Behind Closed Doors

 

January 28th, 2017 We will be launching this book Behind Closed Doors and have speakers, as well. Yea! I was asked to be one of them and I am thrilled greatly to be a part of these wonderful women.

Alan Johnson will be reading one of Susan’s terrific poems regarding abuse using his fabulous voice. Oh, so sorry, but Alan will not be present.

Book launch hosted by Author and Poetess Deborah Brooks Langford

Co-Authors are Ann Landrum Stockstill and Susan Joyner-Stumpf

To join the launch visit the link or Deborah’s page on FB. The blue link above this comment.

https://www.facebook.com/events/ical/export/?eid=1198295570285098

The LINE UP
FOR SATURDAY 28TH
11:30 AM MOUNTAIN TIME
12:30 PM CENTRAL
1:30 PM EASTERN

Author Susan Joyner-Stumpf 11:30 am mountain time 12:30 central
will speak about abuse and give book away.. BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

Bonnie Jennings SPEAKER ON ABUSE 12 NOON MOUNTAIN TIME… 1PM CENTRAL

Ann Landrum Stockstill speaker on abuse and book give away
12:30 pm mountain time 1:30 pm central

Author Deborah Brooks Langford Speaker on child abuse 2Pm central

Frances Irene Tolfa 2:15 pm speaker on abuse..

https://www.facebook.com/events/1198295570285098/

 

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Susan
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Bonnie or Bojenn
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Ann
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Deborah
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Francis

Poet Phillip Mathew Roberts

Phillip Mathew Roberts is one of my favorite poets. His poetry is deep, and he uses symbolism to express his ideas and haunting thoughts that are discerned using exquisite interpretation that is not taken lightly. 

 

Many thanks Phillip for agreeing to be one of my guests. It is my pleasure to salute your talents.

Ladies and gents here is Phillip, please enjoy his poetry as much as I do.

PMR

 

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At the crossroads where

Sisyphus planted an asphodel
 
Return silently this beloved space
born of clean Euclidean blankness
succulently tongue-marred by pens
dipped deep into non-responsive pupils
brimming black ink glossy as mirrors
reflecting unmeasurable distances.
 
Questions that lift delicate veils
boyishly as curiosity about the shape
that presses self into consciousness
–the vibrant scream now vintage,
poured sanguine into a single cup
filled once with maternity.
 
Approached through ways
uncertain and unremembered.
 
Roads that lead to absence…
 
The still-locked doors
buried beneath fallen dust amassed
from feet dotting those nations
who favor the prosperous
and whose futures come in shares
as though time were linear
or could be exponentially grown.
 
Craggy shoulders yoked to the firmament
–azures, wisps and pastel emptiness
struggled-forth toward those urns
filled with tomorrow; lacuna
where an idea roamed
off the page.
 
[conclude poem 1]
__
 
Multiple non sequiturs recollected
in a new, still irrelevant order
 
Ever a somnambulist I wander
through clockwork alleles without a cog
knocking around in my cloud-wondrous cranium:
trompe l’oeils through which the sun
make-believes it’s luminous…
 
Ratios unfurled into parsec-spirals
though no smaller than a Planck-dot
separating dreams and nightmares
from Hamlet’s oft-palmed skull.
__
 
Miscreant meters carry my downy iambs
flocked gentle as lambs but the voice clarion
is hollowed into post-Ginsberg howls
echoing moon-barritones
of the great, gnarl-jawed
Canis lupus
__
 
Crossing diaphragm horizons
stretched lyre-fragile–a taut high wire
for my precarious steps into the night
after a final sigh leaves
with the quiescence
of angelic speech.
 
Your lascivious kisses blown through aeolian
harps carved out of my cadaver’s chest.
Such luscious strange songs come
from the dead–
much like hot milk
spilled from men hanged
who sway in spring breezes
like ineffectual wind chimes.
__
 
Receptive as coerced
my untouched pages open easily
the way children do their innocence
bent over beds–playing
games with unmentionable things
that begat their rapturous grandeur.
 
Leda and the Swan repeatedly…
Lost among my coveted whole-number blocks
red-blue-yellow-green and orange
(the color of vowels cradled by sight)
resting on shelves drenched in sunlight;
reveries that wing corpses
through blasé kindergarten windows
toward mellow seasons until I
never really returned,
still roaming through awe
farther into the all-possible…
__
 
The misunderstandings we’ve endured
now broken from loaves, some rustic bread
shared among the multitudes.
 
And as to those aspersions about arrogance:
Prince of knowledge crowned by epistemology
let me gently reassure,
I ached gravely–
abysses that resemble absences
patiently filled with Logos
either felt or ignored.
 
