Tag Archive: life


When Momma Smokes. 1/10/2016. By Tama J Poore

Of course I loved it when my momma smoked, it was funnier than hell and the minutes flew by. She would dance around, parading like she was all alone in the spotlight. Where did those twirls come from?

And my Momma sang, boy did she sing. Belting out some bluesy shit, she didn’t come from Harland. But life was tough as hell back then, they did things old school. If you didn’t break your fist on that dude’s face, then his facial bones sure weren’t broken! “That’s man shit.”, I heard some of her men friends say! And Momma liked manly men.

A lot of those memories are buried. But did you know that on rare occasions buried things will rise to the surface?

I remember one night this burly man was with Momma, and I was just about to unlock the door, because they didn’t seem to have a key, what with all the noise and banging sounds they were making. But then the scouring sound of scuffling replaced the banging and I risked a peep through the eyehole, he had Momma backed up against the door. I spun around, middle finger up to the air and went back to bed.

I got so fed up with her coming home late, or sometimes not coming home at all. Well, sometimes she made it in before sunrise, but still, I was home all alone, 11 years old and worried like an 86 year old wondering when he closed his eyes if he would wake up to see another day. Or, would his conscience slip away on a long snore followed by a cough, choke, gasp….hold it!! Hold your breath.

I must be holding my breath because I can’t feel the air. I can’t clear the stuffiness from my nose. Why are my eyes tearing up and burning? Everything is burning and my lungs feel like they are going to burst! A damp hotness spreads across me and then the heat turns to cold. Like someone pulling a blanket of snow and ice over me. I can only see white. It’s the same whether my eyes are open or shut. I sense the presence of shadows, sinewy shadows with long, wavy arms. But I can’t feel them. And I can’t hear them. They move silently, are they really there?

Well, Momma is really here now. And, as mad as I was at her for leaving me alone, I am not mad anymore. Despite the morbid fantasies that play out in my mind during the anguishing hours between midnight and 4am, scenarios which involve Momma’s car leaving the road, or Momma driving into the back of an 18 wheeler, my heartbeat softens because now she is safe at home.

How could I stay mad at Momma? No one was prettier than my Momma when she was feeling carefree, her face soft and wrinkle free while her hair flows from her shoulders when she does a twirl, dancing in the memories of the bar room song. How could she do a twirl and not fall down when she is so damned drunk that piss is already trickling down both legs! Fuck! Fuck it all to hell! Oh, I want to walk away. I want to run away! I want to leave her there, already stumbling, as her nylon stockings slip on the urine in the floor. Her urine!

Disconnected images flash through my mind, I can see Momma falling hard, her head hitting the door frame. I can see her crumpling to the floor and her neck drooping, tendrils of stringy hair draping to the floor, soaking up the urine. Was that blood staining her soft, blonde hair? It sort of looked pinkish; it wasn’t a deep red, no wait! Those were tears which had picked up traces of blood. Nope, the blood was flowing from her scalp, and it was very red.

I shake it off, whatever this loathing feeling is, it has ways of creeping upon me. I hate the sickness in which it reels. It’s a dark place, a place where a sober Momma lives. Or is she living? Her face furrowed, the corners of her mouth dragging down. A few years ago the crevices between her brows formed parallel lines. Now they form an incomplete hash tag.

Is any of this my fault? If it weren’t for me she wouldn’t have to work hard labor, long hours, ruining her soft skin. She wouldn’t have to suffer, her shoulders and back aching. I will rub them for you, Momma.

Oh, the worried face of Momma. That’s when parentheses form around Momma’s mouth, and her eyebrows make punctuating commas above her eyes. The eyeliner starts to smear, she tears up so easily these days. Is that also my fault?

So, of course I love it when my mother smokes. She doesn’t piss on herself, or vomit on the floor. She doesn’t go on crying jags, and drooping drags where she falls to the floor in regretful sobs, pulling on me, weighing me down.

Nor does she go out and find a man to tickle her fancy, even if just for one night. No, the smoking Momma laughs and giggles and sings and dances, oblivious to the fact that she can’t do any of those things well. But it sure makes her pretty, smoking does. It erases the frown lines and the signs of anxiousness. It makes her stay home, where she belongs, with me on weekends. It makes her spend time with me. Time that won’t last nearly long enough.

The minutes zip by on the tails of meteors, and too soon the long week begins, with me going to school, her going to work for way too many hours. My sitter taking me home, feeding me, helping me with homework until an exhausted Momma comes home, ready for a bath, a greeting full of hugs, until she falls asleep on the sofa trying to watch the news. Each day ending the same, no deviation till laundry day and grocery shopping on Fridays, then the weekend arrives and I wonder, ‘this weekend will Momma spend it drinking or smoking?’

