Torn,Tattered Hearts 

The years haven’t erased

the sharpness of the pain

still brings tears to her eyes

and try as she might

there is a part of her

that can’t forget the day

the hearts were all

torn and tattered

shredded into pieces

marked with words

crossed out and underlined

that left her scarred

where no-one could ever see

she had held the box

decorated with such care

daring to hope against hope

though her intuition had known

All eyes were on her

almost taunting

she really should have waited

but she went on ahead anyway

 took a deep breath

opened up the box

and felt the bottom drop out

torn tattered hearts

words in black 

scratched out the “love”

mark “don’t” instead

broken candy bars

smashed into pieces

There was not much

 she could do

no saving grace

just too late

bite her  tongue

blinked her eyes

willed herself not to cry

slide that box underneath

the wooden desk

pray for strength

to pretend best as she could

until finally the bell rang

 And she escaped

threw away the box

 full of shame and hate

written on so many 

torn, tattered hearts

đź’”Jeanna 

10 54 a.m 2+12-17

http://www.jeannasoul.com

October Dances

As September collapses into October each and every year, I find myself at that familiar ragged edge once again.

This is the month I began saying “goodbye” to the woman that raised me, loved me,claimed me and shaped me.  It’s a month full of “last” and of too many “first” and I dance along the edges between the need for solitude,the desire for company. It’s a time when I long to be asked to dance and when I want to dance all by myself. 

My Mema, Lord, have mercy, was the most charming, creative, headstrong, fearless, loving woman that ever danced this earth. 

And I say “dance” instead of “walked” because that’s exactly hl what she did.

Our garage door was left wide open and Marty Robbins, Tammy Wynette, George Jones, Dolly Parton would keep us company while we worked in the garden, planting onions, beans,tomatoes and peppers or just sitting out in the driveway talking.

At any moment, she might catch my eye, wipe the dirt off her hands and grab my hand while saying , “Come on, let’s dance.”  We would do a little two stepping in the grass and she would be singing the words so I could read her lips.

Her blue eyes would twinkle and she would say, ” Oh, I just love this man’s voice….he could put his boots under my bed anyday”

That was just a figure of speech for her. Truth be told, the only man who ever left his boots under her bed was the man she loved till the day she died. 

Daddy and Mema could cut a rug better than Fred and Ginger. I remember being star struck watching them on the dance floor when I was 5 years old. Mema in a long, flowing chiffon gown and Daddy in his trademark black suit were the only couple on the floor and they swirled and turned and moved as if they were one and the ballroom was a stage. 

As the song ended, people burst into applause and Daddy took Mema back to her seat, and smiled at me.  I felt as if I was the luckiest little girl in the world- I was the daughter of people that could dance like that! 

Mema used to tell me stories about how her momma- a stricter God-fearing woman- didn’t approve of dancing so Mema and her sister would sneak off into town and watch the couples dancing then come home and practice in front of the mirror with each other until they got the moves down pat. 

That disapproval didn’t make much difference to her and maybe that’s what fueled her passion so much. There was this strong streak inside her that just didn’t “give a hoot” what anyone else thought.

Even me. 

There were times when I was a teenager trying to fit in and be “normal” when Mema grabbing my hand and dancing in the aisle of Minyards just embarrassed me to pieces.  I would pull back and whisper, “Mema, people are WATCHING!” and, those eyes would twinkle again and she would laugh and say, “Well, then come on, Jeanna’, let’s give them something to watch!”

“Something to watch” was exactly what she was. She could shake and shimmy, turn and twirl, keeping perfect rhythm to the beat all the while carrying on the exact emotional gestures that best suited the song.

This was true no matter what she was wearing or where she was,  and our home was her favorite dance hall.

There were 3 switches on the light plate by the front door of the house we lived in. The first switch was the porch light,the second turned on the foyer light but the third switch was magic.

When that third switch was lifted up. down would come one of the many LP’s stacked high on the stereo and, by the time, you’ve taken a few steps. the rich voice of Freddy Fender,Nat King Cole, Kenny Rogers, Ray Price or Barbara Mandrell would fill the house, loud and clear.

  Sometime it would be gospel, or Big Band or holiday music but most of the time, it was country-western.

And there she would be, barefoot and in a gown, standing in the kitchen, putting a pot of stew on for dinner while frying bacon for breakfast as the biscuits baked and she’ll be singing along -because she knew all the words by heart-tapping her spatula and dancing as she went as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe that’s why it’s only natural for me to find myself dancing up to meet a client, or twirling around during a session unbeknownst to the person laying facedown on my table. 

