The Magnolia Tree:

It was under the Magnolia tree,

He loved me,

And our children played,

All three,

(and then four, five),

And the puppies leapt high,

Under the Magnolia tree.

We’d sit and talk for hours,

Under the Magnolia tree,

Butterflies & dreams & wishes,

And she’d listen,

Our beautiful old tree.

The seasons came & went,

And we aged,

But not she,

The children grew up & left,

But she stood strong,

Our Magnolia tree,

And even during the storm,

She was calm – our tree,

She would stand there,

As if to say,

“I’m still magnificent,

And you should still love me!”

How does she endure it all?

The seasons, the changes, the melee,

Does she miss me as much as I miss her,

My beauty, my magnolia tree?

I drove past the old house,

To see her one last time,

My old Magnolia tree,

She’s in full bloom as when,

I bought the house,

All of those years ago,

When she whispered to me.

Family holiday & writing assignment in far north tropical Queensland :)

The moment I got a chance I went to a bar…

And found a man who was a replica of you,

Your doppelganger actually:

Your face, your hair, your physique,

And I had him make love to me,

The exact same way you had described it,

In your letters,

Even including me reaching back,

To you – I mean him – for a kiss.

It was supposed to,

Turn back the clock,

To you – it didn’t,

It was supposed to be,

The pinnacle of my life;

The most telling,

Moment in my history.

It wasn’t.

agirlclock

Poets Are A Weird Mob:

I get up before the sun,

And before the household,

So I can write poems for you,

It comes out of my fingers.

In reams.

One day when I finally meet you,

I will give them to you and,

Unless you are a poet,

You may not understand,

The significance.

You’ll hand them back,

And with a half smile,

Politely say, “That’s nice,”

And I’ll know: they were,

Too long, too childish,

Too unnecessarily tender,

Not profound & brilliant enough.

And I’ll think “nice,”

They were nice!

Is that even a word?

Do we even have it in our language?

Can you break that down for me?

Can you think of other words instead of that?

Can you elaborate at all?

And I’ll be tempted to say,

“Maybe you should take an English class,

To increase your vocabulary,”

But of course I can’t say those things because,

Then I’m being picky, arrogant,

Vitriolic & spoiling for a fight,

And I don’t want to be,

Accused of those things again,

And then you’ll try,

To have sex with me,

But the thing is,

It’s not about nice and

Certainly not about sex.

So then I’ll be alone,

Once more dreaming about,

My next one-true-love,

…Where for art thou?

asunrise

“Did you miss me?” she asked …

“I guess so,” I answered, without making eye contact, as nonchalantly as I could.

“I did it to punish you,” she said casually.

“I know,” I answered, flicking through the mail.

“But every time I saw salt I would think of you and start to cry,”

“Oh really?” She knows how much I love salt.

“Were you crying into your cup of tea and pouring through old photos of me?”

“No,” I answered honestly, “I just kind of got on with my life.”

By now she was blinking back tears. Poor, dear thing: she’d never engaged in open warfare before and had no idea who she was dealing with – me; war torn, battle weary, permanently on my guard, defensive, jaded after all of the single and hand-to-hand combat missions I’d endured over my life – I was not about to start making tactical errors now.

“Would you have crumbled and died if I hadn’t come back?”

“Um, well, it would hurt for a while and then I guess I’d get over it,” I heard myself lying.

Her eyes met mine and we held that gaze.

“Come here,” I said with my arms outstretched and she melted into my embrace.

“I love you,”

“I love you too. It’s history now, leave it where it belongs,” and the dam inside of me receded a couple of inches, just enough to let me start breathing again.

Then we went straight back to chatting about the books we’d been reading as if nothing had ever happened.

atoughgirl

Divine Retribution:

She doesn’t know where he is,

What he’s doing or who he’s with,

She only knows the ache for him,

She only knows that now he’s

Just another statistic:

His life turned to ashes,

The moment he hurt her,

(She had the garage door down,

And the engine was running),

He’s the fifth one now who has

Met with cruel & diseased suffering,

A young & tragic death,

But as they say,

Karma is a butt kicker.

She switches the screen off,

She fixes her eye mask in place,

She smooths down the sheet,

And allows the crashing waves,

On the nearby shore to soothe her,

Into another dark & empty sleep.

girl and wolves

Grrrr, after waiting all of this time –

Not happy Janet: I’ve waited nine long months and been very patient when my website crashed and burned last year only to find that now that it’s back up and running, there’s stuff everywhere and all of my carefully chosen pictures have disappeared! Where do I even start to fix this?

Later: okay, my tech support girl has said I use too many pictures and that they’re too big and that’s why my website crashed so I’ve tried to change things as much as I can. Some of the posts are still missing pics but I guess that doesn’t matter. I have deleted seven pages as they were just drivel that made me feel like I was losing my mind when I was reading them 🙂 Hopefully my poetry has improved somewhat since then. This website still needs a lot of work so bear with me. If there are any handy hints you can give me I would be very grateful. Cheers.

acomputr

Finally, a little holiday…

My lovely friend Lyn from quilting has kindly offered me a mini-vacation in her holiday house by the beach to have a break from all of the stress. Have a great week everyone. See you all next week 🙂

beach house

 

 

Another magazine article quoting my website posts…

This article made me chuckle because Barry Dorr has the audacity to say that it’s only a few authors that are unhappy and that authors have a real chance at sharing in the profit by signing with Jojo. What a load of rubbish! There are 250 authors out there and as far as I am concerned none of them have been paid or “shared in profits.” There are at least 50 authors that invested between $10,000 – $40,000 of their own money and to add further insult to injury, just today after authors have placed calls directly to the Asian printers it has come to light that only 1300-1400 books were printed instead of the promised 3,000. So what were we forking all of that money out for again?! Oh that’s right, to fund Jojo’s overseas trips.

Finally, some media attention for my books…

This article was published today in an online magazine called Bookseller & Publisher. It’s a shame it had to come in the wake of so much devastation for so many people (it’s not just the authors suffering, it’s also their families, friends and readers). It’s also come to our attention this week that Barry Dorr has been setting companies up, scamming people and liquidating since the ’80’s. The events of the past few weeks have left me speechless…