The world has enough beautiful mountains and meadows, spectacular skies and serene lakes. It has enough lush forests, flowered fields, and sandy beaches. It has plenty of stars and the promise of a new sunrise and sunset every day. What the world needs more of is people to appreciate and enjoy it.
— Michael Josephson
When you arise in the morning give thanks for the food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself.
— Tecumseh
Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.
—Robert Brault
It’s a funny thing about life, once you begin to take note of the things you are grateful for, you begin to lose sight of the things that you lack.
– Germany Kent
Some people are always grumbling because roses have thorns; I am thankful that thorns have roses.
– Alphonse Karr
– Oprah Winfrey
– Anonymous
Image by -Rita-👩🍳 und 📷 mit ❤ from Pixabay
*Sometimes the noise of this world becomes too much. I crave the silence to quiet my mind and soul.
The Lovely and talented Robbie Cheadle at Writing to Be Read, runs a series of posts called Treasuring Poetry. I am honored to have been asked by her to participate in this for 2022. Below, please see the interview that Robbie did of me. Be sure to spend some time on Robbie’s blog as she is a talent that you don’t want to miss. Not only is Robbie a published author, but she also offers publishing services.
Trying to choose a favorite poem of my own, is like trying to choose a favorite child! Writing is an incredibly personal thing and our creations become our “babies”. Looking back through poems that I’ve written in the past, I will come across one that really strikes me as being exceptional. I’m often surprised by what I find on these journeys of reminiscing.
But to answer your question, today, right now, I think my favorite poem is called Poetry Of My Heart .
The poetry of my heart
spills onto the page
in blue ink
and fervent sighs
The poetry of my heart
is written on the wings
of dreams
and nights
of longing
The poetry of my heart
negate shadows of terrors
not voiced
The poetry of my heart
stands tall
against this world
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My Lovely friend, Audrey, at Minnesota Prairie Roots did a wonderful post on mental illness and the struggles in finding help. Audrey shares my desire to advocate for those that suffer. Please take a moment to read her post and be sure to spend some time on her blog as her writing and photography as worth it! Thank you, Audrey for this post and for your Very Kind words about me and my blog. ❤
HER VOICE RISES. Strong. Compassionate. Without hesitation.
She is Penny Wilson, published poet, blogger, fiction writer, advocate. Penny, who blogs at Penny Wilson Writes, advocates for those diagnosed with mental illnesses. She is open about her struggles with depression. And it is that honesty which impresses upon me how much, how deeply, Penny cares.
From her fixer-up home in a small Texas town, Penny pens pieces that inform, educate, advocate about mental health. Recently she spent hours researching and compiling a list of resources in a post titled “Affordable Mental Health Counseling.” A friend’s need for affordable therapy (when her benefits were running out) prompted the piece. What Penny found was nothing. No low cost or no cost counseling services for mental health issues. I’m not surprised.
Yet, Penny published that list of 14…
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My very early childhood was unusual, to say the least. My brothers, mother and I moved a LOT. I’ve been told I was born with wheels on my butt.
My mother left and divorced my birth-father when I was very young. My father was a timber-faller. We lived quite modestly.
Mom then married a man a that was a migrant worker. As a family, we followed the fruit, picking as we went, to earn a living. We lived in Picker’s Cabins or tents or the back of the station wagon.
This was in the early 1960’s. Although many black people did this type of work, people don’t realize that in the 1960’s, a large percentage of the migrant workers were white families, just like mine. Today, the migrant workers are mostly Hispanic. The working conditions are no better today, in fact in some instances, they are worse.
Most of the Picker’s Cabins had no running water or electricity. Women cooked on communal stoves or over open fires. The toilets, if there were any, were few and in disgraceful disrepair. In a lot of cases, there were only outhouses.
There were few laundry facilities. Most of the time, clothing was washed by hand and hung to dry.
In some of the cabins, the property owners provided bales of straw to use as bedding and insulation. In some instances, you didn’t even get that. The more generous ones provided crude bunk beds.
I was lucky. My mother and step-father were prepared. We had a nice canvas tent and bedding or sleeping bags.
My mother became very adept at cooking over an open fire. She was amazing!
Washing and sanitary conditions were a challenge. The water came from a single faucet for all the workers in most instances. Water had to be carried for washing, bathing or cooking.
I have 3 brothers; two older brothers and one younger one. My brothers and I spent our days out in the fields with my parents. We weren’t much help as far as the picking went, but my mother could keep an eye on us as she worked.
