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boonthemoonluv Dec 2024
i fall back into the pit
of ghoulish flashbacks and nightmares,
and watch the same tragic scenes unfold repeatedly
of the child in me being dragged into the bleak blackness
to be fed upon, then subsequently discarded.
she tried to put up a fight,
but it was all in vain.
i'm such a fool for deceiving myself of their existence,
as they burned me while still conscious.

and this is the very moment
i metamorphose into a poet.
when my mind and heart have been spent,
from being a constant playground
for my fiends in so much glee to play at.

i metamorphose into a poet,
gather all fragments of myself
and become the poetry in my poems.

but you see, sometimes i am not a poet;
barbed wires wrap around my throat,
choking the words that want to break free from my chest.
and i just cannot bring  myself to lift the pen
and unravel myself through lines and verses.
...
around, indeed, these fiends of mine will sulk and lurk around.

@boonthemoonluv
~
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!
~
The kiss of death

they shall call upon the greatest sin of them all but, is it really a sin to find thee who make you feel a guilty pleasure of your own love and adversity ?
Second poem
i feel tortured in winter, the fog  reminds me of good times
when my gray world turned to blue
i feel tortured in autumn, a season spent missing someone
a total love blackout
i feel tortured in summer, a summer meant to be full of love
turned to gray
i feel tortured to see rain, it reminds me of weeping nights
and when i was in pain
a tortured poet and his tortured seasons
a tortured poet forced to be tortured by torturous peoples
because of their torturous sin
a question why did i associated my memories
and made my seasons tortured?
i'm not declaring myself as a tortured poet.
Ophelia Nov 2024
the poetry i’ve washed
cleaned
prepped with my own limbs
has been formed
molded
shaped for the heaviness in my heart
the aching in my bones
the
the static in my head
to find another home

it makes me yearn
for more

the poetry i’ve washed
cleaned
prepped with my own limbs
is grieving
mourning for the death of the poet’s own guide
to the words
lines
scrapes of scattered thoughts
in this f-cking grave
Todd Sommerville Nov 2024
Love doesn't have to rhyme.
It doesn't have to be shouted from the rooftops,
or written in the stars.
Yet it is a poets job to make it so
To elaborate, exaggerate, compare it to the incomparable,
Capture the unsnareable, share the unshareable. 
Like fingers finding fingers in the dark,
or tender hugs holding grief at bay.
The conversation of her eyes through a teardrop,
saying more than a million words could convey.
 And this is where we find the meaning of love,
in the quiet moments where no words are spoken.
Where tender kisses and soft touches
become a dance to the rhythm
of two hearts beating in unison, under a lover's moon.
Shared only in the reflections of their eyes.
Roxy Nov 2024
I like the poison that I drink.
I'm guilty of a million lines.
It ain't my fault my blood is ink
and I was cut too many times...
Malia Nov 2024
In my bones, I am a poet
And every word I trail shows it
Like a fingerprint to trace
Conjures an image of my face.

Any essays, I might write
With golden flourish, thrilling heights
With wide crescendos, rumbling frisson
Soft like silk and smooth like ribbon.

So when my teacher does request
A lab report or written test
I may bring tears to their eyes—
Still, I did not get it right.
Styles Nov 2024
The rope bites deep, a fiery embrace,
Twisting, binding, claiming its space.
Flesh remembers each tender sting,
A captive rhythm to which I cling.

I writhe, I pull, the knots hold tight,
Time dissolves in the grip of night.
Minutes or hours, I cannot say,
Suspended here, where shadows play.

Then a presence, electric, near,
A whisper of breath I ache to hear.
The room hums low with silent demand,
As power approaches—steady, unmanned.

A brush of warmth, a fleeting touch,
My pulse ignites; it’s all too much.
Yet still, I’m caught in this sweet refrain,
Bound in the pleasure, awaiting the pain.
Styles Nov 2024
I love you; the words ignite my flame,
A fire that trembles at your very name.
I need you—no gentle, whispered plea,
But a raw, unyielding ache in me.

Break me, shatter my fragile control,
Take every piece, every part, every whole.
Your hands, your will, your unspoken art,
Molding desire, commanding my heart.

No apologies, no regret, no retreat,
Just the rhythm of us, untamed, complete.
I surrender, willingly, to your call,
I love you, I need you—to take it all
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