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My Oakie Grandparents and them Cherokee Indians from Childhood

by


“I could jus squeeze the bejesus out of my Oakie grandparents cuz that’s how much I love’um. They live in a big magic house with hidin places to play in. Grandpa got day dreamin room with windows to look out at the mountains, watchin sunsets, playin gin rummy’n keepin a look out for who’s comin to visit. Ever night he explains how things was in Oklahoma back in the good ole days when it was wild’n wooly’n how he moved his family to Ada to build a post office for them Cherokees so they got mail. He says they weren’t nothin for miles on end cept’n a handful’a Oakies round about. Grandpa says they don’t like white people none’n that’s how come he learnt to talk Indian. He gonna teach me too if I make good grades. Grandpa says I make him crazy askin so many questions. He built a log cabin back’a the store. Sometimes I dream bout that little creek behind grandpa’s log cabin’n the water mill Grammy used for grindin corn for the Cherokees. I wish I was there in the evenin with grandpa spinnin yarns bout Ned Christy, the famous Cherokee bandit. I cry when he says white people caught up with Ned’n killed him. What’s wrong with white folks? Grandpa says kids back then made they own fun playin in the woods’n chewin rabbit tobacco growin wild. After sayin that, grandpa looks in my direction’n laughs sayin I oughtn’t to look for it cuz it’s called nicotine. Them Cherokees was always invitin him’n the family to all day stomp-dances’n barbecues. When I asked grandpa how he went from livin on a Cherokee reservation to now, he says he moved west with all them other hell raisin Oakies’n that’s how he landed in East Los Angles. Them Mexicans reminded him of Oklahoma, that’n the property bein so cheap’n all.
Grandpa says he believes in the American dream, that if folks not afraid to put in a hard day’s work, they can be anythin they wanna be. He says his sister, my great Aunt Alice, lives alone in the log cabin her great granddaddy built high up in the Ozark Mountains. Grandpa says Alice never married’n to hear him tell it, it lucky for mankind she didn’t. She grows her own vegetables, hunts for possum, makes her own moonshine, chops kindling for cold winters’n can kill a rat three yards away with one spit a tobacco. Whenever the G-Men Revenuers is brave enough to travel on foot the long ways up the mountain to her log cabin, she pulls out the welcome mat’n plugs they ass fulla buckshot. When Grammy hears me say “ass,” she bout to have a kanipshun fit. Grandpa jumps in real fast, explainin that I only said it on accounta I heard him sayin it. Anyways, he convinced Grammy we meant it in the donkey way. Anyways, when Alice run outta supplies, she rides her ol’ horse bareback down the thick, back woods to the nearest town where she’s well known in these parts. Mountain folks protect they own specially where them Revenuers is concerned. Grandpa reckons Alice been makin shine for the neighbors too. He says she can get a government check cuz’a her old age’n all, but she downright burrs up, refusin anythin smackin’a charity. Aunt Alice don’t believe in state aid’n she is quick to say it. Grandpa says she’s stubborn as a jackass, but it’s not good to get riled up cuz’a her temper’n in all. He paid good money for her a radio but she won’t use it none cuz theys no electric. One day when me’n him are workin the cards playin gin rummy’n him spinnin yarns, he looks up at me’n sayin, “You jus like Alice. Botha y’all made outta piss’n vinegar!” Grammy don’t preciate him usin swears to describe me, but I take it good like a compliment.
Grandpa found his self a way of gettin round usin swears in front of Grammy. He says, “Government’s a bunch of SOBs (that would be sons of bitches) they ought’ a stay out folks GD, (that would be goddamn,) business!” Grandpa says swearins an art form’n damnation to hell fire, he ain’t stoppin for any woman! (til Grammy walks into the room)
When he was young, Grandpa belonged to a literary society but nothin ever came of the short stories he wrote, him explainin he had too many mouths to feed to fiddle round spinnin yarns. I love it when he reads his own poetry but I cry when he reads Mr. Robert Frost out loud cuz I know in my heart, it’s his way’a sayin he’s leavin soon. I caint hardly stand thinkin bout it.
The woods are lovely dark and deep
But I have promises to keep And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep”

An excerpt from Tharon Ann

An Excerpt from Tharon Ann

by

Tharon Ann
excerpt from childhood


Can you hear me Mister God? Is they two heavens – Jim Crow heaven for colored folks’n different one for whites?

