I am not that nice
Stop sayin' it
I'm moody broody
Surly as can be
My temper flares
My foot stomps
Involuntarily
Impatience flows
Through me
My fuse is short
Like my stature
Don't pat me on the head
I am not that nice
I prickle like a porcupine
I growl like a grizzly bear
Throwing chocolate
Helps sometimes
Hugging tight does too
FAIR WARNING
Now you know
I am not that nice
I need wide berth
And quiet to recharge
Without it..
Grrrrrrrrr
Just Go Away
I have nothing
'Nice' to say
I am not that nice
There are words
That remain unspoken
My mother always said,
"If you can't
say something nice,
don't say anything
at all."
Silence then
Suits me fine
I am not that nice
No matter what you think
Smokin'
Drinkin'
Cussin'
All echo in my past
Secrets told
Secrets kept
Many layers
To this woman
I am not that nice
I bristle when you say it
I love
I hate
I hug
I cry
I sink
I hope
I dream
I live
I fly
I am so unworthy
Of His forgiving grace
Given freely
Once accepted
A few short years ago
I am not that nice
Just doing the best I can
Loving much
Caring deeply
Helping others
A kind word given
A smile too
Genuine as can be
Shootin' straight
I'll tell you what I think
I am not that nice
There is probably so much more to say. I'm not 'sweet' or 'cute' either. Consider yourself warned. Grrrrrrr. This poem has been brewing for awhile. I'm writing it today because of a 'nice' comment from my friend Ellen at Facebook. She didn't know it'd stir up a hornets nest inside me when, in response to my comment on her photograph, she typed, "Thanks Janean, you're always so sweet." I couldn't help myself when I wrote in reply, "Not always. May have to post the pic(s) of me shooting a gun to add some Don't Mess With Me to my cookie bakin' image. I can stomp my foot and rant and rave with the best of 'em. Just would take energy I don't have right now and it wouldn't be productive." Felt good to Let You Have It! Needed to get THAT off my chest. Still feeling fiery. So here's a little more to say…
The pictures here were taken by my husband. I am shootin' an AK-47 at a target out at my in laws farm on 4th of July in 2009. Judging from the jacket I'm wearing it was an uncharacteristic cold one. Sort of like the June we're having in 2011. I'm wearin' jeans today and the same jacket shown above. The weather is gray and stormy lookin'. Sorta suits my mood. Grrrrrrr.
My father taught me how to shoot. A zillion years ago. Standing in the barnyard at Evergreen Heights. Aiming at a can. A .22 rifle was the gun. Nice and easy. There you go. Nice job. You hit the target fine. It was a later lesson. In the alfalfa field that didn't end as well. The new shotgun, in a smaller gauge than his, that I kept firing to sight it in. Kickin' bad but he didn't know. Until he tried it later. Bruised and sore, years went by before I shot another. He added something to the stock. To absorb the impact of the kick. Never could convince me to try it again though. My brother got it next.
My husband talked me into givin' it a go. To try shootin' once again. Promising firin' the gun wouldn't hurt. Though skeptical, I tried it. Every so often. Here and There. Might be time to set up more targets. I'll let you know the Where and When.
© 2011, Janean Baird Turquoise Tangles
Turquoise Tangles 
:happy: . . Best way to telling about our self , love the words . . :up:Btw , you looked so comforted held that gun :whistle: I never hold it .:eyes: , but I saw a gun once . .my brother in law has it , he's a police man . .:)Well , have a nice day janean :coffee:
Taking Stock… writes:Awwwww…you're so nice for posting this!! 😉
Anonymous writes:I love the cadence of your words…that clickity-clack of them.I really can relate to what you've written. I sometimes get that "nice" and "sweet" label stuck to me and behind my fake nod and smile that's expected of me (especially in higher education), I want people to know that I'm not what they've expected. I can drink and smoke and swear like a sailor (or a soldier, I guess.) I can shoot just about any gun and shoot it well (better than my soldier husband!) I can fight, kick and scream, too. In basic training (many moons ago) I rocked at hand-to-hand combat. One time a drill sgt. had to pull me off my fighting partner. Everyone was in shock…because I was the "nice girl." I think we have a lot in common! 🙂 I unknowingly stamp my foot, too! I hope you can find a punching bag and kick some ass! :)Take care, my friend! ~JEN MILLER
LizBeth O-S writes:Fierce Powder Keg you are. Loving the words. Glad you are 'exploding' with words. Keep them coming. Hanging/praying/thinking of you.Peace,LizBeth
AK-47, eh? How did you like it? Pre-ban mag, too.What was it that beat you and your dad up? From your words (and my experience) it was a shotgun. Happened to me with a lovely little Italian S×S double. Like most European guns, it didn't have enough comb on the stock, and I was shooting under everything. When I'd pick up my head to see enough barrel, I'd get a fat lip. Traded it away. Nowadays, they have nice THICK stick-on combs, but they didn't, back then, just thin ones.
