

‘Cause my daddy raised a family there, with two hard-working hands

And tried to feed my mama’s hungry eyes

He dreamed of something better, and my mama’s faith was strong

And us kids were just too young to realize

That another class of people put us somewhere just below

One more reason for my mama’s hungry eyes

Mama never had the luxuries she wanted

But it wasn’t ’cause my daddy didn’t try

She only wanted things she really needed

One more reason for my mama’s hungry eyes

I remember daddy praying for a better way of life

But I don’t recall a change of any size

Just a little loss of courage, as their age began to show

And more sadness in my mama’s hungry eyes

Mama never had the luxuries she wanted

But it wasn’t ’cause my daddy didn’t try

She only wanted things she really needed

One more reason for my mama’s hungry eyes

Oh, I still recall my mama’s hungry eyes

 

Waiting

/ Janna Hill / 5 Comments

I honestly didn’t know who this man was (I’m sheltered like that) until Sara’s post exposed him here on WordPress. No, I do not live in a cave though I have often wished I did.

The thing that moved me other than his world renown photography is that Steve McCurry’s Simple Act of Waiting  told in pictures is [chillingly] what I imagined when I wrote Waiting. I seriously got goosebumps.

If you’re like me (sheltered and horrible with names) or you are lucky enough to live in a cave, that doesn’t matter – I know you will recognize his photos when you see them. Who could forget the eyes of the Afghan girl starring out from the cover of National Geographic? Who would want to?

Waiting

For hopes that hung on a chicken bones
For hearts that lived in chains
For pods of green that died unknown
While waiting for the rain

For dreams left bare on empty prayer
For souls that wished in vain
For tears unshared in mute despair
While waiting for a change

For you and I and all mankind
For worlds where peace was slain
For faith and mind no man can bind
We wait and wait again

Poem first published in Interior Verse © 2012. Republished 2018 in Getting Me Back