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Jana Ross Poem
She looked at the sky,
With big blue eyes,
Then thunder crashed,
And she died.
They never saw it coming,
Never watched her face;
All they knew since then
Was absence in her place.
She was not like other children,
She slept too much at night
Dreaming about worlds
Where she lived with all her might.
Places, she’d often tell of,
Places where she’d been,
Places they never heard of,
Nor have heard of since then.
She was a child full of life,
Each moment filled with zest.
She lived each moment to its fullest,
Giving it her best.
So many things about this girl
They would never know,
The parts of her that were born whole,
And those parts she’d often sew.
She had great worlds inside of her,
Most, of which, she’d create,
But the one they knew the least about
Was the one she grew to hate.
They knew so very little
Of how they treated her each day,
They knew so very little
Of the words, to her, they’d say.
They were not privy
To her tears,
And ever absent
Of her fears.
They knew not of the strength it took
For this child, at life, to look
With a bright perspective and smiling eyes;
All the effort it took to try.
For granted, they took her,
Time and Again,
Until she was gone.
Only now, does it sink in.
The beauty she saw
And often imagined
Took greater strength
Then how, it, they’d flatten.
She was a treasure,
A pearl lost at sea,
A diamond stolen,
Gold dust in the breeze.
An opal, rough-handled,
A peridot unseen,
Amethyst unappreciated,
A poor aquamarine.
But no matter the grief
Her loved ones would face,
They would not miss her enough,
To see her Place.
Copyright © Jana Ross | Year Posted 2015
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Jana Ross Poem
It was dark out. The stars shone dimly, and the horizon blushed faintly as the birds sang, too cheery for the hour. A chill swept the edges of all the outside world: not cold enough to be truly considered cold, but far from anything to be called “warm.”
I turned my key quietly, so as not the wake the absence inside—lest I disturb its slumber, which ever wakes. The light over the stove was still on, as I left it every night when I walked out the door. It gave light to the entire room by it, starting from the kitchen and illuminating all the way to me.
This shabby little place had not quite taken on its role of being a home yet. I moved in about two years ago, but still have not had time to decorate it more than a picture or centerpiece here and there; though that is not what truly makes a home anyway.
No, this is not a home, because I am alone. Homes are made up of more than one. The dwelling of a singular individual is lacking. Say what you like to disagree, but ‘tis true. My kitchen sink is far too vacant to truly be a home.
When I left my Mama’s home, she told me three things to remember: “Love God,” “Don’t marry the man if he drinks,” and “Kitchens are dirty: clean them.” I laughed when she told me that, because our sink was always full of dishes, our countertops perpetuated clutter, and the floors always wanted sweeping. I laughed because I knew there would only be me to clean up after, which wouldn’t be hard, and I found it silly of her to tell me such parting words: “clean the kitchen.”
There isn’t much to clean now. I wash my dishes after I use them generally. There are times, however, that I will long for a sinkful and either leave my dishes a couple days, or else clean every dish I own…it isn’t the same though, cleaning up after no one else.
As I wash them, I know every meal that was upon them, how every bite tasted. And no meal stretches further than one plate or bowl, and perhaps a cup. I wash the dishes of ghosts—dishes only dined upon by absence and sometimes dust. I could wash dishes and never have to change the water, because the dishes were empty to begin with, most of them. I don’t even have need to fill the sink, really. It uses more water to do so, than to just soap and rinse my meager usage.
At Mama’s, I always had to wash to dishes, it seemed. Or perhaps it was just that my turn always seemed to come again so soon. For hours, I stood in the kitchen, my belly pressed against the wet countertop and my arms up to the elbows wet, itchy, and covered with suds.
It took what seemed like all night long to wash the dishes for our whole family, and all the while, it seemed they kept coming. Every few minutes, one of the other children would come in with an empty cup or bowl they’d been using at some point that day, and set it on my counter. Oftentimes, I would stare at them in disbelief as they entered the room to perform this heinous act, knowing I was expected to clean that too. They just looked at me, set down the object of crime, and left, usually some part of them laughing on the inside, because they too, knew the feeling that I was experiencing from this slight interruption, because they’d had the same treatment when it was their turn.
But not to worry (no, no, never worry), there shall be someone someday to come into my life. We shall have dishes for the two of us. Yes, and maybe even a small bowl too after a while, and another, and another. Maybe. But what if this shan’t ever come? I suppose I shouldn’t know the difference really, seeing I’ve never had it, and so should not concern myself with its absence, nor dare even to consider the feeling of a loss. No, I suppose I ought to just continue to wash my dishes and not wish for too much, because wishing is dangerous.
