The Poetry of Janita Black
March Poetry Feature
I saw a tree dance in the wind One February morn. The music played with three quarter time On the wind as it was born. The leafless tree took a twisted stance, The branches swooped and swayed And teased the tin gray heavy clouds, While the breezy music played. The waltz of winter was the song Produced by nature's path, The accompaniment by the tune that came From the rustle of the grass. The audience, the birds and I, We watched with awesome glee As the music of the wind blew tunes Of the season's melody. What a performance on that day As branches danced with grace. They dipped and swayed in rhythmic waves, Such an elegant display. I saw a tree dance in the wind One February morn, It was a waltz worth waiting for, It danced as the wind was born. Still overtook this dark night, The ice laden trees bend in submission As if they have excepted their frozen fate. The crystal ground crackles underfoot, Forgetting the warmth of summer gone And the richness of the tepid rain. I also fell the Winter's freeze, The numbness of cold pursues my beating heart, The frigid stars offers no relief. And though the curse of the cold Is only a passing chill, Reality brings icy tears. I feel no heat by the fireside, Warmth is an illusion of the heart. How does one survive a Winter's freeze When they find it inside their very soul. | I am snow, White, cold and pale, Feather falling on the dainty air Of a winter's day. I outline the trees resting, sleeping until the grasp of frost freezes me in a picture of cold repose. Silent, oh silent snow That falls on windless days, Yes, I am snow. I am snow, Soft, pure and wet, Flour sifted from a wayward cloud From the silver sky, Knowing that I will soon be gone, Thawed and melted On the waiting earth. Pieces of velvet torn, Drifting downward I fall Without a sound. Oh silent snow that sometimes falls, Yes, I am snow. When the lonely wolf of winter stands on the northern plains, He howls a cold and hungry wail of woe. I feel the isolation of the weary beast, The howling of my own lamenting soul. Must be the wolf of winter roams the lonesome woods of time, hunting for something he longs to know. When wintertime extends its cold and lonesome arm I feel the wolf walk in the depth of snow. I can not help the sadness that the winter brings. The hungry wolf is ever there to find and though I try to keep the sadness well at bay, I hear his lonesome howling in my mind |
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On the deep water of Mud Creek's flow I drift in a flat bottom boat. Traveling through a forgotten paradise, I feel the peace of angels circling 'round. Waters run gently down the Mighty Mud, Baptizing the red clay banks, Yielding crimson blush to the water's surge, Chiseling the earth with steady currents. The creek bends in random paths Through the bottom land's terrain Where the silent ghost of a Choctaw brave Might stand with pride, with bow in hand. Great elms arch across the water's course, Leaves dangle and wave salutations. The breeze stirs the scent of sweet grass Then lingers across the water's face. Mirrored images of cliffs and clouds Rest upon the still red water And for a moment deceives the eye, Where the water kisses the sky upward. Soft-shelled turtles sun on the clay banks, Raising lazy heads while I pass by. Catfish congregate in the depths below, Unconcerned for the world above. In solitude I drift upon red water Feeling no different than a fallen leaf, Floating with the gentle current Down God's timeless stream. No one watches from the water's edge, In heady seclusion I repose. Feeling angels looking down from clouds, I travel, drifting down the Mighty Mud. I saw him sitting in his door Trembling as old men do. His house was old, he was old And yet his eyes seemed new. His eyes had seen three times my years And kept a twinkle still. 'Though he had looked at life and death and four graves on a hill. "I will sit down with you," I said, "for you will make me wise, tell me how to keep the joy still burning in your eyes." Then, like an old orator, Impressively as he rose, "I make the most of all that comes and the least of all that goes. You can spend your lifetime crying For the things you cannot touch, Or over someone dying that You really need so much. Or you can spend your lifetime shining, Touching all that circles by, Enjoying moments given With a sparkle in your eye." The jingling rhythm of his words Echoed as old songs do, Yet he kept his eyes a' shining light 'til he was ninety-two. |
