SHORT

So we just keep building...
until the family fort is finished,
until we finally feel complete, 
until icy streets no longer phase us,
and one day later we die.

By Janell Renee' Ward 

Iron Hamper

They stare past each other,
A grave gaze,
Into the evening lights,
Where they can only make out the edges
Of large buildings.
The young lady thinks about her dying brother.
The old man recalls his planned wedding day
That never happened.
Tonight the train is mother;
She sways them back and forth,
Cradling and coddling their sorrow.
Can’t you hear the laden scraping on the railway?
Tonight mother carries more weight than
What the engineers said she was allowed. 

by Janell R. Ward 

©Janell R Ward, Reward Publishing 2014

Foul Maiden     

My largest fear is that people will look at me and say

She is a snobby girl, prideful lady, a waste of time;

Of course

I am lying…

My largest fear is that people will look at me and say

Overachiever, workaholic, angry single chick;  

Of course

I am still not being honest…

My largest fear is that people will look at me and say

She is sloppy, hulking, gross;

Of course

            I am telling you the truth. 

By Janell Renée Ward

©Reward Publishing 2014

Poem to the Islamic State

Dear ISIS, 

You can break the Christian's backs,
you can shred their bones, 
and remove the children’s heads. 

But you cannot kill their God, 
destroy their crown, 
or demolish truth.

You can tie their arms, 
crucify the fathers, 
rape the mothers and daughters,

But you cannot steal their love, 
capture their hearts, 
or imprison their allegiance. 

You can hang them with ropes,

Take away their food,

And make them die at your feet.

But you cannot throttle their worth,

Starve their souls,

Or force them to bow to your power.

You can separate their families,

Paint the letter “N” upon their doors,

And burn them alive, 

But cannot make them unloved by the Father,

Or make their ashes invaluable.  

You cannot eradicate their God-given heritage.

You stand the afflicted ones. 

You have beautiful blood dripping from your conscience.

But they have liberty; 

You just made them win the race.

©Janell R Ward, Reward Publishing 2014 

Inevitable Flip-side

Seasons of a Mother  by Janell R. Ward   

1.

Evening lights pop on in the city.

Gray comfort settles in.

Night lights flicker in the tired pupils.

A mother sings, kisses her prince's soft forehead, 

Tucks him into blue sheets,

as weighty eyelashes fall on his little clean face.

Tonight mother snuggles on the pillow case.

Tomorrow she will take him to the park

And play among the flowers of the field.

2.

Evening lights pop on in the chapel.

Gray faces accompany the cortege.

Candles flicker in the weary tears.

A mother cries, kisses her prince's cold forehead,

Tucks him into the blue coffin.

Heavy lashes rest on his stiff skin. 

Tonight mother collapses upon the casket rack.

Tomorrow she will take him to the graveyard

And lay down beside him flowers of the field.

©Janell R. Ward Reward Publishing 2014

Inheritance  by Janell R. Ward

A Brand Built on Faithfulness 

You can determine daily
          who your parents,
          your brothers,
          your sisters are.

They are the ones who
manifest a defensive hedge through every lovely deed,
show up at your workplace with Persian tulips.

They ditch
         their roles,
         their goals,
         their shopping lists

to bring you soup on a frail Saturday morning.

This is family—

An invisible bloodline of reliability,
a cluster of red and white blood cells
made from mercy and conviction.

They are a sterling salvation—

Arriving on time,
remembering that you hate cinnamon,
driving hours to watch your children when obligation calls.

They will engage with you forever,
purchase your misfortunes,
and bear them with you,
catching your sloppy sobs on their
               white,
Antony Morato dress shirt.

They will perpetually advertise a welcome home sign:
You are always wanted here.

They pump peace through your body,
Releasing the relief of knowing

you        can         count          on                      

                 someone.

They are the attentive ones,
The ones that make you want to live again tomorrow.





Part II. The Confrontation


You were supposed to be the one to love me fully,
Passionately,
Without reason or cause,
Adoring me just for the sake of
Being blood.
You were supposed to be the one who would want to
Do anything
To make sure that we could remain close.
You should have been the one who
Showed up on time,
Cried with me in life and death,
The one who
took care of my children when I couldn't.
But you wouldn't do it.