I tried wishing before. When I was a small girl, I used to lie awake for hours, wishing to not hear the things I heard in the night, or seeing the things I saw, or crying the tears I cried. The cries from the other side of the wall, my mother in her ache of this life. The shadows moving across my room as they played out scenes of my demise and the villains who would perform them. Every saline ocean of the floods of the depth of my soul, staining my cheeks and swelling my face for the following days.
Yes, wishing is dangerous. It fills up the soul with some kind of hope that doesn’t seem to ever come. It strengthens the heart with faith, that is forever in peril of being strangled, shriveled, left to decompose on a sweltering sidewalk, in the middle of August (Ah, but the heat does feel nice; just to lie in the sun and feel the tingling all over my body—that could be nice right now). But wishes want for fruition, and fruit does not always come, no, not for a tree like me.
So, I eat my food, and I wash my plate, and I turn out the light, and I go to sleep.
Copyright © Jana Ross | Year Posted 2015
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Jana Ross Poem
Like Peter, I stepped out with faith aflame,
Upon that tossing, waving sea
Fully trusting, little doubt;
but then, mistaken, looked about.
Crashing, plunging did I fall.
My pride, my faith,
Underwater, all.
Flailing, gasping, reaching out,
"Lord, save me!" was my shout.
Anxious, waiting, He drew near.
"Oh, thou, of little faith,
wherefore didst thou fear?"
Up, He pulled me, sopping wet.
"Lord, where was thy safety-net?"
"I am here," He said real slow,
"and always with thee, dost thou know."
I sobbed at my unfaithfulness,
for the Lord who loves without up-let.
Copyright © Jana Ross | Year Posted 2015
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Jana Ross Poem
And then comes the twilight,
When whistling fades,
When hoes are put up
And dinner is made;
Then comes the eve
When all will come home.
We shall be together,
No more alone.
Copyright © Jana Ross | Year Posted 2015
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Jana Ross Poem
“Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Don’t do it!” we cried.
“Oh, but I must! I’ve already tried…”
“Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Don’t do it!” Said we.
“Oh, but I must! Most certainly!”
Tried, we, to warn her,
But she doesn’t know,
About what’s ahead of her,
On down the road.
She followed a boy,
To live in his town-home.
Now she is stuck there.
Where can she go?
Laid down her roots,
Where she knew no others.
Now things have gone wrong;
She cries for her mother.
She followed a boy,
To live in his town-home.
Now she is stuck there.
Where can she go?
Entangled herself so much in his life,
They both had so hoped for her to be wife.
Only, now she is not so certain of this.
The place she once was,
Now she doth miss.
She followed a boy,
To live in his town-home.
Now she is stuck there.
Where can she go?
Cries she alone,
In her empty kitchen.
He brought her a coffee,
But all she wanted was his attention.
She followed a boy,
To live in his town-home.
Now she is stuck there.
Where can she go?
She walks down the aisle,
All dressed in white.
Putting all that she has into this,
With all of her might.
She followed a boy,
To live in his town-home,
Because she loved him
And shall no longer roam.
She’d made up her mind,
She was here to stay.
Life would be tough,
But it would be like that any way.
She followed a boy,
To live in his town-home,
Because she loved him
And shall no longer roam.
She told him, “I do,”
As did he,
And now those two,
Have turned into three.
“Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Don’t do it!” We cried.
“Oh, but I must! I’ve already tried…”
“Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Don’t do it!” Said we.
“Oh, but I must! Most certainly!”
To us, it was foolish,
To follow a boy.
We thought it was stupid;
She’ll empty her joy.
But now we look on,
With amazement, we see
That this girl has commanded her life
Quite beautifully.
We thought following some boy,
Would make her weak;
Little did we know
How it was truly meek.
She gave her life and freedom,
To care for some man,
Now she has a family:
A wife with a plan.
She looks truly stunning
In all that she is,
Because all of her beauty
Comes from within.
Copyright © Jana Ross | Year Posted 2015
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Jana Ross Poem
See the butterflies fly at dawn,
Catch them all before they're gone.
Some fly in shadows,
Some fly in light,
Some fly with ease,
And some with great might.
Catch all their different colors and hues,
Drawing them near with sweet hums and coos.
Gently, they come, soft on your hand,
Taking it in, "My! This is grand!"
They bid in you feelings you can't comprehend,
But all of your heart-sores just seem to mend.
You relax and recall
Times now gone by
And fully and whole-heartedly
Let out a sigh.
The butterflies dance in the air all around,
Magnificent rainbows, with ne'er a sound.
You close your eyes and float to the sky,
Before you could tell them all "goodbye."
Copyright © Jana Ross | Year Posted 2015
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