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dead poet Dec 2024
hand trembling inside the pocket;
knuckles scraping against the outseam;
fingertips crawling into the deepest corner;
nails clawing at a ball of thread -
too stubborn for its own good;
wrist hair tugging at a rough patch;
fist holding onto itself;  
palm lines lacking conviction;
fingerprints blaming each other;
nerves adjusting to the pressure:  
pulsations full of dread;  

the pocket stays empty.
dead poet Dec 2024
there’s an emptiness that
consumes the world,
like a newborn babe does her
mother’s *******:
it needs the force of life -
to become a weapon for death;
as it kills the light switch  
in the warehouse of hope;
as the sound of darkness
blinds even the bats;
as the echoes of piousness sink
to turn lawless mercenaries;
as the lantern flickers off
to the heaving of hedonism
that spawns in the void -
dark, and unconquerable.

until someone strikes a match.
dead poet Dec 2024
i shudder to heed the animal i’ve become:
once a wolf untamed -
now a lost puppy, squealing for his mum.

a saintly pelican, i thought meself back in the day,
with a bill so big as my heart would weigh;  
now, but a vulture feeding on the remains
of unfortunate cows: with a crooked bill, i prey.

a scorpion’s sting could go in vain
on skin like a crocodile’s - that’s proof of pain.  
a chicken on the run?... or the bloodhound that caught her?  
nah - more like a pig for slaughter.

a rattlesnake in hiding with its venom depleted,
i long to emerge a phoenix: find my mission, then complete it.
purge meself of the twisted worm:
eat it - like a songbird, mistreated.

a lion on the prowl, i show no remorse.
i sail like a shark that's long been defeated.  
anyway - i should get off my high horse;
the parasite’s more... deep-seated.
dead poet Dec 2024
i could tell the time at an early age;
yet, i could never tell the misery
of the hour hand of the clock -
that lies in wait...
for what i imagine,
must feel like an eternity,
at the mercy of the minute hand
to finish a full round -
as it is, in turn,
at the mercy of the second hand;
only to move but a
fraction of an inch on its axis:  
so it can be worthy of its name.

surely, it’s the loneliest of
the three hands;
yet, perhaps, also the wisest -
for it knows what’d happen
if it ceases to move -
even for an hour, as it were.
you see, the illusion of a moving clock
is maintained only by the hour hand.
the minute hand could stop for a minute -
and we wouldn’t mind much;
the second hand could stop for a second -
no harm done;
but if the hour hand stops for an hour -
well, we’d notice.

i can never really tell the time now;
just the hour in which i exist.
~
December 2024
HP Poet: CJ Sutherland
Age: 63
Country: USA


Question 1: A warm welcome to the HP Spotlight, CJ. Please tell us about your background?

CJ Sutherland: "My parents both college graduates from St. Paul’s Minnesota. 4 days after they were married in a Catholic Church, they ran away to California. Mother, age 22, started having babies one after the other, a total of 5 children. As a young child, I thought my mother was dead, anytime I mentioned her, I would get a shove, a kick, a shaking of the head from my siblings.

Dad remarried; a make up artist with Warner Bros. Studios. She was unable to love another person‘s children. She was a mean wicked stepmother. She had one child, together they had two children. His, Hers and Theirs. The move from Burbank to the San Fernando Valley Tarzana was considered country. We had a ranch style house, a guest house, swimming pool with the slide and diving board and a pool house barn chicken coup for 200 chickens.

Age 10, a lady screamed at the house: "You can’t keep my children from me." My stepmother threatened to call the police. Looking out the window, holding my elder sister‘s hand, I said who is that? In a small, trembling voice, my sister said mom. We had a very tumultuous childhood to say the least, but it shaped who we were, and who we would become. I had a lot of questions. For a short period of time we were able to see mom and it was evident she was not well. One day she was gone, no explanation. She was dying of terminal cancer, but we didn’t know that yet. She stopped all treatment and became a homeless person in downtown LA Skid Row.

Age 19, her mother (grandmother) was dying and tasked me to find her daughter, my mom. I searched every alley, soup kitchen with an old photograph grandma gave me looking for mom. For months nothing. The last place a Thrift Store/ woman’s shelter where females could get feminine products, I found her. She came home with me for 2 days then told me she had to go back. She was in a hospice care with some Catholic nuns who told me she was dying; throat cancer; 46 years old. We had her back in our lives 3 months before she passed away. I struggled with all that happened, but life goes on.