When me’n Mama is ridin on the bus one day, I look across the aisle to see a woman wearin a nurse uniform sittin by the window. She wearin a blue cape with shiny medals’n a hat like the kind soldier boys wear in the movies. The man sittin beside her keeps pattin her mouth, so she don’t make a mess. Look to me like she gots spit runnin down her chin. I don’t know what to make of it. Durin the bus ride, folks turnin they heads ever which way starin’n laughin ever time the man pats her mouth. I guess he gots enough of them bus people cuz all of a sudden the man stands up’n turns round. He explainin to the bus people, the woman sittin in the seat next to him worked for the Red Cross durin the war, that she was in a Japanese concentration camp’n they cut her tongue out. He tells the bus people he pats her mouth so dribbles don’t get on her uniform. He’s tryin real hard to protect her from gettin her feelins hurt, but they hurt anyways. When he stops talkin, he pulls the cord to let the driver know they wantin to get off. Ever one is real quiet when the man helps the woman to the front of the bus; they lookin straight ahead, not lookin to the left or to the right, not sayin nothin when they get off. No one looks’um in the eye. The bus people keep starin at’um through the window, some lookin down at they laps in shame. I dream bout that nurse. I pray Jesus give her a new tongue.
Mister God, how come you let them cut out her tongue? I don’t want to be nothin like the bus people.
I love goin to church with Mama but I cain’t figure out in my head why if she thirsty, she got to use a different water fountain. She caint go to the white church, she caint go inside the cafeteria, she caint come in the front door to our house. Separate schools, separate churches, separate ever thing for folks like Mama. They even Jim Crow in white families that’s poor as dirt daubers, where color folks take carre of they children. If they trust someone enough to take care of they kids, why don’t they trust’um to drink from the same water fountain? This don’t make sense to me. It jus don’t.
Any color’a folks is welcome in Mama’s church. We have fun dancin in the aisle when they sing, What a Friend I Gots in Jesus. Mama say I’m the only white ever come here. She teachin me how to clap my hands’n sing gospel songs, keepin time while we clap’n sing together. They times I get carried away when me’n Tessie dance in the aisle with the grown ups. Mama laughs til tears roll down her face’n her best Sunday hat falls off. Mama jus laugh and say, “Chile, best you don be singin’n hoppin round like dat in dem white folk’s church cuz iffn you does, dey be callin you lil nappy head girl. I’m givin Tessie’a wupin for teachin you be talkin like a colored girl.”
I’m feelin right at home with Tessie, her bein one of Mama’s grandkids’n all. We best friends’n always play together. Right from the start, we love each other, not mindful of black’n white. Mama say we be lovey dovey cuz Lord made both’a us outta piss’n vinegar. One Sunday, her’n me gets into it over which ones turn it is to be swingin inside the sixteen-wheeler tire hangin on the Oak tree behind Mama’s church by a long rope. Tessie start shoutin at me like I don’t gots ears, “You cheatin little nigger, it’s my turn!” I’m not bout to let that girl get away with this when she know in her cheater’s heart it my turn.
I flip right back at her screamin at the top of my lungs, “No, you cheatin little nigger! My turn!”