[end poem 2]
__
 
Writ between the gibbous and the wane
 
Unlock no more homes
whose solemn memories remain
among stoicism and quiescence;
pale winter windows without glass
where the only one spoke
a language not meant
for tongues
but horizons.
 
Travel somewhere without
longitude and latitude–
the minutes devoted to Aves
compelled from plaintive drum spaces
where my chest empties into the hallowed;
seconds simply counted
as between-breaths becalmed
–hoar-fog and kinetic reflections
cast like spells across tranquil water
motionless as death.
 
I’ve since emptied everything
including this hand-me-down luggage
passed on from my forefathers.
 
Tomorrow, I depart.
 
[end concluding poems]
__
 
Brief autobiography:
 
During an abusive childhood, Mr. Roberts learned how words and phrases open doorways into a vast escape from the mediocre and cacophonous inconsistencies common among politics and everyday existence.  Grateful for what little skills he posses with language, he’s lived contentedly inside texts offered from the Greeks and Romans to the moderns and will most likely continue to write until he’s lost either his faculties or his life.
__
 
 
Find Phillip here:

Phillip Quotient <surrealimpressionist@gmail.com>

Poetess Jo Dowling

Another poem for the road…

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Stoic liaison appears in the rain

His steed has gone lame and needs tending

The groom knows such mending requires more pay

The stable boy nods –

And I turn away

Come now, liaison

Come in from the rain

Fine stallions are many –

Acquiesce now – obey

Beyond the arbor, the bovine bells ring

Lighting strikes twice –

The cattle stampede

The stoic liaison wipes tears from his eyes

Heave ho –

The grooms throw the steed on the pyre

 

 

©2017 JD

February Love Poems 2017 🌹

 

February Love Poems 2017 🌹

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This poem is a little jaded… I can’t apologize… its where I’m at when I think of love…

 

 

Struggling to find my emotions about love

Must confess, I don’t see whats all the fuss

 

 

Examining others, who declare their passions

Scrutinize, doubt, bah-humbug ~ a wannabe

Merely a facade, a poisons tree

Never existed ~ you see.

Enraptured lovers grabble intimately

Erotic moments, fleeting, bequeathed

Passions of fire, flames from desires

Consequences, scenes, episodes ~ “au revoir.”

And occasions of raptures upon green meadows

Understanding these rendezvous were eros

Asking again, what is truelove

After the season of passions

Remains the idea, “how to get rid of”

Love doesn’t grow from the seeds of lust

Only infants, and children and a sad family life

Teaching the young androgens lessons

Proofing the courses and coaching hormones

Instructing the usage of birth control

Keeping the knees together tightly bound

Taking the ‘Phallus Willie’ to the red lights

Instead of young Susie who thinks you love her

But it was your prostaglandins and testosterone that beds

Loving lies caused Susie to spread her legs

And this was never love dear teenage mother

Perhaps you forced what was never there

That seed of a child made your bed

And yes you love the “gift from God”

However, that is love, oh young bride

However, Phallus Willie, had other quests

And the older he gets, he seeks truelove ~ yes

It’s the love from God that untangles this mess 🌹

 

 

 

K♣️

Now Love is ~ 🌹

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1 Corinthians 13 

3   If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast,[b] but do not have love, I gain nothing.

 

My Little Jo Jo who died summer 2015.

Now dogs love and as I’ve written before dog spelled backwards is God. And God is love. Dogs are love if you treat them right.

 

Shelley Cannon-Fredrick painted this portrait of my Little Jo.

 

Preparing for The love Month of February

Any thoughts or poetry are welcomed…🌹Please drop a thought or verse… Anything that comes to your mind…

 

 

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If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing

In Preparation for The Love Month~ February…Poetry🌹

Starting with the Biblical explanation concerning love, I will post 1 Corinthians 13.

Thank you Bible-gateway

1 Corinthians 13New International Version (NIV)

The Apostle Paul speaks …

13 If I speak in the tongues[a] of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast,[b] but do not have love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues,they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, 10 but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears. 11 When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. 12 For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

13 And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. 🌹

 

This Word Called Love 🌹

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This Word Called Love

🌹

Oh what can I say about the word love?

Asking if it really is or something conspired

Holding tightly to impressions believed

Searching places where thinking it might be

Wanting desiring for a fleeting fantasy

This action called “to love,” not imagined

Holding it tightly as a song-less, song bird

Caught in a cage insisting, own ways

Perceiving for another the ways they are to be

Strangling the avian not allowing their flight

Captured in a prison of your perceived delight

The fowl looses feathers, plucking them out

Wanting so to be itself, wanting to fly

Away from an insistent conquering fright

Bald and ugly now, plumage falling out

Once stood a beautiful lover and now ~

Behind bars, a seized encapsulated fowl

So what about the word, Love?