.Maybe that’s one reason that I don’t feel like I truly know someone until I’ve danced with them. 

Maybe that’s why I dance in the aisles with my little Riven and watch her shake and shimmy as her eyes twinkle with that same mischievous delight. 

Maybe that’s why October is the most bittersweet months of all and why I find myself hiding away, seeking some peace and quiet so that I can hear my Mema’s words again.

“Don’t give a hoot.”

“Let them watch.”

“I just love this.”

“Come on and dance.”

Maybe that’s what life is all about….not giving a hoot about what anyone else thinks, letting others watch as you do whatever you love to do and. saying ‘I love this’ every chance you get.
After all, someday you will be way up yonder in glory and Mema just might grab you by the hand,with a twinkle in her eyes and say, “I just love this song..come on….let’s dance!”

For you, my beloved Mema..

i love you with both hands and I’ll dance…..every single chance I get.

4 37 p.m. 10-9-17

Jeanna’ Mead

The Tree and Me

I had gone on this trip for one real reason-to get time to write and this tree was the first thing I saw as we parked and I knew with absolute certainly that it was speaking to me. 

I had been wrestling with my changing appearance. and sometimes felt like the woman I saw in the mirror, wasn’t the same woman I felt I inside. 

I had never been the type that fit the “standard” or tried to be the same as everyone else but the last couple of years had shook my roots and filled me with some doubts and longings, and I struggled to find my own sense of beauty and confidence once again. 
This tree was not a “typical” tree. It waa clear that no one had ever trimmed the branches, shaped it or tried to make it conform or become anything it wasn’t meant to be.  

And you know what?  It is beautiful and inspiring, graceful and purposeful, strong and unwavering…just as it was meant to be.  

The tree simply grew, right where the Almighty Creator planted it, shaped by the wind and rain, by the Texas sun and bathed. by moonlight. 
It spread wide and low, reached to the heavens and offered shelter and rest as needed.

Storms came and beat hard, knocking the branches and leaving scars-tell tale marks of battles survived, of years gone by, of experiences.
I realized that my body had also bent low…to lift babies, plant flowers,clean and stretch…..I’ve stood on tip toes, reached for the heavens, planted kisses on tall men, hung stars on Christmas trees, danced around to every kind of music. 

I’ve made love and made mistakes, made cakes and made my point. I’ve used my body to shelter others and to offer comfort.  

I’ve carried my babies inside my body, stretching to provide space, nutrition and love.

My body has scars, healed wounds, lines and marks from days in the Texas sun and nights bathed by moonlight 

And you know what? 

I am finally beginning to see that I’m created by the Almighty  and, in my own way, I’m beautiful and inspiring,graceful and purposeful, strong and unwavering ….just as I was meant to be. 

TAKEN

She’s been taken

By the hand

Led onto the dance floor

Towards the light and the end of the line

Up the hill, out of the way

Down the steps.across a path, over the ŵater

Into bed and onto a stage

She’s been taken

For a fool by those that didn’t know any better

For weak instead of strong

On many a wild goose chase

By mistake for someone else, a different nationality

Just another pretty face

Shes been taken

To breakfast, lunch and dinner

Sometimes just for dessert

Out for wine and coffee

And to a picnic in a park

She’s been taken

To the very end of her rope

Right  down to her knees

And she’s been taken to the heights of absolute ecstasy

Breathless

She’s been taken

advantage of far more than she’ll care to admit

the wrong way by those that don’t understand

But most of all, she gets taken for granted

more than anything












Desire

It seems to me

That my desires change

From day to day

Moment by moment

Sometimes I desire

Peace and quiet

Solitude….a chance to write

Outside on the patio

Surrounded by nature

Other times I can’t wait

To feel the music

Beneath my feet

And dance all night

The pleasure of company

Loved ones with me
On cold days,I so desire

 A crackling fire

Cup filled with cocoa

Fresh baked cookies

Books to read

But as soon as it warms up

The things  change

And I desire 

Juicy peaches and mangos

Fresh squeezed lemonade

Coconut oil rubbed on my skin

Feet plopped in the sand

There are times when i desire

Nothing but an embrace

And other times I can never get enough

Of my love language of touch

I might desire to slip away 

Unnoticed 

A wisp in the air

Another times I make sure

My desires were made clear

The only thing 

That’s never changed

Is my desire

To be me. 

Jeanna’ Mead

5 39a.m. 3.4 17