I can imagine the hardship on her with 4 children living in these conditions. My younger brother was just a toddler at the time.
The migrant workers were exploited at every turn. Many were uneducated and illiterate. In some instances, the workers would end up owing more money to the owner’s ‘store’ than they had earned; thus, keeping them working for little or nothing instead of moving on.
There was often times a “boss” on the farm that the workers reported to, depending on how large the farm was. Sometimes the boss would skim off the top of the worker’s wages. They would be quoted one price upon arrival at the farm, but when payday came, they were at the mercy of the boss. If they complained, they were simply run off the farm. This meant they were out of work.
There were many horrors that took place on these farms; anything from rapes, to murders and exploitation. These people were at the mercy of the farmer.
I was fortunate. This lifestyle didn’t last long. I think we were on the road for a couple of years. I was also lucky that I was so young. It’s just the way life was; I knew no different.
This is a part of history that most Americans have forgotten or don’t know about. This is a shameful, dark part of our own culture.
If you’d like to learn more about this time in American history, I invite you to watch this video. This video was broadcast on Thanksgiving Day in 1960. It’s called “Harvest of Shame”. See it HERE. While most of it is set in Florida and the east coast, I was on the west coast as a kid. It is still an eye opener.
*There was a followup video made of the 1960 version called “Harvest of Shame Revisited“. This was made in 2010. While the conditions and pay had improved, it is still a very hard way to live. You can see that video HERE.
**With Thanksgiving quickly approaching, I felt that this post, originally from 2014, but modified here, was appropriate. Although I had a rough start in life, (Another Life to me) I feel that it has shaped me into the person that I am today. A person that I am grateful to be, with a life that I am so very blessed to have. Thank you for joining me on this journey.
Copyright (C) 2022 Penny Wilson
Copyright (C) 2022 Penny Wilson All Rights Reserved
*My mind has been on how we hold on to yesterday’s. We can’t move past them. Time goes so quickly and we are only only here for such a short time. Don’t spend that time trapped in the past when the treasure of today is so sweet and the promise of tomorrow beckons.
**Thanks to my buddy Chuck at The Reluctant Poet for inspiring this piece.
This man was a mere mortal of flesh and blood. He had the inner light of a warrior and he carried this with honor and pride.
I knew he was a man, with weaknesses that men have. But I saw what was inside. He was a Nobleman of Old. He saw the demons , the evil and the beasts that few of us see. He would give his life to slay them. He would give his life for me.
He thought his life was better served on the battlefield.
He relied on his instincts and his brethren in the heat of battle.
As he turned his shining eyes away, I knew he couldn’t stay. He had paused on his quest just long enough to give me a glimpse of himself. There were battles to be fought and dragons to slay.
Remember, that the safety and freedoms that we experience is because of mere men. Veterans.
Happy Veteran’s Day.
Copyright (C) 2022 Penny Wilson
Tina was young and naive. She was also a statuesque beauty that Rex fell for the first time he saw her picture.
Rex had everything in order. He thought he had arranged the perfect first date to start off the evening’s festivities.
The restaurant was cozy and dimly lit. Rex had a view of the front door and would be able to spot her as soon as she walked in. He had a single rose on the table next to him ready for that moment.
After an hour and 3 bourbons, Rex knew he had been stood up. He stepped out into a damp Houston night.
Rex turned up his collar against cold. He had his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, trying to keep them warm. He clinched the little bottle in his pocket even tighter.
Clouds of vapor puffed out of his mouth as he walked along the sidewalk, cursing and muttering to himself.
“Bitch coulda at least texted me. I sit there for a freakin’ hour waiting on her! Hell, I told her we’d go to the game after! I told her that I had bought the tickets for crissake!”
Rex’s feet were getting wet. He’d stepped in a puddle as he crossed the street to his car. This made him all the more angry. “Flaky whore!”
As he approached his car he fished his keys out. He clicked the little button on the remote and the trunk lid made a soft “chunk” sound and sprung open.
Cautiously looking around him, Rex reached into the trunk and pulled the gym bag out unzipping it. He spread open the top of the bag and peered inside. All was as it should be. There was a good, strong nylon rope, duct tape, and a large knife.
He dug into his front pocket and pulled out the little bottle of chloroform. He dropped it into the gym bag along with his other date night tools.
Copyright (C) 2017 Penny Wilson
*When I came across this older piece of mine, I decided that it deserved a second outing. I hope that you enjoyed it.
Penny Wilson Writes 