Does it exist in our box of ideas

And, is it trapped inside our four walls

Or is it free to fly away for seasons in love

Returning freely, and lively breathing life

Colorful as God intended it to be, so bright

And examine your beautiful bird smiling

And see your neighbors brown, bald and dying

Pulling feathers out under siege

Now tell me, does love let the bird breath

Or does it kill what it can’t perceive

K♣️

Reverence Peace Awe Small Humbled Standing

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Reverence Peace Awe Small Humbled Standing

More stars than the sands on a shore
Lasting and growing vacuuming infinity
The greatest quest is to know and see
What is beyond where my eyes perceive

Surely there is a beginning and an end
Will I see and partake beyond fleshly men
To travel faster than the speed of light
See The Milky Way and ride Halley’s Comet
Visit where men pray there’s a God

And ever return home for mom and dad
Are they heaven bound or universal spirits
These answers of questions, will I know?
Find peace on Earth and love of dogs
A place free from hatred and eating flesh 

Oh God tell me, is there such a place

 

 

 

Video version… It’s so beautiful Thank you Tulika Gugar, Alan Johnson, Al Johns, and Deborah Brooks… I cried…..

 

 

K  BJ 1.7.17                                                                                                                                                                            🚀📡🔬 👽🕒🌀♃†⚖⚛∞

My Rubaiyat Poetry

My Rubaiyat Poetry

 

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Gather, and watch the fires, winter is today

The time to write has soberly fallen; it lays

And Spring steals her pens of deep creations

The Spring Princess earnestly, then ~ she wants to play

 

 

K♣️ BJ 1.7.2017

 

 

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Over the land covered in suet, singed by storms of fires
The Fire Drake surveyed for any breath of life remaining
The humans decidedly in unification ended all existence
Hovering over Elysium once occupied by eternal Spring
The Drake came to rest on wet wood washed to the shore
It considered all things and then after time it took to flight
Once there was a place called Heaven and now it’s forever lost

©2015

 

And then, the angel shouted, their ears perked                                                                    
 Those waiting replied ~ “We are gathered here ~ hiding.”                                                 
The tales are true, dear majesty, and we doubted                                                                
And, with a wisp, they and the pheonix departed

 

K♣️

 

Are You Able to See

Are You Able to See

 

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So lovely and elegant ~ the garden tea 

It is prepared for the human abductees 

Merely a mirage, a festival adorned by honey bees

Cakes sumptuous, champagne with raspberries 

China cups and saucers and a teapot to match

White linens and lace and a grand wooden chair

The Maidenhair delicately placed with care

A giant mushroom shielding us from the glare

But are you able to see the red-eyed hare?

Looking so intently, as to warn and beware

And asking again, are you able to see?

The time appears at almost nine o’five

The brass stopwatch chimes so to bid our goodbyes

The hare’s eyes turn blood-red with dread

The cake eaten, so we blew kisses farewell

Then like lightening, waved bye-bye and fled

 

 


K♣️ BJ 2016

Thank you Pinterest for the image

Poetess Jo Dowling, A Psychiatric Nurse Who Writes Poetry of The Dark Side

 

It is with great pleasure that I introduce you to a fellow poetess who is also a psychiatric nurse, like myself.

 

 

It is because the mind of a mental health nurse sees the world, reported by others, from a down to earth approach and also from a surreal sublime often bizarre experience,  that I’m thrilled with Jo Dowling’s poetry. In a way, because we are so down to earth, we are also somewhat of skeptics, realists and also expect the weird from the world, at the same time.

We may write about “fairies” and fables, but under that fantasy is dirt truth… You must read between the lines that often have allegories, metaphors, parables and messages hidden in the gray areas of life, and from that we express the unexplainable in poetry.

If you live and move in these areas, then  you too, understand the minds of psychiatric nurses… We are the eyes of doctors and therapists. We watch and never have to listen because we see and understand the unspoken language of the human spirit.

We are the Watchers, not exactly the listeners of words, because body language speaks louder volumes than spoken conversations, and psychiatric nurses see and realize the unspoken and that is why I love Jo’s poetry. She sees the reflections of the dark side of life and explains some secrets found inside closets and under beds in her poetry. The child that hurts, the person that still experiences the “boogyman” syndrome, Jo understands.

It is the human psyche and the sixth dimension that her poetry reflects. The empathetic observer that she is, who feels and deeply understands fears, horrors, paranoias and the sadness’ of many who experience mental illness or just simple fears and depression. Jo writes from their persona or perhaps she writes from her own experiences.

