Maybe it starts small
then festers,
a slight here a slight there,
then pesters
presses on,
grows to fill the insides
the way air pumps up balloons,
contained yet unrestrained
when let go.

It’s senseless,
who has the time.

All this, within the body balloon,
blood-red corpuscles run the race
course with fuel-ups at Jugular
& Aorta Avenues,
avoiding Stroke Station
like a bat out of hell – but
wait! what a wreak! leaving nothing but
burn-out wearing a purple face.

It’s so senseless
who has the time.

Its consumption can kill you,
obsession steal from you,
turn you inside out
throw you for a loop
end over end over end,
over and over and over again.

It’s so senseless
who has the time.

Stoking the ever-burning fire,
anger and revenge become you,
when hate is life’s only desire
who would want to dwell in
a place so base.

It precludes love, tenderness, woman
and wife,
a heat-seeking missile
like attracts like,
hate has sharp eyes and a tongue like a knife.

It’s senseless,
who has the time.

so,

lob your linguistic smart bombs,
I hope you find yourself.

 

Copyright © 2016 by Janet Leigh.  All rights reserved.

#2

Please don’t go.
I know what it’s like to be gone.
The getting back is long.

#1

Take heart,
a revival of awareness and outrage
will be hard to stem;
there’s more of us than them.

Let us not forget
our heritage won in blood
shed by forefathers,

sons mothers daughters
father’s will and freedom’s gift
*To Be Left Alone*

the right to decide
where we live, who we help and
what we think, is ours

not based on kings screed
men’s greed, slaves freed, those who lead
or kangaroo courts.

We alone decide
with God’s grace and will as guide
be governed wise;

men of truth and faith,
goodwill towards All, self-abased,
best from common place.

Our Nation shall, Sir
Wise, survive the test of time
devised by wise men.

Nations face crises,
our is not exempt.  Beware.
Freedom course our blood!

Don’t give in, my friend,
though our future’s looking grim,
run down by misfits

everyone! Done in
for love of money, pride, sin.
Let God’s work begin

in hearts re-renewed.
Truth’s revival starts to brew
one mind at a time.

Let us not forget.
It is WE who guarantee
our rights and freedoms!

Not government,
police or Indian chief.
It’s INDIVIDUALS.

Let us not forget!

Copyright © 2012 by Janet Leigh.  All rights reserved.

Published originally on 4 July 2012

Too soon for pithy words
pious airs or platitudes;
passings of great magnitude
punctuate a harsh season.

The remains of my life
are scattered to the far reaches
of mind, yet
here and now, an image,
laid to rest

between red buds,
rock pyre-splayed daffodils,
lilacs, last words, the heart
remains (Scott cleaves to Rascal)
ashes to ashes
within his master’s arms.

A sacred grave
left behind
to make way
for an old new life
in different parts
among indifferent hearts

I left
(Virginia homestead)
a sentinel
over cherished, sacred ground.

I search for words big enough to convey
emptiness disbelief hurt sorrow
bewilderment forgetfulness (flare-up)
staring-off-into-incomprehensible-options
data-overload (pleurisy) (smashed face)
analysis-paralysis anger shock
(influenza) (bronchitis) (mild[?]pneumonia)
hopelessness silence (flare-up)
inconceivable accidents
inappropriate behavior laughter crying
etc.
etc.
etc.

I wear a black cloud like a hat.

October 23, 2015
I howl
like a grieving
dog:
(emotional critical mass)
in my blanketed-arms
our sweet little furkid Tess, died.
It is
inconsolable hung-heart-hell-hurt.
(All things considered)

Contessa ChiChi Clark,
the last thread of the fabric
of my woven family
of impossibilities,

 (to all that is in-between
now and then, and
what’s been left out
to whom and when)

impossible

to find words pithy enough
to convey
that which fills the black hole
of the whole of my heart.

Image borrowed from zazzle.com

Copyright © 2016 by Janet Leigh.  All rights reserved.

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In the moment;
while being one with nature
our soul is quickened.

Ides of March will loom
in Our Times for world-corrupt,
as a bad omen

for unchecked power,
rules can change: see Human Spring.
Action speaks louder

than words ever did.
Caution: Do not mock freedom-
fighters will prevail;

rogue orders obeyed,
thine ovis Idulius,
invite casualties.

EVA

I heard an angel sing,
my silver chord affirms
this; a voice so sweet
so pure, no crystal known
could ring as clear,
nor take the soul so far
from earth, or all the pain upon it.

This voice sang through,
this voice rang true,
country jazz or bluesy blues
she sang them all,
she paid her dues,
made strong men cry too.

I heard this angel sing,
my silver chord affirms
this; so-tall Georgia trees
abloom sunlit breeze
her bridge too far
for silver birds to fly,
her troubled waters all gone by.

I think willows weep now

sway mournfully, whisper
eva eva eva, we grow so high
to shade you so,
if only through the thicket
you once more would go.

I heard this angel sing,
my silver chord affirms
this; eva knew misery
and merriness run through
man, yet had no bridge
across troubled waters – and
her courage – all women giving birth.

We’ll remember you as you sang us
through fields of barley

too.

These falling leaves drift past
my window, I hear you
in every color red green

and gold.

I swear, eva, if I had
a wonderful world to give you,
I could never weave one as fine
as you have done,
it takes a journeyman to portray
life’s rainbow design, and
your heartsong rings through it.

All rights reserved © Janet Leigh

In Loving Memory of
Eva Cassidy 1963-1996

You will always be remembered, Eva.  A sweet soul such as yours comes but once in a century, yet lives on eternally as love never dies.  Love lives as close as the nearest heart, yet reaches into the highest heavens; love blooms anew in every thought of you.  You are greatly missed, Eva.

*A poem collage of selected songs on Eva Cassidy's Live at Blues Alley CD.

**Credit for songs of various artists in poem collage: Paul Simon - Bridge Over Troubled Waters; Buffy St. Marie -
Tall Trees in Georgia; Sting - Fields of Gold; Traditional - Golden Thread.

As liberty dies
so the voice which upholds it
silence itself.

The rights that were left,
lawlessness killed them on sight;
left no hope behind.