And now I'm left to decide
that you cannot come any closer.

The Naked Christian

I don’t think I’m supposed to skinny dip,

because I am a Christian.

Even if I were alone, 

God forbid I’d be

               in a garden, 

               near a fruit tree,

               naked. 

Poem for Sanity

Regulating Clamor 

God gave you ten fingers.
I don't understand how five of those won't
fit over the mouth of your screaming child.

"To The High City" by Janell Renée

I deviate upward, toward
your limestone magnificence.
The Golden Age caught me,                                          
and you are the one I want the most.

I see
nobody else beside me;
just you, just me,
just your white glow.

I hear
no one else beside me; only
your etched words humming,
hiding behind the craftsman’s grin.

Your marble arches hook my peering view.
Your doric pillars defeat all matters;                          Doric- Type of Limestone
This is life—
arching for the lions that watch your doors.

Perculies bore you forth as his daughter.                   Perculies- 495 B.C. Greek Statesman
But I stand now your habitué.
I crib the pebbles you still hold.
You cradle my body in your citadel.

How many hands have touched you?
How many people
have you twirled with your charm?
I want to be your dance partner now.

I am sure you still bleed
the tap of tamborines.
So let’s be round like the Choreia.                              Choreia-Ancient Dance in Circles
I will buy a lyre; just promise me the Sousta.               Sousta- Erotic Folk-dance

Ancient peoples worried about you.
Their curio still lingers.
But today I hold you in my palms.
Here. Now.

No longer primeval,
but real.
No longer theirs.
You are mine.

I am happy to dwell with you.
And I will obsess over you until
I feel your heartbeat through the quiet,
until you completely possess my mind.

Molasses for the Morning

Molasses for the Morning

I cut down an evergreen tree,
Rung out the sap she preserved,
And dripped it in your morning coffee.

I thought if you drank her syrup,
You might become as faithful as she—
Standing tall, bearing beauty, even in cruel seasons.

Maybe you would catch her honesty too,
Cutting your heart opened to reveal spirals
That say how long you have really loved me.

If only this nectar would keep you true,
We could have it all—
Every border of every world,

Living a thousand years,
Being found with a thousand rings,
A thousand loops to our honor.

Her Name is Not Slut

She was poorly dealt with. 
She was dealt with poorly. 
But we don’t see it... 

Because we are fixated on her clothes,
Her smell, seductive glare, her scandalous hair.

So she is labeled “slut” as she struts,
But she just wants someone to say she is pretty.

Our blinders are absurd. She slurred
And we mark her with terms that make us feel pure.

But don’t see it... the moment when
She was poorly dealt with.
She was dealt with poorly.

She puts a needle in her wrist. We twist
and squirm to avoid any type of friendship.

She laughs too loud, too much;
the drugs are the only hugs

She gets in the morning,
But for us it’s “how annoying!"

How offended we are.
“Sick. Gross. YUCK.” But she is stuck

In one day where...
She was poorly dealt with.
She was dealt with poorly.

Not Without My Travelling Buddy

Not Without My Travelling Buddy

I know that you will go to heaven someday.
I know that I will go to heaven someday.

But I’m concerned about those moments
when one of us beats the other,

and one of us is left here
on this materialistic abyss,

this plane of nonsense,
to face the heat of the morning by ourselves.

If I go first,
if I beat you,
I dread the clock ticking to the rhythm
of stale memories you see.

I’m concerned that the stars
will watch you weep
and in their empathy fall down,
making darkness that much darker.

I fear for you.

But I fear for me too.

If you go first,
If you beat me,
What will I do at quiet midnight?
Who will eat the pie that I burn?

I'm concerned that the sun
will watch me weep
and in its mercy fall down,
inflaming your leftover laughter.

I refuse to face this barren earth alone!

I do not want to sojourn
on golden streets without you.

I do not want to sojourn
on this gravel globe without you.

Taming Madame Nullard 

She is severe.

She has the beak of a black bird, 

Red claws, a snake spine; 

Her smile is a twisted;

Hello, rabid raccoon. 

