Life's Choices, a poem by Janet Muirhead Hill and the Rimers

I'm thankful for the inner muse I call my "rimers" whose voices I hear in rhyming rhythm when I'm not too busy to listen.
Here is a scribbled poem from an old notebook. 

Over, under, around and through
direction in life is up to you.
Circumnavigate the globe
or sit at home and pull your lobe.

Meet the challenges head on straight
or crawl beneath the bed and wait.
How you react to circumstances
depends on readiness to take chances.

Listening to inner or outside voices
will influence the way you make your choices.
Whatever they be, you'll keep being taught
by the consequences of the choices you've bought.

Through time and trial and introspection
life will teach you truth detection
until you learn the best thing to do
is to your own soul be ever true.
                                                                                                                                                                             

Death and Dead Emotions

Having lost my dear sister and best friend last year, I'm at a loss of how to feel as I see another best friend, my editor, and mentor for more than fifteen years approach the end of life and enter hospice care. I wrote this poem in an attempt to express my reaction to this news.

Grief?

Sorrow sits upon the shelf
High above my head.
Unwilling to look inside myself,
I avoid what I most dread.

And so I find I do not feel,
My mind and body, numb.
The source of pain seems so unreal
That tears refuse to come.

For facing another loss to death
Is much too hard to do.
And so I find I hold my breath
And wish more life for you.

Dearest friend, I love you so
I'm loathe to say goodbye
But I see that you will sometime go,
And in time, I know I'll cry.
 

Insomnia

What keeps you awake at night? Most often when I can't sleep, it's because I am unhappy with myself. It's lying there wishing I'd said or done something other than what I did in a particular situation. And replaying the danged scenario over and over in a million different ways, imagining a better outcome. All for naught, of course, except to keep me awake all night. I'm thankful that these sleepless nights are far less frequent than they used to be. Maybe I'm learning to count blessings instead.


INSOMNIA
by Janet Muirhead Hill

Sometimes when we cannot sleep

We lie there counting silly sheep

But usually we’re counting should’ves,

What-if-I-hads, and wish-I-would’ves.

Words we’ve spoken and those not said

Ruefully, we replay in our head.

Hindsight gives us such clear vision

That in our thoughts, we seek revision.

Yet life has no button to re-record

And deeds once done have their reward.

For better or worse when a thing is done

It can’t be rewritten for anyone.

The best we can do as we count regrets

Is to learn a lesson and pay our debts.

Another poem slipped out of my mind onto paper. It's about writer's block. Nothing fancy or profound. Just fun rhyming.

Writer's blocks do happen,
at least they do to me.
Yet when they do, I don't know why,
It is a mystery.

I wonder why I cannot make
myself sit down and write.
What is the thing that stops my mind
and holds the block so tight?

And then a day will come along,
just as mysteriously
when I can sit and write and write,
words flowing fast through me.

I don't know what the reasons are.
There is no common thread
I only know I love the days
when stories fill my head

and I am teleported
to a land of make believe
as I pen upon the page
the words that I receive.

Secrets

An anonymous poem.

SECRETS

Come, my friend, if you please,
We will walk and shoot the breeze,
And when the breeze is shot to hell
We will all our secrets tell

Oh, I have secrets, yes I do,
And no one I can tell them to.
Yet sometimes as I walk in rain
I'd kind of like to share the pain

Of the secret kept so long
But I know I must be strong.
And yet a while bear this weight
And solely stand up to my fate.

And so I will not share my plight
Until I've found a way to fight
And change the course I seem to be
Traveling to the death of me.

By keeping the secret in my head
Until the day that I am dead
I'll keep from spoiling anyone's bliss.
Better to live in happiness.

So come my friend and we will talk
as merrily we take our walk.
Cheerily we'll shoot the breeze
And avoid all talk of my disease.

Poems, short stories, essays, book reviews

Besides our one novel, by Raymond Storm, we are now open to publish poetry and other short creative pieces right here on our blog. If you wish to have your work published, please email it janet@ravenpublishing.net, and I will post it here as long as it meets our standards. I won't publish pornography or anything that exploits children.

For starters, here is a poem written about the grief of losing a loved one.

Grief
by Janet Muirhead Hill


With stealth, grief prowls
in the shadows of my mind
like a hunter
    lurking
        stalking
            waiting

For just the right moment
to release its arrow
from a tightly strung bow
to pierce my consciousness
mid stride
    I falter
        waiver
            bite my lip and turn away

to hide my tears
and falling face
until I can smile again,
shoving back memory's dart
and spurning it's bold sting
    and proclaim
       
            I am fine

Except in the shadows of my mind.

A note from author, Raymond Storm

Dear Readers,

I am super thankful for your interest in this site and my book, Caught at the Edge. I am an ex-gang member who has lived the street life. I have stood face to face with killers, I have been shot, stabbed, and left for dead. I gave orders to more men than most corporate CEOs, and I have watched many of my friends die. I lived in the streets and would have died for the streets. Now, as a man of faith, I know it was God who saved me from the streets.

Why write this book? To bring to light what the Cartel has been doing to kids since the early 80's—making them into soldiers. The best soldier is the one that has nothing to lose.
I know what it means to be that kid. I have seen every loss you can imagine, every pain you can inflict, and most types of abuse as a child. I learned to hate when I was very young. I thrived on it. To be honest, it is what drove me—that bitter taste of hate.

Some will say about Caught at the Edge, "Oh this is just some kind of religious book." Please let me assure you that it is much more than that. Before being published, I allowed men of known gangs read it: Crips, Bloods, Latin Kings, Vice Lords, leaders of prison gangs, and the likes. I have watched some pretty hard men hand me back the book with tears in their eyes. To know that someone else knew their struggles and made it through, touched them.

May I be so bold as to place a challenge before you? Allow me to take you on a journey like no other. Let me show you what hides in the dark recess of the streets. Like a football coach, I will run you through the gambit, but instead of plays, it will be emotions. I give you my word that this book will affect you. If it doesn't, I will send you a handwritten apology. Now if this book moves you, then please tell your family and friends about it.

Thank you for your time.
Be Blessed,

"Storm"

You can find Storm's book here