Ever one within ten miles hearin us scream “nigger!” “nigger!” “nigger!” back’n forth til Mama’n the other church women come runnin out from choir practice to give us both a lickin. Me’n her still mad as hops’n don’t look at each other. They sit us down then all together, like the Hallelujah Chorus with an “amen” throwd in, they says how “nigger” a very bad word. Mama say if she catch us sayin it again, she gonna stand us in the corner for ten years. She say folks who says that word don’t deserve a best friend. Mama make us face a tree for an hour with both hands behind our backs, cuz we both so bad sayin “nigger.” I swear. After five minutes or so, she start to feel sorry for us. Mama say time up. Me’n Tessie already forgot why we argued in the first place. We laugh’n hug each other as Mama lifts us up in her big arms’n carries us back to the oak tree, where she crams our tail ends back into the sixteen-wheeler tire. We take each others hand’n swing back’n forth holdin onto the tire’n each other for what seem like forever. I take my Cherokee Indian arrowhead outta my coveralls, the one my grandpa gave me for good luck’n I give it to Tessie so she always be rememberin me – forever like. She takes a wad of gum outta her mouth’n gives it to me to finish chewin so I can still taste the juicy fruit. All the while, Mama jus standin there laughin with her hands on her big hips. I notice for the first time how white her teeth is. I say, “Mama, how come you got pearly whites?”
Mama say, “If you black as me, you teeth be pearly white too. But the main reason dey like dis, is cuz you Mama don’t picks round her food like you does. I thank the Lord’n eats’n dat’s why I gots pearly whites’n you doesn’t!”
Another thing bout Mama is she uses ever occasion, ever ques- tion, ever answer, ever birth’n someone’s funeral to drive home the smallest point. With these final words outta her mouth, she turn round’n heads back to church, her big tail end swingin from one side to the other like someone beatin on a tub fulla fat back. But the minute she outta sight, Tessie laughs’n whispers in my ear, “You still a little nigger’n Jesus knows I’m right!”
I laugh’n whisper back in her ear, “You a little nigger too – Jesus told me so last night.”
Not one to leave well enough alone, Tessie say, “Tharon Ann, what wrong with you hair – why you got them long pigtails when you ain’t a pig. How come you hair not like mine? They chicken fat in the kitchen – let’s do each other’s hair then we be the same.”
That girl already planned this out’n I didn’t have sense enough to know it. If Tessie want to have her way, she always be sayin like she recitin the Golden Rule, “Tharon Ann, ain’t no grass growin under my feet!” Shoot fire. I wonder where that girl heard that. I shoot right back at her, “Some people best get outta bed real early to pull wool over my eyes!” But what her and me agree on is once the deeds done, we both gonna look the same. I whisper, “If
Mama hear us say “nigger” again, we in big trouble. Let’s talk pig latin.” But Tessie don’t like nothin with pig in it; she won’t talk it with me cuz she don’t like the way pigs oink. She say we gotta go with her idea’n say “nigger” backwards – then no one gonna know. So “little nigger” becomes “elttil reggin.” That what we start callin each other – “reggin” for short.
“When I howl like a coon dog, it mean Mama close by’n you gots to hide the evidence quick. I be the lookout.” Then we argue over which ones the best howler. I’m of the opinion Tessie was born grabbin hold’a life like some folks wish they could touch a star. She gots no fear. She say me’n her together is a question mark. At first I don’t get it, then she explains that I’m the question part at the top’n she the dot. I gots questions bout ever thing but Tessie just is. Even though the two of us bicker over the littlest thing, we still in perfect harmony, if that don’t sound like the craziest thing ever. After thinkin about it – it sure does. We both in agreement that messin with Mama is dangerous business.In five minutes, Tessie come runnin outta the church kitchen like a streak’a lightnin. Real quick, we hide behind a tree in the woods. I smear chicken fat on her hair to calm it down. She unbraids my pigtails, cuts’um