#TBT (A Poem & A Picture)

Getting Me Back (the original poem)

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.

If you recognize the above poem and picture it may be because you saw it two years ago. Or… maybe you read the book.

Let’s Get this PaRtY Started! (A Poem & A Picture) NPM 2018 Baby!

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!!

Winter in Texas

In the dark of the moon with the Winter Solstice only days away…

Winter Sabbatical
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.

juniper berries red ornament.2 (800x521)
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. Eagerly 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 occasion when romance blossoms, proven with sentimental cards and candy and flowers; V-day — a cruel day for a lonely or broken heart; dinner date and obligatory sex.
Gaudy clumps of snow — bulky and shaped as if they had been intended for hail tumble down like chopped feathers. Alas, a reason to utilize the fireplace and marvel at the pansies.
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.

From Getting Me Back (The Voices Within)

I wear your shoes

We had pulled over and began hiking a random hill in Eureka Springs Arkansas. I thought we were going for a leisurely drive so I was not dressed for such an occasion; nonetheless I followed the others up the hill. I slipped and giggled, the sound caught my son’s attention.  His eyes scanned me quickly. Seeing I was unharmed he shook his head and smiled.

“Are you wearing Mamaw’s shoes?” he asked. I nodded and laughed, brushing away the dirt and leaves before wriggling my foot back into the loafer.

“You should write about that.” He said, resuming his sure footed trek.

He did not need to say more, we both understood.

Mama's Shoes (800x484).jpg

I wear your shoes

I have your purse …

Filled with scraps of paper –

Scribblings of ancient phone numbers,

and a message from me, the old me.

I have your wallet –

Your social security card,

a useless driver’s license,

a few crinkled one dollar bills

and a handful of change.

I have your letters –

A few anyway,

Written to daddy

Unstamped envelopes with no address

Because there is no zip code

for the dead.

I wear your shoes –

Black loafers with a silver buckle

They fit my feet comfortably

But they pinch my heart

The sole, too thick with patience

and forgiveness and tolerance

Slows my step and weighs me down

The pain of the soft ebony leather

is almost more than I can bear

I place one foot in front of the other

and wonder…

Will this mile ever end?


Taken from the poetic memoir Getting Me back (The Voices Within). Those are the actual shoes written about in the photo above.

Tomorrow morning, Sunday May 14th, I will share a [more upbeat] Mother’s Day gift with my followers (please share it with yours), in the afternoon I will  happily celebrate the day with my children (I hope you spend the day with yours), Sunday night I will cry myself to sleep knowing that next Sunday May 21st marks the fourth year of her passing. Mama & Cameron.1.jpg

Monday I will blow my nose, find something to laugh about and get busy living because that is how it should be.

Of Poetry (Resident of Insanity)

Of Poetry

Be it good, bad or indifferent I suppose I will always be a poet at heart.

One might think “real” writing (you know things like novels, short stories and blogs) would dissuade poetic tendencies but it doesn’t… and it shouldn’t.

Someone once said of poetry, “I honestly don’t know why it flies through my head but it’s like an energy that must be loosed and the only way I know to let it go is to jot it down.” Okay that someone was me but we’ve already established that authors and poets are insane a peculiar lot. At least that’s what I keep hearing from the voices living outside of my head.

Admittedly I tend to write disturbing prose. Why? I have no freaking idea other than the above explanation and this one just flew in.

Resident of Insanity


He gnashed and smashed his teeth to bits

Hissing shards of peppermint

On face and lace chipped molars lit

While gums and tongue did chide


The air like mud was thick with scent

Red with dread and white with grit

Dentin mixed with blood and spit

Where insanity did reside


He snatched and scratched at lights not lit

Held cries in eyes seen through slits

Pleading, “Someone give a shit

And plump this crumpled pride”


But none could hear his broken mouth

Or see the lights had all gone out

With hand on heart he faced the south

And they say that’s where he died


*Here’s this year’s first reminder that April is National Poetry Month so you have plenty of time to be thinking about it. Whether you read my poetry or that of someone else plan on expanding your horizons.

P.S. My works are not always of such unsettling nature. They’re worse when I’m happy 😉

Weekly Photo Challenge (Inside)

For this weeks photo challenge I went immediately to an old jewelry box and looked inside.  I recall rummaging through my grandmothers costume jewelry like a pirate with precious booty.

Inside the Jewelry Box

Mine is filled with trinkets of cheap metals,  faux pearls and inexpensive stones but they are treasures to me and every piece holds a dear memory of the bestower.  This weeks theme also inspired me to share a prose from Interior Verse (which is free via kindle right now) titled The Chest of Hope.


The Chest of Hope

The Chest of Hope

It’s just a small brown wicker basket not built to hold much and a bit tattered from over handling.

Its beautiful warm browns have dulled and faded with age on the outside but inside the natural luster still shines. Its top is held in place by make do leather ties because the first woody hasps were worn in two and now dangle loosely without purpose.

What hands made the airy coffer?  I wonder as I stroke the thin smooth fibers.

Was it one as handsome as the tight weaves frayed by time?

Though dust has long since claimed his finger prints-

I know that he was a weaver; I imagine that he was a dream weaver…

Diligently intertwining each cane thread with my hopes in mind…

A place to store my breathing dreams so that they could be kept safe and close at hand, amassed in a beautiful fibrous reminder.

A quaint little chest of hope I will one day hand down to a child, a grand child or perhaps even a great grand child when I have used up its contents.

When I have taken the dusty lid off one last time and felt deep into the corners to make certain I haven’t left any ideas untouched.

I imagine when I offer it up to him or her they will look at me like I’m crazy (and I may well be) then they’ll tear the lid off expecting to find a treasure of sorts before saying with disappointment, “It’s just an empty old basket.” It is then I will share with them the wishes and ideas that were stored and later born of that basket. How they were kept safe till I could see them come to fruition. And one more time I will imagine the handsome dark skinned man who meticulously weaved the wonderful piece…a place to store my dreams because dreams need room to breathe.

Then I will show them how to place their own aspirations into the old auburn chest with caution to keep them safe, to nurture their hopes and give them time to mature.

And if my last wish were to come true I will see them realize the birth of their visions.