Greetings, black mamba. 

She is ugly—

She is scary—

She is

The one who refuses to dream. 

J. Chéri

"I Watched Jehovah"

For my mother, after my parent’s divorce... 

"I Watched Jehovah" 

Even though I could not feel God’s presence,

and I was disappointed

with the outcome of my productivity,

and life’s emergent pain,

I did see,

I did watch,

something that will never leave me:

I witnessed supernatural abundance

bound up with unconditional love.

I watched God work

when he sang over my mother as she grieved loss,  

when he gave her a job that paid more than she thought possible,

when he presented to her a place to call home,

flinging open doors to a haven of relief.

I watched God work.

I watched God work

when he restored to her friends she did not know were around,

when he hampered the fists of fret, anxiety, and fear,  

when he held her hands in the shadows,

and took the heaviness of sorrow off her spine.

I watched God work.

I watched God work

as he exchanged beauty for years of ruin,

as he resumed her laughter despite the reality of hurt,

as he took up for her—being her husband—

because earthly people do not love perfectly.

I watched God work.

I watched God work

when he spoke truth to keep her footsteps firm,

when he reestablished unto her security of sound mind,

when he anchored her heart at the port of forgiveness,

and made her stand straight with a poise of peacefulness.

I watched God work.

I watched God worked

when he declared himself to be

Jehovah-Jireh—her provider,                                *The God who provides

Jehovah-Nissi—her banner,                                   *The God who is the banner

Jehovah-Rapha—her healer.                                  *The God who heals

I watched God work.

I do not know what all that toiling and ache was for,

And although I could not see God in my life,

I watched his hands in her world.

 Now, not because mother-like-daughter,

but because God let me see him move,

I am confident that in any future valley

he will be my Jehovah too,

and I will look back on my own life and say:

I watched God work.

"Whispers that Changed Me" by Janell Renée

All my things, I must pack all my things.  Posh products swamped my suitcase. Fine scented lotions and perfumes clung to every folded shirt and quality jeans. My belongings were pressed down in my black suitcase to yield room for more, more, more.  My curling iron? Check! Nail polish? Check! My travel sized laundry detergent? Check! I was prepared to head off to the mountains of Peru.  Let’s fast-forward this tale: life placed me in the arms of an orphan boy. His cheeks were breaking apart from lack of water.  Then time moved me into a street with no toilets, but only three large orange tin buildings—a shared hole for extremities.  Then I found myself standing at an all girls orphanage, holding the hand of a nine year old. She had been found sleeping in the streets with no food, kicked out of her house with no warm clothes. Her cold, brown, skinny fingers latched to my cheeks, and she pulled my soft face to hear her plea, her whisper, “Por favor, quisiera que seas mi hermana” – “Please…be my sister.” 

All my things, I must not value all my things so much.

********

All my thoughts, I was stirring in all my thoughts:  My mind fumed about an arrogant co-worker who unapologetically ignored others. No one mattered to her.  Sharp words consumed my mouth and I exploded toxic anger from my eyes shooting straight to the back of her head.   I hoped she would hear my nasty remarks and feel offended, bashed, and small. I was able to excuse my judgments because it was obvious that her attitude needed improvement.   So I allowed bitterness to drip from my fangs.  “Which girl do you speak of?” My friend inquired. My head nodded her way. “Janell, that girl is deaf” she whispered.

All my thoughts, I must not to value all my thoughts so much.

********

I watched the Wizard of Oz while waiting for the chance to hold him—that unplanned adventure every family receives: the gift of another human, who will commonly spend their lives knowing you, loving you, and laughing with you. My eight year old self giggled at the interpretation of his name which meant “Dog” in Hebrew.  His black hair and blue eyes installed in my memory forever—the first time I saw my little brother. My best friend came into the world on December 3^rd, and we continue our journey of smiles. We grew up, took walks together, ate donuts at midnight, laughed so hard that we couldn’t finish dinner. We yelled at each other, wrestled on the floor, and made up while he had me in a headlock. He grew taller than me. We got in an argument at a drive-though—we laughed. We watched our Dad try to finish a sentence while watching TV (practically impossible)—we laughed.   He turned 16; new ripe age of supposed rebel-hood, but we never ceased our laughter.  We laughed about his personality being different than mine; he would say sentences like, “Big brach fell”—he was a man of few words—but we laughed. He was at school when my parents called me, the shaky whisper of my father, “Caleb has cancer.” 