off, then rubs chicken fat on what hairs I gots left.She frizzes it up, fore she pulls a bottle black Shinola boot polish outta her coveralls’n empties it all over me. It takes a while to rub it in, but afterward we real fulla ourselves. Me and Tessie know for sure, we the same now – like real sisters. Me’n her of the opinion we the two purtiest little cheatin “reggins” in town.Mama callin to know where we are. She got her hands on her hips, which is not a good sign cuz she headin our way. We step out from behind the tree grinnin like chessy cats. When Mama gets herself a good look at us, we think she havin a stroke cuz she down on the ground from laughin so hard. She laughs’n laughs’n laughs. Mama laughin so hard she caint hardly stand back up on her feet. Pastor Roy Big John’n two other big men from choir practice, come runnin in our direction like they gotta put out a fire somewheres, but when they see Mama lyin on the ground they start laughin too. They says without a forklift, only Jesus can pull up a woman who gots titties bigger’n a elephant’s tail end. Everbody laughin so hard, tears runnin down they faces. Other church folks come out’n gets caught up in it too. Look to me, like they all bout to pass out on the ground. All in all, Tessie’n me a big hit. But now, Mama gots a problem. Haldane gonna fire her if she bring me home lookin like this. She think fast. We go back to Mama’s house; she put us in a washtub where shoe polish come off easy, but gettin chicken fat outta our hair hurts terrible. Tessie’s mama work two hours tryin to clean us up. Problem is what to do with my frizzed up short hair. Me’n her gonna keep one chopped-off pigtail apiece, for good luck charms. All of a sudden I’m scared. I caint lose her – not never.
“Mama, I’ll tell Haldane I gots bubblegum stuck in my hair’n I cut it all out when you went to the bathroom. I gonna say you already whipped me good so she don’t need to do it agin. Never you mind Mama, one whippin enough!”
Haldane happy these days. When she smiles, I got to wonder what for. I tell Mama over’n over how much I love her til the day I die, that I won’t never forget her even if I move to China with the starvin children. Whenever I ask what heaven’s like, all she ever say is, “Chile you ask too many questions. Mama jus don’t know the answer – it jus the way it is’n iffen you don’t shut dat little mouth, it gonna fall right off!” Mama sure love Jesus. She gots a friendship with him that don’t need questions’n answers. I’m always askin things like, “Mama, you ever talk to him in person like me’n you talkin right now? What’s his last name? Can I meet him fore I go to heaven?”
She go headfirst past my questions’n say Jesus be like the sun, him lovin everbody. Mama say, “Chile, Jesus de Lord’n we his little Jesus sunbeams. Sometimes cloud come in between, but after a spell they be goin away, then we be seein for ourself how he been lookin after us all the time. Amen! Praise Jesus!” Anytime the subject come up bout Jesus, she ends that sentence with, “Amen! Praise Jesus!” So, me’n Tessie start sayin “Amen! Praise Jesus” after ever sentence too. Mama give us a lickin for bein smart alecky’n says, “You two best stop on accounta Jesus got no use for chilren made outta piss’n vinegar. Amen! Praise Jesus!”
One night Haldane comes home from work’n tells everbody she gots another husband, that we got to pack up, cuz we movin to N’arleans. She says, “Tharon Ann, that colored woman caint come
with us, so you can get that out of your little head!”
That jus how she says it, jus shootin it out like “please pass the potatoes,” like it was nothin, like the way I feel bout Mama mean nothin too. I love her same as whites love they white mamas. I cry myself to sleep jus thinkin’a leavin her’n bein left alone with Haldane. Last night I dreamt her singin the jaybird song to me.