When music sets its notes into the air To find a yearning ear to heed a tune, The rhythm takes dominion to declare How notes of melodies sound in full bloom. In lonely rooms musicians sit and wait To seize the music's drifting tune and sound And gather up aesthetic notes of fate With pen in hand attempts to write them down. Within a day a million songs are born But only those who listen hear them play, Some tunes are undiscovered and forlorn, While others find an ear to bend and sway. Tune catchers gather notes that come along And with the gift of music write a song. Dress me in flowers From open fields. Adorn me with blossoms From the earth's fragrant yields. Color me clover, White blooms' array, Dandelion yellow, Vetch purple display. Clothe me in lilac, Lavender too, Clad me with blue bonnets, Wild rose's pink hue. Flowers of sunshine, Honeysuckle vine, Dress me in sweet buds, Then call me springtime. I could have found him On some lonely hill With tears on his face Streaming down for me. I could have found him On some midnight cloud Drifting over My lost soul. I could have found him Flying on the wings Of a sky bound bird Soaring high above my grasp. Instead, I found him In my waiting heart, My Savior.. First and last. When the sun has turned jasper And the fire subdued from your touch, When your heart hears no more The song of the meadowlark, Then, you may rest easy Into a gentle day. When the moon shows its glamour, Yet no longer reflects in your eyes, When the silver strung stars No longer appear in your skies, Then may you sleep deeply Into a velvet night. But when the lightning comes shining Into your tomb of sleeping eyes, When the heavens unlock The doors to mysteries inside, Then may you rise early Into another day. |
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November rain runs crystal down my window pane, I sit and watch, my brow pressed to the glass, I see the elm trees bend against the bitter wind, I reach to touch the ghost clouds as they pass. I miss you most of all my friend, on days like these, When lonely longing penetrates my soul, Your face is vaguely present in the pouring rain, but I know youre sleeping southward on the knoll. A rose bud, I had picked for you that dreary morn, I placed it there within your icy hand, I could not send you empty handed, far away, Into eternal, everlasting land. I closed your fingers tightly round the fragile stem, And yes, I knew your presence was not there, You could not feel the petals nor resist the thorn And missing you seemed more than I could bare. Now November rain runs crystal down my window pane, I trace your name in cursive on the glass, I hear the latent howling of the winter wind, The ghost clouds seem remorseful as they pass. I miss you most of all my friend, on days like these, When you're just outside the doorway of my soul. Your face is vaguely present in the pouring rain, but I know youre sleeping southward on the knoll. Lonesome Lilly sat on her porch Waiting for Mr. B. Right. Her face was real freckled, Her eyes were true blue, Her hair was a terrible sight. Lonesome Lilly looked down the road, The day seemed incredibly long. Many fine fellows had walked by her house But their manners had seemed to be wrong. Lonesome Lilly took a long sigh When she saw him come over the hill, He was a round fellow of proportional size, He said, "Howdy, my name is Big Will." Lonesome Lilly wiggled her toes While she gave him an extended glance, She asked him to join her She pulled up a chair, She thought this might be her last chance. Lonesome Lilly giggled and laughed, Her hands were as clammy as glue, Because that big fellow was not Mr. Right, But she would settle for Mr. Will Do. |
At last, I raise my cup to you... oh Darkened Night, I sip your velvet melancholy wine, I open up the window of my tattered soul To catch your host of stars that came to shine. Your alabaster orb of moon, it beckons me, Hypnotic glow that climbs across the sky, The lull of lazy stars against your ebony, They mock reality and reasons why. Oh night, you linger slowly past my loneliness, Your mystical illusions call my name, I am a wink of life you see, no more no less, A moth that quickly soars into your flame. For though you sit forever there, so dark, so high, I am a spark thats here and then I'm gone. So I shall drink your vintage now before I die, Before this turning earth has found the dawn. Of all the nights that ever fell upon my face. Of all the moons and stars that came to shine, This time I raise my cup to you ... Oh Darkened night. To sip your velvet melancholy wine. The writer sat alone in the corner of his room, His head bowed in meditation. The curtain was opened just enough to see the moon That hung with a glimmer of solitude In the still and ebony night. His shadow loomed upon the wall As if it were perpetually there. His heart travailed to bring forth words That were seeded there when grief came by, When pity slept upon his bed, When clouds of darkness shook his day. Now the words were edging to be born. He looked at his shadow on the wall, He felt a whisper in his soul That emerged somewhere from deep within And born were the words that lingered there. The writer sat alone in the corner of his room, Collecting fragments of his heart, Thoughts that now had come full term, While his shadow hovered on the wall, While the moon up in the sky stood still.