Surrender scratched her nails on the blackboard of my being. 

********

Sometimes when I lay in bed, past murmurs run through my head:

 “I hate you.”

                         “You’re cheap.”

                                                 “I don’t appreciate you.”

“I won’t ever love you.”

                         “You look like the sunrise.” 

                                                “Your man should be mine.”

“You’re my best friend.”

                         “You’re lovely.”

                                                 “I can’t afford it.”

“You’re fat.”

                        “Janell, he hung himself.” 

                                                 “I think we should never talk again.” 

“It serves you right…”

                         “I wish I was more like you.” 

                                                            “Why can’t you forgive me?” 

********

I tread. I tread along the Romanian sidewalks—up cobblestones streets, down red brick alleys, and through historical churches. Brasov welcomed me like nature’s invitation to new birth.  Vivacity surged through my traveling mind, as a friend and I found ourselves standing at the bottom of the highest mountain in the city.  Coffee first; we knew a warm drink must come before we threw ourselves into the chill of the wind streaming the mountain top. We bypassed a few places. But our picky selves grew weary of the hunt, and we surrendered to a Pub on a small side-street. What was it I heard? Not Romanian music. What was it? Not Turkish, not American, not Swiss. My eyes caught the items on the wall—oh yes, Scottish. Had we switched worlds? Kilts covered the stone walls. I supposed some Romanian must of had a massive love for west European style. I uninhibited my internal thoughts and divulged my humor across the four walls of the room—“Haha, look at the man skirts!” I expressed. But I was silenced by the sight of a light skinned man who came out of the back kitchen, and I was gripped as he whispered in his English words, with his Scottish accent, “Seven leu, for your coffee, a special price for you.”

That’s when I learned, it’s ok to tread to foreign places, but I must treat my language lightly.

********

Some people thought I was a little boy. I used to twist my hair in knots, and my mother would have to chop my fine, blonde locks. I took a comb out of my babysitters hand and threw it across the bathroom, once; I was tired of people trying to make me look lovely. I remember a strong, handsome, blue eyed, teenager captured my attention when I was only six. The same dude ended up making a joke about me looking goofy in front of a group of people.   I hit age twelve and felt fat.  I went to high school; on the first day a boy said I looked forty-five.  Then you turn seventeen and walk next to a pretty friend in the grocery store; every guy that passes looks at her.  I struck twenty-one and stopped myself one day, demanding my insecure self to look in the mirror, and I saw: my hair—long, dark, shiny, my skin—flawless, glowing, soft, my eyes—green, big,  piercing. And I had a flashback to me as a little girl playing with my Barbie dolls. My favorite doll had dark hair, light skin, and green eyes, and I realized that if I had seen my grown up self as a child I would have tapped my mother’s leg and whispered, “Mommy, I want to look just like her someday.”

The whisper of my childhood acceptance, beckons my eyes to see my beauty.

 ********

So I embraced the truth that I couldn't walk by myself.

I realized that small words can help

to pull me out of the hard times and set me free.

So I saved these text messages that saved me:

 “Janell, you’re a cool person, I really appreciate you.”

“ Dear Janell, I hope you work tomorrow”

 “You are an incredible and beautiful woman!” 

“You are gracious. Thank you.”

 “You inspire me.”

“God certainly knew what he was doing when he brought you into our lives!”

“You’re an absolute gift!”

“You’re top in my life.”

How undeniably true: the whispers poured out stick like glue—they humble us, stretch us, strengthen us, teach us, and most of all they can rescue us.   

©Reward Publishing 2012

Le Cœur de la Mer *Heart of the Sea* by Janell Renée Ward 

God is Faithful.

It is witnessed by

mon esprit troubles –

my troubled mind,

mon âme imprudente—

 my reckless soul

amid this scummy earth;

I have felt his kindness

flood up on my toes.