I love your poetry Jo. I understand and I relate to well. I know those demons thwarting our living day to day … So often those tormentors get away with robbing innocent victims.

I appreciate your poetry because you are truthful about what you’ve witnessed, and you have come to tell others, to alert them, and to touch them in away, through your poetry. Those whom read your lines, verse and choices of words, know that you do understand because you hit the demon on the head (just an expression) and expose those dark forces, so well.

Jo’s poetry is heartfelt spiritualality, but is not pie in the sky fairies and pixies, but it is about real life forces that have wounded many, and affect many daily;

So, thank you Jo.

Here is one of many of Jo’s poems.

 

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Jo’s Bio

Childhood was spent in China, Korea, and Baghdad. Attended college at the University of Arkansas, Henderson State University, and Texarkana College, obtaining a degree in Nursing. Became Specialized and Certified in Psychiatry and worked as a Registered Nurse at Baptist Health and Pinnacle Pointe Hospital in Little Rock, Arkansas. Served in the United States Marine Corps, Intelligence Division. Retired early and returned to hometown of Foreman, Arkansas to write full time.
jodowling514

 

 


 

 

Poem 1

Sometimes we turn from the fire so quickly we stumble and fall in the flames and are burned
And sometimes we medicate painful mistakes with elixers of poison or  promises made
We watch as the children grow taller and stronger and cover our eyes when they break down the door
We are of thunder and rainbows, and cyclones, and northeastern winds without warning or form
We are of time and celestial planets, and volatile poisons and critical mass
We explain meaning without understanding- our senses perceive only what we believe
Humanity, fling back the sheet from the mirror–
Focus your sight and define what you see
Quiet your mind and acknowledge your senses
Cry for humanity, tend to the bleed

jodowling514



Poem 2

Gold turns to blackness like fossil rock veins- meanings ingrained and embedded 

Sadness strikes suddenly, point piercing through, wickedly splitting existance in two 

Shaking from force of the violent blow- the meaning burns inward and down to the bone  

The sound lasts for only one second of time, but the echo will last for an entire life


jodowling514



Poem 3


Biddable river shines bright in the Autumn

Dance with me under the river rock cliffs

Voluptuous evergreen lips kiss the sky

Come to the river

Swim through your mind

Grape vines entwine, hiding footprints behind us

Time cannot find this oasis

Tedious urgency does not exist

Prisms refract where the river falls spray

Wade in the wonder

Bathe and create

jodowling514


You can find Jo Dowling on FB. She has several poetry groups and you might want to follow her and learn more about the dark side of our mind….

I live there at times and relate to the closets hidden from the world of facade and often irreverent.

https://www.facebook.com/jo.dowling.37?fref=ts


Thank you Jo for sharing your poetry and a part of yourself. Thank you for the work that you  do and write about.  It is because you relate so well to the human spirit.

Jo is a realist.

Thank you deeply and sincerely.

 

 

A Castle Stands

 

 

A Castle Stands

 

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There on a hillside vaguely visible

Grey fog covers the low grounds

Tree bare of leaves stand protecting

So many mysteries dwelling within

Approaching slowly, then stand waiting

For an invitation from the powers invading

Many times I’ve watched the bridge

Upright, that separates from ground

Murky the mote  between castle and man

Creatures hungry for the taste of flesh

Yet curious, I like a cat with nine lives

Should the gate drop, then I will pass

What would become of me ~ tis my fate

The mystery too great to pass it along

Daringly, I accepted the ghostly bate

Entered the mausoleum and did not hesitate

 

 

K♣️ BJ

 

Images from A Poets haven

 

The Things Seen

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I stood boldly on a mountain
Climbed high; Didn’t want to come down
Saw faces emerging sunlight cast on pristine pure snow
Then an avalanche swallowed those casted images
And I realized that life is tightly bound
Beholding time, that is not apologetic
Humbly ~ I carefully descended down
 
K♣️ BJ
 
Image and poem by me

When I Was a Child I Sat Bored and Behaved in a Tedious Classroom 1950’s

 

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Sitting in a classroom, perhaps second or third grade, the teacher rambled on and on about something and I being disinterested watched out the large glass window. I watched the weather, the birds, and nature in its splendor.
 
 
They tested me for intelligence, for retardation, for so many things and found nothing.
The test they left out was The Boredom of a Classroom exam.
This one, I would have passed.
 
 
While the teacher droned on about endless uninteresting information, I sat looking, doodling, imagining stories, thinking about astronomy, mythology and fairytales.
 
 
 
Perhaps this was you too, or maybe this is your child now.
 
 
 
 
Image from Pinterest