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 adulthood,
flipped to and fro as if I didn’t 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.


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All These Things


For our Mom:


All the medications and home health visits

All the state of the art medical equipment

All the meals we cooked and ate together

All the naps taken on Sunday afternoons

All the visits from friends and neighbors

All the church going and soul searching

All the special food and shopping trips

All the love we pressed into her hands

All the care and concern we gave her

All the meows from Baby and Dolly

All the hospitals and there were four

All the trust we put into technology

All the questions for all the doctors

All the time spent in hospital rooms

All the days since her first surgery

All the prayers for her well-being

All the times we cried out of fear

All the times we said I love you

All the cleaning out of catheters

All the doctors and surgeons

All the fun we had together

All the laughter we shared

All the talking and sharing

All the plans we had

All the hope we felt

All the hugs

All the tears

Could not



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Introducing: Vijay Nallawala

Hello All!

I have made a new friend.  His name is Vijay Nallawala and he is a very skilled and passionate writer from India.  I came upon his story in a Creative Writing Group I belong to on Linked In.  Here is his heartwarming story and a little about my new friend:


Vijay Nallawala, India.

Warm Regards,
Jill Angel Langlois



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POEM: Fragments of the Long Night


I’m very excited and proud to announce my poem is being featured this month on the Illinois State Poets Society website.

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POEM: Lust For Comfort

I wanted to provide a link to show a favorite poem of mine that was published approximately 12 years ago. It’s called Lust For Comfort. The link is: http://www.poetrypoetry.com/PnG_2000.html#LUST

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A Teacher Who Meant The World To Me

When I was in High School in Park Forest, IL, I had the fortune of meeting an English teacher who meant the world to me. His name is Michael Raftery. I found him a while ago on Facebook and it felt appropriate that I should let him know what he meant and still means to me today. So here is a copy of my Facebook post to him:

“I’ll be 50 in May. In reflecting on the most important people who have positively influenced me over the past 50 years, I must tell you that you are within my elite group. I was your student at Rich East ’79-’82. I still hear your voice and advice. You have encouraged me to dig deep, to expand my thinking, to put my soul on paper for prosterity. You have inspired me to be a poet, a writer, to mine my own imagination, to learn with enthusiasm about other poets and writers. You enlightened me with music, and I learned it’s medicinal properties. You turned my “on” button on and I was able to look at the world in a different way. I am a better person because you have touched me all those years ago and set into motion the parts of my life and psyche that I treasure most. You are an excellent teacher, a life coach, an extraordinary man and I thank you with love. Jill Angel Langlois”

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Link to www.findpoetry.com

You may also find my page at www.findpoetry.com

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2 of my poems accepted for publication!

I am grateful that 2 of my poems:

Dream of Black Rain 


have been accepted for online publication at www.AquariumByTheOcean.com a new poetry journal publishing in March, 2014.  Please take a look during the month of march.

Thank you for your interest! 

-Jill Angel Langlois

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Mock-Up of first book!

A very exciting time in a writer’s life:  to see the first mock-up of the first book!

Scattered Petals, my first poetry book, will soon be a reality.  I will need an interested publisher to make it available for all of humankind.

Keep your fingers crossed.

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RAINBOW (Excerpt from “Scattered Petals”)


So a rainbow then

Is a promise to us all

No matter what,

We will survive –

After the rain

And when there is no rain.


I have heard of pots of gold

And do not believe this myth

I have searched and come up dry

And have grown tired, cold and old


In the spring when rain is heavy

I climb through my terrace window

I am struck my midnight beauty

No color but the stars


Shine on in the night

When all the world can see you

When colors do not matter

And all is black and white


In the morning wake up singing

Usher in the light of day

The spectrum is there before you

Turn up the volume and see


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