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Janita Black lives in Ringling, Oklahoma with her husband Bill. She has been writing since childhood and has won numerous poetry awards. Janita was awarded an "International Poet of Merit" award in Washington, DC in 1997, and she was published in "The Colors of Thought." Currently serving as Secretary of the Southern Oklahoma Writers' Guild, Janita is a member of the Poetry Society of Oklahoma and is currently writing her first novel. Janita is now offering a soft bound collection of her poetry, and you can order it here. |
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HI Memaw I love you and your poems are great Boedy Black JR - Wednesday, March 03, 2004 at 13:34:49 (EST) I'm very impressed with Janita's poems, especially The Philosopher and When Heaven Awakes You. They are very inspiring without being sentimental. marian2 <wild.acre@btinternet.com> - Monday, September 22, 2003 at 10:02:11 (EDT) Testing the comment box. Please ignore. Oh, and Daphne, I never got your bio, did I? If you have a bio and pic, forward it to me and I'll put it in. Stoney <lstone@gate.net> - Saturday, February 01, 2003 at 00:03:13 (EST) Becky told me to check out his site and boy am I glad I did. Beautiful poems!!! I have only read about half so far and will finish when Mackenzie allows. With my hectic life these days what a refreshing time I had getting lost in these words. I so enjoy seeing "true" talent shine, and believe me when I say .."Your Shinning"!!! Thank you for sharing.. Jane Jane Bond - Tuesday, March 12, 2002 at 16:20:57 (EST) Yeah! Dad was right! You are full of it. You found peace in your writing and your talent was kept secret for so many years. I'm glad that you finally made the choice to share your talent with others. You have inspired so many others to do the same. We are very proud of you and Lynne is too. I'll kiss Hannah for you! Love ya! Becky Garrett - Friday, March 08, 2002 at 16:30:06 (EST) Lovely poetry! Thank you very much. I especially liked the poems 'Winter Prey' and 'Roses and Ice' about sadness and longing. After those it was good to read about the time we are all waiting for, 'Apparel of Flowers', what a welcome picture. Cecile Hare <cecilehare@go.com> - Wednesday, March 06, 2002 at 03:04:53 (EST) Your work is wonderfully image-full and heart-touching. So glad I had an opportunity to read it, thank you... Sue Turner <SusanT1466@aol.com> - Monday, March 04, 2002 at 13:25:58 (EST) I loved the one about the old man, also. It fits so well with my health article this month. The one about dressing in flowers makes me ache for spring. Lovely pictures in every one I read. Lisa Binkley <johoward@flyingllamas.com> - Sunday, March 03, 2002 at 14:45:39 (EST) Mom, After all the years of listening to Dad talk about how you were full of it, I finally figured out what he meant. You are full of poetry. I know how much you love writing poetry and it shows in your writing. I'm glad you get to share your insight and wisdom with others through your writing (we won't tell them about the vanilla pie). Some of these poems are very special to me because I know exactly what it was that inspired you to write them, so I can really relate to their meaning. Oh, and Brissa likes your poetry too. Keep up the good work, we are proud of you! Boedy Black <av8nalw@aol.com> - Sunday, March 03, 2002 at 13:52:53 (EST) These are delightful poems, filled with wisdom and much insight about people and life. Keep up the good work! Ellen O'Riley <ellenoriley@yahoo.com> - Sunday, March 03, 2002 at 08:23:15 (EST) What a wonderful selection of poems. It is difficult to choose my favorite but I have an Uncle who is 94 years young. He bakes his own bread, plants potatoes in his small back yard, goes to the movies, reads library books and lives in the moment. He lives on the other side of the Atlantic ocean but he sends me letters full of wisdom written in the most beautiful copper plate handwriting so these lines of yours really touched my heart. "I make the most of all that comes and the least of all that goes." Brenda Ross <brerfox@dowco.com> - Sunday, March 03, 2002 at 02:39:22 (EST) Such beautiful poems, Janita! I think the following line holds so much wisdom...'wish that I had written it! "I make the most of all that comes and the least of all that goes. As you taught me what to seek... I find it in great abundance here in your poetry. Well done! LouHarper <luharper@brightok.net> - Friday, March 01, 2002 at 06:58:29 (EST) |