If it is a drinking weekend, she will seek the depressing music in a smoke filled bar, and the weekend will bring the gloom .These are the slower paced minutes of my life. The ones that are laden with weight. And time always, always creeps by slowly. Much, much too slowly. THE END

Abraham Lincoln: Our 16th president was self educated. He was a prophetic man who believed strongly in the spirit world. His life would be wrought with much death and tragedy which would indeed make a man very reflective about what awaits us after death. His ability to know things that others would deem nonsense can be appreciated by those who have this skill themselves. One example would come after Lincoln received the victorious news of winning the presidential election; Lincoln had a vision where he saw his reflection in the mirror and his face appeared to have two distinct images, one face was slightly higher than the other and one face was much paler, the shade of death. He mentioned this to his wife who never saw it for herself but did believe her husband and believed she understood the meaning of the visualization: The healthy face was her husband’s real face and would mean he would serve the first term of his presidency. The second face, an ashen shade indicating death, would mean he would be elected a second term but would not live to fulfill it.
There were many prophetic parallels in Lincoln’s life that have been documented and speculated and disputed, there were even the rumors of séances in the white house. It is worth noting that many spiritualists stayed there during his term and even warned him about the darkness that seemed to follow him . The fact that all of Lincoln’s sons died young attests to the dark cloud that loomed over his and Mary’s life. After the death of Willie, Lincoln was known to speak of his son’s spirit visiting him in his home and office. It seems after Willie’s death that even Mary could no longer deal with so much death it was the beginning of the time that she turned publicly to spiritualists and would not enter the White House guest room where Willie died or the viewing room where his funeral was held. This is also the time when people became concerned with her mental instability as she was prone to headaches and mood swings and sudden angry outbursts. Eventually after the death of her husband Mary would become institutionalized.
If anyone could discount the many rumors and speculations of Lincoln’s fascination with the spirit world how could they ever ignore the foreboding dream Lincoln recounted shortly before his assassination? The fact is, Lincoln dreamt he was in his bedroom aware of a peculiar death like stillness. The silence was broken by subdued sobs and then he heard a number or people were weeping loudly. Lincoln left his bedroom and wandered from room to room, looking for the mourners but there was no one to account for the growing sobs of distress. Determined to find the people who wept openly he finally made it to the East Room where he saw what appeared to be a funeral with guards surrounding the corpse and mourners shuffling by, some gazing at the body while others covered their faces and wept. That’s when Lincoln inquired of one of the soldiers, “Who is dead at the White House?” The soldier answered rigidly, “It is the president. He was killed by an assassin.” Lincoln was naturally troubled by his dream. A few days later Lincoln was shot and killed and his body would be displayed in the East Room of the White House.
There are many interesting stories about this fascinating and upstanding man who made such a change in our lives. He is but one renowned person who has walked through this life and made a difference while recognizing that we are not alone spiritually. He is recognized by us at Paranormal Spectrum as a Spiritual Man of Importance. This article will also be featured on our main website. Created by: Tama Poore – Founder of Paranormal Spectrum.com

Ghost Stories.

I grew up listening to old fashioned southern ghost stories. It may explain my fascination with paranormal events. I have been writing a small collection of ghost stories for many months now. I can safely say that the ones I have written have not been published before, since most of the stories were handed down from family members, from the late eighteenth century through the early part of the twentieth century. Most of the stories are based on truth and the events either happened to a family member or one of their neighbors or friends, therefore I believe they are unlikley to have reached print. Not that I can find, anyway. I have researched Southern, and Appalachian ghost tales by visiting libraries and book stores, I feel comfortable that my short ghost stories are original. I am now facing a dilemma. I can submit the manuscript for publishing, but I wonder, should I self publish? I am mostly interested in sharing the book with family and friends, while offering it to the folks who visit my paranormal website. I am interested in becoming a published author, of course I am, but not yet. Although I have written most of my life, since second grade, I also had a 15 year writer’s block… or 15 years of working and raising a family. In other words, too busy, too tired, too drained from working 2 jobs most of the time and therefore I really did not have time, nor energy to write. Hence, I have become rather rusty. Regardless, I continue to write, it is most therapeutic for me. It is something I love, and the subject is very close to my heart, as I have been tracking ghost stories since August of 2009 locally, but most importantly, I have listened to ghost stories my entire life.

The Reason Behind These Posts

There is a reason I have searched out a place like this. For most of my life I have been aware that most people possess a “sixth” sense. I have been aware there is more to life than meets the eye… for an open mind, there is so much more. But for most of my life, I have been uncomfortable, and I have feared that which I have not understood. That which is not so easily explained. I have turned away from the deeper realm that life has to offer.

I needed a place to go, to journal my thoughts, and chronicle the events that have heightened my awareness.  A place where I could share with others, if I ever chose to share.

 What would I share? My visions of life, glimpes of time passages, and then, if I dare, I will also include the many events that I finally accept are beyond what many others experience.  Experiences that have brought me to this stage in life.

I love the life that God has granted me. Up to this point, it has been most interesting.   I am still unsure where I am suppose to go, but I place my fate in a higher entity, and it is left up to me to  enjoy the journey, and grasp what is offered.

Facing my fears, I forge on.  Not alone, never alone, even when by myself.