One thing I love about Facebook is that I get to cyber meet a lot of cool and interesting folks, who are friends of my friends, or married to my friends, or friends or colleagues of some of my 5,698 cousins. I recently "met" a young lady named Holly Holt and she has impressed me with her poetry and her dedication to higher education.
Holly helps adults get their GEDs, which is awesome. She lives in the mountains of North Georgia, a beautiful place.
I asked her to tell me a little about herself, and this is what she shared:
My journey with poetry started such a long time ago that I'm unsure what really got me started. Five out of six kids in my family write poetry, short stories, novellas, and novels. Our parents also write poetry and stories. When my Daddy attended UGA well back in the day, his English professors told him that he should pursue writing professionally. For this reason, I feel that writing has many nature/nurture aspects. Could I have inherited the drive to write? I'm unsure. I just know that I've written since I was eleven years old, and don't foresee stopping any time soon.
My sole poetic publication rests with Fjords Review as part of the Public Poetry Series, set to display later this year. I am a self-proclaimed hermit, and I enjoys my work in Adult Education, where I help others pursue their dreams of higher education.
Memories on Autumn's Doorstep
January’s sarcasm
and June’s fury
succumbed
to outsider dialog
on a one-way street
a mile between
hell and freedom,
then stopped
and cursed
the wind.
The love they had
died in silence,
severed
by differences,
and the suffocating
cloak of time,
invisible,
but felt in seasons
whose dirty secrets
are best kept by leaves
and birds.
Nothing I say,
do, or feel
can heal this,
nor can the memories
of a wild Bam-Bam
running around,
half wild,
half naked
before breasts
became an issue
or the tender touch
of a sweet little momma
who said and did everything
with a knowing smile
far too austere,
holding a broom
twice her size.
Memories aim to kill me
on autumn’s doorstep.
They'll bury me
with leaves
together.
First Poetry Reading
John Wayne smiles
from feet away,
where he can watch,
his face etched
by an artist
appreciating classics,
while her voice
is amplified,
not trembling
in the slightest,
though there’s pain,
and tender longing
for yesterdays
long gone.
Still, an understanding
of time’s passing
is swept into her words.
Baritone brother
sits beside
Mother Nature’s child.
I think about
introducing them,
but don’t.
The story of my life:
the feeble intentions;
the resounding ‘don’ts.’
I wonder if time
will ease my desire
to escape
when rough spots
find me.
What do you think, Cogburn?
An autumn breeze answers
from open doors leading
to a gentle garden
where I was inspired
too quickly—
too quickly to realize
it had rained all day.
My pants are still wet.
There’s a fly in here.
Applause is deafening.
My Heart is a Falling Leaf
my heart is a falling leaf
as i step out tonight
winds whisper of winter
that will never see white
while arboreal backbone
plays staircase to time
(like squirrels in passage)
my blind two-step grind
falters, and I look back,
un-sweatering my grief—
she loves me, knowing
my heart is a falling leaf
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