Poor little jaybird don’t you cry Mama don’t believe in saying goodbye Poor little jaybird, my oh my, Mama gonna sing you dis lullaby

by

when winter leaves bundle by the roadside
bed perfumed with elderberry wine
my heart a bottomless well of loneliness when I think of you
another night swathed in moon glow for everyone but me
Oh Weaver
why visit only in dreams
meet me under the street light
where I sleep each night on a bench
my coat turned inside out
a pillow
in the hope someone will understand my barefoot journey
walking this pass of love every dusk-filled night of my soul
if only you were the reflection I face each morning
surely you would pierce my heart
lion sits all night gazing at the moon
while honeyed she-lion
loves him back
©jb

Hollywood Junkies and Strip Joints

by
Jennifer Brookins author

From Tharon Ann – a memoir by Jennifer Brookins

“I’m head over heels in love for the first time in my life – with his Cherokee good looks, his soft blue eyes and long black hair in contrast to his fair skin. He’s got a gentle way about everything he does, the way he says my name, the way he lifts my hair and kisses me on the back of my neck. Here I am not even twenty and loving so new to me. I’m also in love with a career I don’t have yet. Now for the reality check. I spend most of my fairy tale marriage traveling back and forth on a bus to Chino State Prison whenever he’s busted for drugs. Each time I visit, I get body searched for weapons and dope. It has a stench about it that follows me until I get home and soak in the tub for an hour. It’s the odor of hell that eeks out the pores of everyone locked up in there. Chino is the only place he’s able to clean up from smack, and that only lasts a week or so after he’s released before he’s back on the street again. When I married him, I had no idea what I was getting into. I was so naïve. It didn’t take long to discover it was heroin that gave him the illusion of being something he wasn’t. Maybe buried beneath the layers of dope is the person he could have been. I smoke pot but I’m too vain to have track marks up my legs and arms like him. Sure I dabble with drugs, but I know enough to stay away from the hard stuff. I’d go so far out, I’d never come back. It’s easy to understand how he became a druggie. At sixteen, he was still in high school, already playing in jazz clubs around Manhattan and gaining a reputation for being one of the best jazz drummers around. One day the telephone rang and the voice on the other end asked for him. Naturally, his mother thought the call was for her husband as they have the same first name. She told the voice he was doing studio work, and that she would give him the message when he got home from work. The caller was the great jazz musician Charlie Parker who had no interest in the father but great interest in his son. Billy dropped out of high school and joined Charlie Parker’s famous band thinking it was the greatest moment in his life, not realizing at the time that it was the beginning of the end. I can’t help wondering why God doesn’t flag the events of our lives that will destroy it. I sometimes wonder how Billy felt playing with the greatest jazz musicians who ever lived – all strung out on heroine. He was the only white boy playing in Charlie Parker’s band. At sixteen, he switched from pot to smack, the perfect way to ward off stress and blend in. But today, he’s just another unemployed, strung out musician.Lots of jazz musicians work in clubs like The Hot Kitty Cat, a well known strip house on Sunset Blvd. Billy was one of them and talked the owner into hiring me as a waitress. I’m nervous about working in a place like that but we’re broke. Lucky for me, someone just quit and I’m hired on the spot. The owner orders me to wear stiletto heels, black mesh hose, devil red lipstick, a bustier and shorts so short men felt free to pinch my ass before I have the chance to knock the bejesus out of them. These horny old men think I’m for sale. I hate working here but I have to pay the rent. Billy shoots our paychecks wherever he can find a healthy vein in his arm or leg. Today the electric was shut off.Several days pass before I finally get the hang of this place. For me to get a tip all depends on how well I play the game. I’m a fast learner when it comes to playing games without being touched. The dressing rooms for strippers are located backstage, directly across from where the bartenders make drinks; they never shut their doors. I can’t help but see what these strippers do in front of the bartenders, waitresses, or anyone else who has the bad luck of being condemned to working in this X rated hell hole. I don’t have a temperament for this crowd. The Hot Kitty Cat, one of the most popular night spots in Hollywood, is packed every night with famous, as well as not so famous, male actors, producers, directors, and men trying to grab a cheap thrill. Some try to get it on with the waitresses by sticking a large bill down their boobs. If one of them tries that on me, I’ll knock him to hell and back. I can’t stand much more of this place. Tonight, as I’m going through my usual drill of wading through smoke and tables so close together that I’m amazed at the balancing act I’ve learned carrying oversize trays of drinks to balding horned toads, I bend over to serve a large group of white haired men, when one old man grabs a handful. I’m so mad I purposely drop the tray of drinks as hard as I can on his bald head, as glasses of booze crash