It sprouted up

from

Le Cœur de la Mer,

and cleansed the muck

off my sole.

His patience is

as long as

couloir dans l'océan –

The hallways of the deep;

His gentleness drowns out 

ma fierté —                

my prideful eyes.

ma volonté —

            my stubborn will.

ma culpabilité —

            my vicious guilt.

I want to swim to the place

            where God is;

But the current of his mercies would

m'écraser, me submerger,                                      

and consume all my love—

 Ravager ma connaissance. 

So I will wait patiently to see him, and

I will float only by this truth:

His love

is

incalculable,

arcane,

magnifique!                      

He is like

Le Cœur de la Mer—

The heart of the sea, 

toujours parfait—

Perfect always.   

 Le Cœur de la Mer© Reward Publishing 2014

15+ things Your Barista Hates and Loves

Hey Everyone! I am a barista in Downtown Dayton, Ohio. I am doing this on the side while working on my third book. 

Here is the deal: we all love a good cup of coffee, and many of us regularly visit coffee shops. I am sure you have had the occasional overly nice or overly rude barista, and below are listed some of the reasons you may have walked away happy or discontent. The barista world is booming with personality, but with that comes some strong thoughts on the things we appreciate and scorn. I hope you enjoy the list below, and remember to love on your barista!

1.    Don’t ask what is on the menu. Find the menu—it’s not that complicated. Read it.

2.     If you enter the coffee shop and start your sentence with, “I hate coffee...” You will immediately be scorned by everyone behind the counter.

3.    Barista’s love a customer with a refined palate. If you want to impress your barista ask if any of their coffees have a fruity undertone and say a specific fruit.

4.    Don’t make jokes about giving tips to help them keep their job. We are getting paid per hour without your tip.

5.    If you decide you want to change your order after your drink is made—order that drink next time, not this time.

6.    Be aware that I (most baristas) know the coffee facts; if you insult me, don’t expect a good latte or a friendly smile.

7.    Compliment my latte art! It’s hard to do—if I do it well—say something!

8.    If you throw your money on the counter, the initial joy of serving you turns to pure disgust.

9.    If you come in on your cell phone and point to everything you want and continue to hold up the line, I cannot be held responsible if your drink is wrong.  

10.  Don’t be picky. Enough said.

11.  Don’t ask me how many calories are in your drink. I’ll solve that for you right now—300-500 calories. SKIM MILK CAN’T CHANGE THAT.

12.  Even if I see you all the time, be humble enough to still say what you want. Many people come in a day, you are simply one of those many.

13.  Don’t act like a child. A coffee house is NOT a candy shop. If you are mad about us not having a peanut butter cookie, then go to Walmart.

14.  I can tell if you are on a date. And I can tell how it’s going.

15.  Don’t ask me to see the cup size—you know what 12 oz. is…

16.  If I tell you we can’t make something, then don’t beg for it. We can’t make it.

17.   Number 16 might be a lie. If you are nice enough and come in often enough we can make miracles happen.

18.  If I ask you to leave because we are closed. Please LEAVE. We will remember that you didn’t the next time you come in.

19.  I am not your therapist. Although I do enjoy friendly conversation. I can’t fix your divorce settlements.

20.   If you allow your children to run around screaming in the coffee shop, you will be mean-mugged until you leave.

21.  A spilled drink? That’s okay, happens all the time. Don’t apologize over and over. We spill drinks all day.

22.  Go ahead and order a skinny, sugar free Hazelnut, one pump regular vanilla, three shot, little bit of caramel on the top, one squirt of whip cream, at temperature 110, with two ice-cubes. You won’t drop anything on us we haven’t heard before.  So stop being impressed with yourself, before I smack that snide look on your face.

23.  If you want to watch movies in the coffee shop—wait, don’t watch movies in a coffee shop. Go home. Read a book in a coffee shop.

24.  This is not Europe. Clear your table, hoe.

25. A cappuccino is not 12 oz, 16 oz, or 20 oz. Get it together and know your stuff.  

26.  Lastly, you will know your barista loves you if they greet you with an authentic smile and pick on you. If they don’t do that and you go there all the time—you’re on the coffee house hit list (aka we want to kick you out list).