All of us siblings excelled in school. We all maintained a 4.0 grade average. We all had aspirations to achieve careers. I was on a fast track to Medical School. I graduated high school age 15, started Jr. college and completed occupational courses for certification medical billing and coding specialist. So I can pay for college, I married at age 16, had a child at 19 and divorce at 21. My first husband was 5 years older, yet he was still a child. I swore off men.

Love at first sight. I am at husband number two. He told me he loved me after a week. He asked me to marry him. I told him he was flipping nuts. “I don’t even know you!” Looking in his eyes I knew he was serious. He had not met my child yet. If he could not love her as his own child as much as I loved him, I would not continue the cycle of the wicked step parent. Over the year they bonded. Two weeks before the year was up, he was down on bended knee. We have been married 39 years and together for 42.

I finally was accepted to USC. My dreams of becoming a doctor, we’re so close, 2 weeks before starting school. My husband‘s work moved him 5 hours away. Decision: divorce husband, become a doctor or stay married and change my dreams. We’ve had many adventures along the way, moving further up northern California, getting away from the rat race."



Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

CJ Sutherland: "I started keeping journals at the age of 12. I’m currently on my 98th journal. Effectively I’ve captured my entire life and those around me in the moment. Life inspires me. My father invented the 5 cent word game. Pick a new Dictionary word, it must be 3 or more syllables and use it correctly all day long.
When you achieve that, you get 5 cents. We all had a 5 cent jar. Looking at all of those nickels was a testament to education. It was more than the money, it was improving our lexicon."



Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

CJ Sutherland: "I hear a word or phrase on talk radio or music lyrics, I quickly have to write it down because it triggered a thought, a poem, a rough draft. I have pen and paper around the house when these moments strike to capture before they’re gone. While I’m on my daily walks at the park, I speak into the phone to capture inspiration. Then I put them in draft format. Currently, I have 51 poems in draft format, in different stages of completion. BLT's Webster’s word of the day challenge can be easily inserted at this point with the perfect word."


Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?

CJ Sutherland: "Poetry is not something I do, it’s who I am. My ultimate goal is to compile a book of poetry. I would like to have at least one poem of every type of genre to broaden my horizon. I am published in 3 anthologies. I am a Poet Laureate with the International Poet Society. I was up for poet of the year three consecutive years. Florida hosts a week symposium with open mic to read your poetry, as well as classes on every aspect of poetry imaginable. I’ve received many accolades trophies, ribbons, coins, all in the quest for perfection. I too realize a certain amount of this was a scam when Poetry Books such as “up-and-coming poets”, “who’s who in poetry“ would feature me on the front page. Look beyond vanity and begin to see the light. While they are published books for purchase, they are meant to sucker the poet into buying several copies for their family and friends.

The poetry site crashed several years ago and I lost about 300 poems. I have been on other poetry sites whose purpose is for winning contests and publication in periodical and magazines. It’s a lot of work. Even with all of these accolades, this recognition is more precious to my heart. While somebody could read a poem and decide they think they know what it means and find it worthy, but to be able to know the back history from the poet and why they wrote that particular poem I find much more enriching. I wish everybody would fill out their bio or at least write foot notes why they wrote that particular piece of work."



Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?

CJ Sutherland: "My favorite American poets:
1) Walt Whitman; Song of Myself.
2) Emily Dickinson; Because I Could Not Stop for Death.
3) Robert Frost; The Road Not Taken.
4) EE Cummings; I Carry Your Heart and To Be Nobody, But You.

British poets:
1) Alfred Tennyson.
2) William Wordsworth.
3) Elizabeth Bennett Browning.
These are just off the top of my head.

While at the University I took classes in American and British literature, thinking it would be easy. It was harder than my medical studies. I loved the backstory of how the poet became who they are today."



Question 6: What other interests do you have?

CJ Sutherland: "With so many kids we made Christmas gifts. I started crocheting at the age of 12; the yarn given to me by the little old ladies at the church. My first blanket was 276 granny squares. I wish Sean one stitch to granny stitch. I’ve been crocheting for 51 years. I can see anything and make it without a pattern. I have two grandsons who moved into their own homes with their wives, they are both getting blankets for their new homes. So far, I’ve made four lap throws for watching TV. Each of these blankets take 3 to 4 days. I’m pretty fast.

