Bio of Jill Angel Langlois

Jill Angel Langlois’s poems and short stories have appeared in literary magazines, anthologies and newspapers in Chicagoland, nationally and internationally. She holds a B.A. in English & American Literature from Governors State University, University Park, IL.

As a judge for the Florida State Poetry Society, she feels the beauty of a poem is written with truth in the poet’s heart.

Scattered Petals, her first collection of poetry, explores the healing power of nature. Whiskey Nights, her second poetry collection, in progress, is inspired by both whiskey and music. Excerpts from these collections can be found at www.illinoispoets.org

Before the snow flies

Before the snow flies
And covers the unsuspecting grass
Before the cold bears down
And destroys the fragile flowers
Before the frost bites into my thoughts
And the ache of dead-end winter
Settles in my mind and bones
Before the ice freezes over land
And captures random beauty
Holding her in an amber moment
Before I pray for warmth
Amidst the crystallizing breath
That hangs mid-air as it escapes
In a scream
Before the night calls to end
The long orange and yellow days
I will watch the sugar maples
Caramelize in the dying summer sun

My Daddy Knows How to Drink

My Daddy knows how to drink,
barreling down the boulevard,
eyelids drooping behind the wheel,
a half smile and a nod to those passing by.

Christian music blaring on the radio,
escaping through the windows,
rolled down to catch the breeze;
to catch the wondering stares.

His white T-shirt blowing in the hot air,
he throws back another swig of hooch.
Checking the rear view mirror for the police,
no one is following. He sneaks another gulp.

In full dark he steers around the culvert
and honks the horn for a joke.
Oh, he’s a joker, my drunken Daddy;
just wish he could find his way home.

At home we wait. His dinner is cold.
I’m in bed when the back door flies open.
Angry are the words my Mother hurls
as he shatters his plate, and leaves.
She is crying again.

I peek out the window to see him staggering
back to his car. He starts the engine.
He looks up at me in my window,
Catches my wide eyes with his
and drops his head, shaking it slowly.

He takes a deep breath, then another gulp,
the brown bag crinkling around the bottle.
It’s empty so he tosses it out the window.
He peels out of the dirt strip in the grass
that we call a driveway.

I don’t know when I will see him again;
all I know is I’ve made him angry.
I crinkle up my little face and tears stream down.
I crawl back in bed, my head under the covers
so Mother doesn’t hear me crying again.

Chaotic Beauty

Two pianos,
haunting brilliance,
wonder on the vine.

In the vineyard,
in the glass,
tasting notes of worth.

Sing the song of chaos
mounting in despair.
Yet a sort of hope prevails,
leading me to the end note.

The binding, crushing madness.
Smashed grapes,
macerated winter fruit, dancing,
like Jack Frost on the pines.

The relentless notes
of cherry, ice and sadness,
a beauty to behold.

On the vine,
in the glass,
fading away.

I Walked to the Lake Tonight

I walked to the lake tonight,
casting the first footprints in the snow.
Out of breath from the cold,
and from my grief,
I sit on the bench and gaze at the lake,
now frozen, like my heart.
You are not here to comfort me.
The cold wind laps around my face,
and I am a tiny boat tossed about in the sea.
I welcome the cold.
It is sobering.
I know death is forever,
but you never died before.
How do I fill this massive void?
I wear your red coat and it warms me
as the bitter wind whispers your name,
and calls me back to an emptier home.
I must go now.
Trudging back home I think of God.
I do not blame Him.
Death is hardest on those still living.

I Have Never Cut My Hair

(For David Crosby)

I have never cut my hair.
The tip of the tail is made of birth hair
still wet from the womb.
Farther up is the blonde of toddlerhood,
the golden trusses of childhood,
a bird’s nest growing in the matted part.
The light brown of the teen years,
the treasures stolen from the cute boy,
embedded into safe keeping.
The brown of young aduthood,
flipped to and fro as if I didn’ care.
The dark brown of marriage.
My hair was longer than my train,
flowing over rock and pebble.
The brunette trails had to be rolled up like a tape measure
so the baby wouldn’t get tangled in them.
The pepper and salt of middle age,
the salt and pepper of the advancing years,
the salt and dry split ends of old age.
My newest hair is brittle and white.
I have never cut my hair;
now I am ready to die.
My hair will grow even after I am dead.
It will be my death hair, still living,
attached to the end of my birth hair.
At my funeral
they will see photos of me:
Dragging my hair through sand from the sandbox,
sporting a ribbon, a crown, a veil, a hat, a bathing cap, a tiara.
Sun shining through it,
painting a dry stone wet with the tip.
Birds taking refuge there.
Braids of young lovers coming together.
Lengthy hair in tie-dyed colors,
dangling over the Grand Canyon,
trailing through the Bad Lands,
rushing over Niagara Falls.
Many people across the land had to assist in its washing,
the long strands being brushed daily
and put on top of my head,
a bun as big as an elephant
weighing me down.
Then the adventure of its unraveling.
The enormous blanket of comfort surrounding me.
The mass of children twirling and jumping rope;
mustaches they crafted and laughed behind.
The clothesline to dry their clothes in the summer.
The dog’s leash.
A tug of war.
Hair flowing over the Sierra Mountains,
then dipping into the sea.
In a meadow, dancing with white daisies
atop my head as a crown.
A feather duster used on Fridays.
I felt it growing year by year,
slowly forming cell by cell,
as cells divided and produced new,
older looking, hair.
I made a hammock to sleep in,
and I rocked myself, singing peacefully.
I pulled my woven blanket again around me,
the colors blending into each other.
It was my turban when I became ill
with the advancement of life.
The last photo:
My hair lining my coffin
and the dress I wear to present myself.

Jill Angel Langlois