Mom writes:Well, You ARE nice, so own it. The fact that you don't always FEEL nice just means that you are…well, normal. I just figure that my bad mood didn't have to (in fact shouldn't) be anyone elses problem. No one wants to be "pedestalized". We don't want someone to think we are better than we believe ourselves to be. And, yea, I've seen you cranky too! Love you anyway!
risis – My husband is a police officer. I don't shoot often but have tried a variety of guns over the years we've been married. Taking Stock – I'm still growling at you and stomping my foot. DIDN'T YOU HEAR ME???? NOW I'M SHOUTING!!!!! GRRRRRR. And if you dare to pat me on my head I just may gnash my teeth. *yes, I do just need a nap and hug more than anything*LizBeth – Thank you!!! I LOVE, "Fierce Powder Keg". I am exploding and overflowing with words these days. Feels so good to pour them forth and let 'em freely flow. ~ Janean
Originally posted by derWandersmann:
der Wandersmann – You have A Good Eye. Yes. AK-47. It was purchased before you couldn't get 'em with that big a mag. Yes. It was a shotgun. With yellow shells. My dad's took red. That's all I can remember. When he shot it his face went pale. He had no idea it was kickin' so hard. Worse than his as it turned out. Not that I ever knew for sure. He added something to the stock. To absorb the impact of the kick. Never could convince me to try it again though. My brother got it next. I was typing fast to get this posted, on our way out the door. Will edit in this missing detail and fix a typo too. ~ Janean
Jen Miller – WOWZA!!! WHAT A WOMAN!!!! I'm very familiar with the "fake nod and smile that's expected of me". Been workin' hard to ditch it. So tired of wearin' a mask. This is me. Accept it. I am not that nice!!! My smokin' drinkin' days are through. Cussin' I haven't been able to shake just yet. I'm waiting for my husband to start a Swear Jar. Hopin' to avoid that if I can. I've never learned hand to hand combat. I've done The Boardroom Stare though and quite often got my way. It's another kind of battle. One I'm glad I walked away from. SO fun to get to know you. As Our Life Stories Intertwine. ~ Janean
Originally posted by anonymous:
Thanks for putting it in perspective, Mom. You know me very well. Bottom Line I Just Hate Labels. Even if they are flattering and kind. My moods vary just like anyone else. Maybe I do come off as "nice". I smile. I say, "hello". I ask about your day. Still feeling like saying, "grrrrrr". Lower case letters now. That's sayin' something. Mellower as the day goes on.
Anonymous writes:Oh, sorry…that was Mom!
Janet Riehl writes: Janean, That time that Julia, Gary, and I butchered the pig when daddy was in the hospital with the horse kick. (Consider that as a long title.) We kept calling Daddy in the hospital to get our next set of directions. Julia wore her ice creepers, but still fell coming down the little hill outside the back steps. Carrying a 16 quart kettle of boiling water. Scalded, of course. Like the pig it was meant for. I was quite young. Gary–my older brother/your father–held me with his arms around me as he helped me point the rifle and sight through the gun site as I aimed and fired. We only had to do it once. I still remember the kick back. That was the only time in my life I fired a gun. A real gun. Do see Alice Raven's icon on Facebook. Hecka funny. I was so glad when we worked on the Second Mile Award and stayed up late with you one night at Pop's dining room table. I was so glad to find out that beneath your neat, sweet, and nice exterior that you were a bit naughty and tough as nails. Auntie J.