down, scattering here and there in the most unlikely places, staining their Rodeo Drive suits and ties, while at the same time strains of “What the hell you bitch!” and “Someone get this bitch out of here!” are heading straight to the owner’s ear. Do me a favor and fire me! I’ve had enough of this hell hole! All my pent up anger shoots back “Kiss my ass, you sons of bitches! I’m calling your wife and telling her where you are and what you’re doing! I’m out of here and kiss my ass again!” Heads are turning. People are beginning to enjoy the little side show coming from the table of men and me, rather than the strippers. Here she comes. The owner is heading my way. I turn to her and shout, “Keep my paycheck and buy yourself a new face!” Then, I take off my high heels and throw them as far as I can back into the crowded smoke filled room. So long hell! I’m out of here!Every day I plead with Billy to let me help him clean up. I can’t unless he agrees to the hell days of withdrawals. If a ten year old girl can live through DTs with an alcoholic, shouldn’t I be able to help him? I want to. I’m naive enough to think I can, but then again didn’t I learn my lesson with Uncle Zack? I’m trying to make myself believe a part of Billy’s sick. We drive to a small bungalow on Fountain Avenue in Hollywood where he scores from two mean, skinny lesbians – the nasty bitches. We go inside. Three junkies I don’t recognize are making jokes about two young narcotic cops who sent them to Chino twice, but now work the Hollywood scene. These guys are blond, good looking narcos who resemble the Crosby boys. A middle aged gaunt faced man walks over to the three junkies, and motions for them to follow him to the back room. I always wait up front, never where the deals go down in the back, but if this place is busted, I’ll go down with every one else. I’m standing here feeling very uncomfortable, not knowing what to do or what not to do when I look over and wonder if it’s my imagination that a girl wearing blue silk pajamas hiked up to her knee caps, is sprawled out on a couch by the window. I walk to that side of the room and find a young girl with long auburn colored hair, maybe my age – maybe younger, with fresh track marks running up her legs and arms. Another young woman who is waiting to score walks over to me, confiding that the girl on the couch is the daughter of a famous movie star. When I ask what’s wrong with her, quite matter-of-factually she shrugs and replies, “She just shot up,” and abruptly, turns and walks back, anxious she’ll miss her turn to score. No sooner do I sit down beside the girl on the couch, than she reaches out for my hand, her fingers cold and lifeless. The man volunteers this girl is about to enjoy a large inheritance on her eighteenth birthday. She is a hard core junky, very young, very beautiful, very strung out, and biding time for death to come. She will never see eighteen.I’m almost out the door when the telephone rings. I answer. It’s Billy. I know from the tone of his voice that he’s hurting; a voice unable to score, one that is lost in the bottom of a well. He begins to cry, “Tharon honey, I’m sorry but I can’t take it anymore.” He’s begging me to help him clean up. I make him tell me where he is. I tell him to wait there … that I’ll throw some things in a bag and pick him up; we’ll drive to Malibu, lock ourselves in a motel room and just do it. Outside of going back to Chino, it’s the only way. I say, “Wait … please don’t go … just wait … Billy, just wait … I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes … it’ll be alright … don’t cry … it’ll be alright baby.” There he is. An immediate wave of sadness runs through me seeing him like this, standing on the corner in front of Barney’s Beanery. He was my first love, handsome, talented and so gentle. Now look – gaunt and thin with track marks on his arms and legs. Not even looking at me, barely mumbling hello, he gets in the car and we drive to a motel in Malibu. He tells me in advance that no matter what he says, I’m not to let him out of the room. He tells me to hide the car keys as well as the key to our room. There are no words to describe what it’s like trying to hold on to someone going through heroin withdrawals, to someone who isn’t here. By day three, I’m sick from sleep deprivation and exhaustion, and he’s sick from hurting. He’s freaking out; he’s threatening to kill me if I don’t give him the keys and what little money I have. His hands around my neck, he’s screaming in my ear, “Give it! Give it! I’ll choke you to death Tharon! Give me the goddamn keys or I’ll kill you … you’re a dead bitch!” He’ll kill me if I don’t do something. I give him my purse. He throws it on the bed, and takes all the money I have … twenty-five dollars. I unlock the motel door, and tell him the car keys are under the mat on the driver’s side. They aren’t. I’m not giving them to him; he’ll sell my car for a fix. He grabs the money out of my hand and shoves me aside. As he runs to the car, I quickly lock the door to our room. He’ll be back when he can’t find the keys. I’m so scared I can hardly breath. He’s back …now he’s banging on the door and threatening to kill me again. “Get out of here Billy. The police are on their way.” This will be a long night. I’m sitting on the floor, my back propped up against the wall in wait for dawn, to make sure he’s gone. He’s looking to score. After that he’ll be ok … until the next time when he thoughtlessly shoots up again.