I’ve done a lot of other things quilting, embroidery, canning. I make candle and soaps, and I’m on my way to be coming an herbalist. I cook every day from scratch. It’s a lot harder to make food for two people than it is for me to make dinner for 20 people. Bread making is my new passion. The art of artisan bread it’s definitely challenging. Jams and jellies are great gifts. I even make my own laundry soap for 2 cents a load. My creativity blends itself in many genres, whatever suits my fancy."



Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much CJ, we truly appreciate you giving us the opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet! We are thrilled to include you in this ongoing series!”

CJ Sutherland: "Thank you to Carlo for featuring me as the 22nd recipient of HP Spotlight. I hope everybody gets a chance to share their story. There are so many kind poets on this site I am lucky to call friends, I hope everybody checks out the different challenges such as BLT's Webster word of the day challenge."




Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know CJ a little bit better. I most certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez

We will post Spotlight #23 in January!
~
dead poet Nov 2024
if i were to find my place in this world -
i’d rather it be on a mountain top,
or the bottom of the sea;
somewhere - where my silence is not a bother to me,
where the voices cannot travel to tell me i don’t belong -
or that i need a voice.
i’m not sure what i’ll do there, though.
but i think i know -
i’d bring a laptop with me;
a broken one.
and i would punch away at its keys with my fingers -  
my poems, all my poems…
again,
and again,
and again…
for years, for ages
until the rhythms girdle into a symphony;
something only i could sing,
something only my heart would know,
something familiar.

and then i would cast it out into the darkness -  
where it belongs.
Broadsky Nov 2024
I open this door in front of me
it opens to the room I had when I was four maybe three
the walls are painted lilac and I count the beds in the room
one,
two,
three
for me and my two older sisters their names are Rachel and Brittany

I hear a giggle and look down
it's me as a little girl and oh my god that's right, my hair was a lighter shade of brown
she has on her princess sleeping gown and tells me "Here, follow me, I'll show you around, it's nighttime now or I'd ask mommy if we could go to the playground"

we're playing with her toys and she tells me "you look sorta familiar" I smile and ask her "do you think we look kinda similar?" I see her eyes moving and her brain searching her mind's perimeter she says "a little, can you tell me your name? I'm a good listener"
"I'm you from a time yet to come" I say sweetly just above a whisper, she climbs into my arms and on her forehead I kiss her

I tell her all the wonders she will see, who not to trust and all the amazing people she will meet, I tell her that some things never change; like how we still love to walk in our bare feet and how people still tell us "no one I've ever met before has been this sweet" I tell her there will be things you feel are left unsaid and incomplete and there will be times where you're biggest strength is to know when to retreat, and oh... you're going to fall deeply in love with a man, he's a musician and both his heart and drum play to their own beat, she sings with excitement "I cant wait to be older!! I've always wondered what kind of girl I'll be!!!" I look at her lovingly "you will grow into your power and strength- you are the rarest pearl from the sea- your life will be an amazing one, I love you and it's time for me to leave, but know I'm so proud of all the things you will achieve, your life will flourish sweet girl, you're in for such a treat"
little me would be in awe of who i am today
Broadsky Nov 2024
It's 3:43am and I'm wondering if the spider in the corner of my bathroom is dreaming
I wonder if she knows about the sun and if she ever dreams of weaving a web in the moonlight
I wonder if she knows what I'm saying when I tell her "don't worry, i'll keep you safe" and I wonder if she believes me
Broadsky Nov 2024
Sometimes I lack feeling
I see a memory in my head and say "sadness and I were never friends"
but the truth is
Sadness and I were lovers
Tangled in sheets together
Sadness and I had pillow talk and night time kisses
Sadness knew every inch of my body
Sadness knew how to stick around
Sadness had a way of saying my name so sweet
but Sadness doesn't really touch me now... or not how it used to... Sadness seems far away like an estranged lover leaving at the end of august
Sadness feels like it's behind a piece of glass either as painting held behind a museum display case
or
as the figure I see through the local coffee shop window
Sadness doesn't sink into bed with me anymore already undressed Sadness doesn't look deeply into my eyes and say "I'm yours forever anymore"
Sadness doesn't touch my skin and melt into me anymore
Sadness doesn't send me perfumed love letters with personalized stationary anymore
Sadness and I don't speak much anymore
So yes sadness and I were lovers
but were sadness and I ever really friends?
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