Anonymous writes:What you guys are going through now is enough to make anyone feel like GRRRRRRRR (capital letters!) You need to focus on your small family unit without the time or much energy for anyone elses problems right now. Everyone gets that. But we also admire the grace with which you are facing this challenge. You won't always FEEL that way. But by acknowledging and complimenting your behavior, maybe it will reinforce positive feelings and attitudes. Besides that, we love you! 😉
Dear Aunt Janet,I have heard pieces of the events around Grandpa's Horse Kick during my Growing Up Years, but never this one. Had Julia not been scalded by the water – and was she OK? – would she have been the one to take that shot? There is power to be the one with a gun in your hands. Power to be respected greatly and used wisely. I was taught respect for guns from a young age. Helps me be comfortable with my husband's line of work and his personal interest in firearms. There is also power in high heels though. A different kind of power. It's good to have knowledge of them both. And use it wisely. Along Life's Way. I'll never forget your eyes gettin' a little wider that night when I said, "It's the same damn sentence." I enjoyed the flow of conversation that followed as well. This is me. I'm done hiding who I really am. I did check out your friend's Facebook icon with the soft and fuzzy critter smokin' a cigar and aimin' a gun. Loved the irony and humor. Needed that. A lot. Welcome to my Opera. Glad you made it official. Nice to see your picture by your words. Love,Janean
Originally posted by anonymous:
Dear Mom. Love you too. Thank you for always being My Champion. I woke up ready To Face It All Again. Thankful for Another New Day Dawning. Today's was A Quiet Sunrise. I just had to say it. Just this once…and maybe a few more times. I am not that nice. Love, Janean
i love your poem so real of us all,keep letting it pour out because this is good for you and good for us to,we get to read it,all the best art comes when we are in pain i think
Thank you for your kind words about my poetry, garytruman. The poetry is still so new to me it continues to catch me by surprise. But it's there nonetheless and it feels so good to let it flow. Yes, I agree, poetry comes from strong emotions, whether love, peace, hope, joy or anguish. In fairness a poet needs to give in to both the light and dark sides of human emotion. I'm learning as I go. You all are my guinea pigs. Thanks for listening while I ramble.
Originally posted by jasims:
Thank you. (I think.) As long as you read in the poem I'm Not That Nice!
nice
hahahaha, but its nice
Thank you. Truly. Felt good to write it on that growly surly grrrrrr'ing day.
yeah 🙂 🙂 :up:
Yep … that was the only gun that ever really defeated me … it's not so strange when you think about it … the ordinary large bore pistol fires a slug weighing about 0.03 of a pound, while the shotgun is usually tossing out about 0.10 of a pound … you're really going to notice the difference in what happens at your end of the action. Even my most powerful rifle throws a slug of only 0.07 of a pound, and it's being propelled by old-fashioned black powder (known among my redneck buddies as The Holy Black), which has a very different pressure curve … You'll feel it, but it's not going to give you the flinches (especially if you slip a "wussy pad" inside your shirt … LOL). Sorry to hijack your thread like this … it all just popped into my head. Hmmm … I can smell the black powder now … Sigh!
Originally posted by derWandersmann:
I don't feel like you hijacked the thread. I'm not too proficient at Gun Talk. However, I did grow up with a sportsman father and married a fellow Art Major who is also a gun collecting, former USMC, now a police officer for 13+ years. I haven't shot a shot gun since that day in the alfalfa field. No need to. My boys have both done some shooting, even at ages 11 and 8, but rifles. No shot guns. My sharp shooting husband prefers rifles to the What's The Point Of That spray of shot guns.
Your posting of the photos in the album brought me back here … I knew I had seen those before, and I also knew I'd commented, so I followed the URL back here.I thought you and perhaps your husband might like this post I made some time ago (what a job it was, getting it all together, too! I even had to dig through my paperwork.):http://my.opera.com/derWandersmann/blog/2012/02/13/im-calling-this-post-for-antonietta-because-she-asked-it-ma