Amazon Five-star review by Shirley Priscilla Johnson TOP 1000 REVIEWER VINE VOICE: “This book will touch your heart, your mind, your Spirit. It will make you stop and think about the world that was and the one we live in now. It is both down to earth, yet goes deep into the Heart and Soul. A story of love, a story of pain, a story of battles, some won, some lost. Excellent read that you will never forget. Book received for an honest review.”

Tharon Ann Book Review

by
book review tharon ann

“One of my all-time favorite books, period! I fell in love with the young, sassy and hysterical, “Tharon Ann” who grew into the pained but stunning woman. A woman who somehow managed to survive all the pain and injustice thrown her way. The child, the actress, the mother, and the roadrunner all wrapped up to become the irresistible poet and writer we know today. Weaver, keep her tenderly in the palm of your hand she deserves your love.” Dennis John Ferado 

🌹

GOOD MORNING INDIA

by
snowman

in silence mist falls gently upon the great treetops
Oh Weaver, you wrap your dreamy arms around all who live under your umbrella
hint of sunrise with splashes of magenta and gold
across early horizon, air pregnant with expectation
giant oaks cradled in the alpha heart unashamed in their nakedness.
early this morning I watched seven wild turkeys
cross a grassy knoll, their footprints in winter syncopation
against a snowy quilt
you braid secrets into their autumn breasts
these foragers of winter acorns
once obtained off they go doing their winter rumba
at other places, other knolls
this makes you belly laugh
you like to make angels in the snow
© jb

Book Reviews

by

New Release, India with a Backpack and Prayer

One reviewer says, “Jennifer Brookins poems are written in exquisite, lyrical free verse. I can do no better than to quote from Living Under the Weaver’s Hut, ‘Again and again I turn my face to you. Your darshan weaves feelings in me that moves my heart to prayer.’ If you read mystic poetry, i.e Rumi, Hafiz, you will love this book.” – Stan Raatz, Ph.D., computer scientist, private equity investor, part-time poet. www.amazon.com/autho/jenniferbrookins

Very much in the tradition of Eastern mystic devotional poetry, i.e. that of Rumi, Attar, and others, the book Living Under the Weaver’s Hut contains the author’s songs of spiritual love and longing for her Master, guide, adept, holy person, or in the author’s term, “weaver.” I recently read that Rumi (in translation) is the best selling poet in America, a testament to our universal longing for meaning in today’s frenetic world. These poems, in exquisite and lyric free verse, are one person’s such songs. She makes no claims, offers no doctrine, does not expect the reader to conclude anything other than the poems are written in love to the Weaver. The word “darshan” refers to when a disciple receives the vision of sight of her Master’s glance. I can do no better than to quote from the book, “… again and again I turn my face to you / your darshan weavers feelings in me / that moves my heart / to prayer.” If you read mystic devotional poetry, you will love this book.

Amazon Reviewer: Stanophocles

New Release, Living Under the Weaver’s Hut

One reviewer says, “Jennifer Brookins poems are written in exquisite, lyrical free verse. I can do no better than to quote from Living Under the Weaver’s Hut, ‘Again and again I turn my face to you. Your darshan weaves feelings in me that moves my heart to prayer.’ If you read mystic poetry, i.e Rumi, Hafiz, you will love this book.” – Dr. Stan Raatz, computer scientist, private equity investor, part-time poet.

