Why Poetry (from Getting Me Back)
Because it hurts deeper
Tastes sweeter
Laughs louder
And lets me know I’m alive.
♥️💙💜
Don’t forget to read a poem, write a poem, share a poem, heck Be a poem.
Write on!
I was thinking of Leia today. She was a dog my daughter rescued from euthanasia & left with us on the farm.
Her crime? I’m not sure other than being an undesirable white shepherd; a black sheep that sullied the breeding pool.
Leia was oftentimes mistaken for a husky because of her beautiful icy blue eyes. I never cared, I simply thought she was beautiful.
We could never make her understand the boundaries of the 10 acre farm – she felt sure it extended to a half mile radius.
Finding the photo of a book cover with her (playing the part of Gus) left me a little nostalgic.
It’s oddly amazing how animals touch our lives. …Our hearts.
In loving memory of Princess Leia.
I’ll see you in the clouds one day.
Well we are in the final hours of Women’s History Month or Herstory as it’s been announced daily for the last 31 days.
Every year, March is designated Women’s History Month by presidential proclamation. The month is set aside to honor women’s contributions in American history.
I guess that’s a good thing. Either way, here’s my annual contribution in all her glory.
The poem below was inspired by the sage advice I received years ago from an elderly lady who truly fought to make a difference in the role (and treatment) of women in society. I feel she made a historical impact by influencing the small groups around her. She certainly left an impression with me.
I won’t name her because her M.O was to act subtly and not bring attention to herself. Surprisingly she got a lot accomplished with her (ur-um) antics. RIP A
We did not burn our bras but wore them proudly; Holding–supporting–glorifying the mammary glands that would feed the next generation;
For the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world.
We did not give animated voices to our vaginas for the world to hear but let them speak in secret whispers that moved mountains.
We did not make a spectacle in the streets to prove our equality For we knew in our hearts [already] that we were superior.
The above poem is from Getting Me Back (The Voices Within)
Happy Friday y’all & remember tomorrow starts National Poetry Month.
An old man once told me, “Saint Patrick ran the snakes out of Ireland and now they rule the world.”
I thought I would share that belief along with a little history. Oh, and a little poem.
St. Patrick’s Day, feast day (March 17) of St. Patrick, patron saint of Ireland. Born in Roman Britain in the late 4th century, he was kidnapped at the age of 16 and taken to Ireland as a slave. He escaped but returned about 432 CE to convert the Irish to Christianity. By the time of his death on March 17, 461, he had established monasteries, churches, and schools. Many legends grew up around him—for example, that he drove the snakes out of Ireland and used the shamrock to explain the Trinity.
Source: Brittanica
Poem by Janna Hill.
I ran it through Snapchat and laughed all by myself. 😂
Ain’t love grand?
Sure it is… but sometimes it’s not.
Sometimes it is tattered and torn and embittered…
Sometimes it’s so snarled and twisted it leaves nothing but ashes in its wake. Take it from Ishmael.
Love IS grand – until it ain’t. If you have a real love and a healthy relationship you should celebrate that every day. Don’t be the characters I write.
Roses From Ishmael was originally published as a single& then in Once Upon a Dead Gull and Short Stories & Such.
This short is available Wherever books are sold. Including Barnes & Noble & Google Books/ Play
On my side of the world the winter solstice is here. That makes for a long, long night.
Here’s hoping your’s is comfortable & calm.
It’s hard to believe this compilation was published in 2015.
My how time drags when you’re standing still.
Three short stories. Two deranged love affairs.
Available at your favorite ebook store.
Oh, and Happy New Year.
XoXo
“ All eyes were on Wall Street, but truth be told, the market crash paled in comparison to the Navarro County drought.”
The news of Black Tuesday came and went as little more than dry morsels between flapjacks and red-eyed gravy. Black Thursday was no different. Margin calls and ticker-talk; it was all a foreign language to the average man of Navarro county. New York, Chicago and any place not adjacent to the dying province could have just as well been another country – another planet.
Suicides headlined newspapers across the globe. Although desperate men (and women) chose gas or bullets; poison or tablets to avoid poverty the stories of men leaping from windows sold more papers and it seemed to pacify the masses, at least for a while.
EIGHT MORE TAKE THE PLUNGE.
The headlines went on and on. Tales of a brutal bearish market where stock prices were plummeting and fortunes were being dissolved. The days grew long and the soup lines grew longer as billions of dollars were lost, except for the sparse crowd who knew how to short the market and profit from despair.
The caste system was readjusting; the prudent wealthy settled into middle-class; the so called middle-class went back to being poor and the poor resorted to begging or starving. Even the outcasts felt the impact.
Amidst all of the chaos and realigning there was one morphological thing that everyone understood; a fact that every race, creed, class and religion agreed upon – the roaring twenties had come to a crashing halt. Literally.
A somnolent bedraggled man stood in the doorway of Crom’s Cafe and eyed the headline of the Navarro County Herald. He thoughtlessly tapped his hat against his thigh to loosen the grit before tossing a nickel into the box that read COFFEE & TOAST 5¢. There were a dozen nickels alongside his.
The usual crowd shuffled in, in their habitual manner. More coffee was poured into waiting mugs, more nickels dropped into the box, a few at the bar ordered a real breakfast and those who could afford to buy a copy of The Navarro County Herald unfurled their paper.
Liam inconspicuously glanced at the man’s paper next to him. The dismal headline meant nothing to most tenant farmers. It meant even less to Liam Weir. He saw it as one less gluttonous banker and they could not die fast enough to suit him.
And greedy cotton ginners can go to hell right along with `em.
Feast & Famine (the Sharecropper’sSon) is available on sale at your favorite retailer.
And psssst Google has it listed at 98¢
The Real Janna Hill in 