Lyrical and deeply moving. These poems speak of the soul’s journey back to its Source. Love, longing, loneliness, joy. These are things we all share throughout our journeys through this life and beyond. Reviewer: Virginia Byham

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Poor little human heart, I’m vexed you refuse to look beyond your nose. Let’s sit together this early morning like two old grizzlies drinking coffee and eating nachos while dawn wraps herself around our shoulders. Look … the sun is coming up like mangoes and ripe persimmons. Isn’t love grand ….
© jb

GOOD MORNING INDIA

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young girl

A little Punjabi girl with long black hair and denim coveralls, triggered this feeling of déjà vu:


“The year is almost over; I’ve hardly had time to fly my kite or make a party dress for my magic skin doll. And, doncha know the roof on my tree house still has a big hole in it. Why is it that everything I love goes away, but what I can’t stand hangs around forever? I think I’ll go to Willard’s Drugstore, and have a cherry phosphate. Sitting at the counter helps me figure out stuff.”


© jb

TITTIES, TOENAILS and BOYFRIENDS

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An excerpt from Tharon Ann


“Titties, toenails and boyfriends is all girls talk about. Yuk! I’m invited to a bunking party at horrible Kate Eldred’s house down the street. I told Aunt Lucille I don’t like sleep-overs cuz all girls talk about is titties, toenails and boyfriends, oh, and what size stupid brassier they wear. Best put a gun to my head than make me wear one of those stupid girly things. Another thing, I jus as soon eat dirt than paint my toenails red. I swear! Whenever Kate talks bout boys, her left eye twitches. First I thought she was goin blind til I figured out she was boy-crazy. Anyways, Aunt Lucille says I’m goin whether I want to or not.
This is the worst night I ever spent on earth. Theys six girls exactly like horrible Kate’n all they do is talk my brains out bout titties, toenails, and boyfriends. When I bring up the subject of baseball, they jus look at me weird-like. Next thing y’know they askin me what size brassier I wear – so I hike my t-shirt over my head’n yell out, “Look at these babies! Mosquito bites don’t need’um I’m thinkin folks say titties when they already wear brassiers, but if they don’t – they come right out’n say bosoms … or mosquito bites.
One girl says they gots titty creams that makes’um sprout like corn stalks. I already know this from an ad I saw in a funny book that says if a person rubs titty cream on they chest ever night, in no time that person will grow big ones. I’m thinking it’d be a whole lot easier to jus cut pictures of titties outta Aunt Lucille’s magazine’n glue um to my chest. But then I’d miss the bonus part; a real good exercise that comes in the mail with the titty cream. I’m supposed to stand in front of a long mirror, stretch out my hands to the side’n bend my arms back’n forth to my chest, repeatin ten times, “I must, I must, I must develop my bust.” or somethin like that. Anyways, the company who makes this stuff wants one dollar’n fifty cents plus stamps. I can sure see me askin Aunt Lowee for that kinda money, jus so I can grow titties. Ha! Ha! Anyways, I got more important stuff to do than think bout stupid stuff like titties, toenails and boyfriends. Who wants’um anyway? Bet yur bottom dollar not me! m thinking to build myself a tree house at the end of summer when I go back home to Little Rock. I’m gonna sit up there all day til school starts, drinkin lemonade’n shootin peas outta my sling shot at boys when they pass by. Grandpa Leo says I cud probly wup’um all if I got a mind to – which is good to know in case one of them tries to pull somethin. I think all this talk about titties, toenails, and boyfriends is makin boys more horrible than usual. YUK! YUK! YUK!
Mister God, please make Kate Eldred’s titties grow so big she got to be pushed through the door. I’m ashamed to talk like this but I hate her guts.”

Five -star reviews: Available in paperback and eBook on Amazon.com