Living Under the Weaver’s Hut – a New Book of Mystic Poetry

Now available on – Living Under the Weaver’s Huta new book of mystic poetry by Jennifer Brookins.

One reviewer says, “Jennifer Brookins poems are written in exquisite, lyrical free verse. I can do no better than to quote from Living Under the Weaver’s Hut, ‘Again and again I turn my face to you. Your darshan weaves feelings in me that moves my heart to prayer.’ If you read mystic poetry, i.e Rumi, Hafiz, you will love this book.” – Stan Raatz, Ph.D., computer scientist, private equity investor, part-time poet.


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One thing I didn’t write about in “Tharon Ann” was being asked to the school prom.


One thing I didn’t write about in “Tharon Ann” was being asked to the school prom. I was 12 years old, still a tomboy, still flat chested. My aunt was given an old party dress from my cousin who was very tall and very stacked. Although she couldn’t sew, she altered the gown, and shoved 6 confederate flag scarves down the front. My uncle drove us in his pick up neither of us spoke to the other…. same thing on the way home. It was a night to remember.

“THARON ANN” Another 5-star Review

age06_new_orleans“THARON ANN”
Another 5-star Review
Puberty Blues
by Jennifer Brookins

“Titties, toenails and boyfriends is all girls talk about. Yuk! I’m invited to a bunking party at horrible Kate Eldred’s house down the street. I told Aunt Lucille I don’t like sleep-over’s cuz all girls talk about is titties, toenails and boyfriends, oh, and what size stupid brassier they wear. Best put a gun to my head than make me wear one of those stupid girly things. Another thing, I jus as soon eat dirt than paint my toenails red. I swear! Whenever Kate talks bout boys, her left eye twitches. First I thought she was goin blind until I figured out she was boy-crazy. Anyways, Aunt Lucille says I’m goin whether I want to or not. This is the worst night I ever spent on earth. Theys six girls exactly like horrible Kate’n all they do is talk my brains out bout titties, toenails, and boyfriends. When I bring up the subject of baseball, they jus look at me weird-like. Next thing y’know they askin me what size brassier I wear – so I hike my t-shirt over my head’n yell out,

“Look at these babies! Mosquito bites don’t need’um!”

I’m thinkin folks say titties when they already wear brassiers, but if they don’t – they just come right out’n say bosoms or mosquito bites.”

“Great book!!! I read this book in one sitting while travelling on a plane. It talks about the journey of a woman and her struggles. Most fascinating thing about the book is Tharon Ann’s transition from one phase of life to another. It touches various aspects of her life with great details. I highly recommend this 5-star book. Prashant Lamba” hard copy and E-Book

Pull Off the Road, I’m Having a Baby!

Pull Off the Road, I’m Having a Baby!
From: Tharon Ann
Amazon review: 5 out of 5 stars

THARON ANN pic2These last weeks of pregnancy make me feel more like a blimp than anything else. I think I’m having quadruplets. I’m on the verge of a catnap when the first labor pains jolt me out of sleep. True to form, they skip the preliminaries and jump to the chase. They’re five minutes apart when my thoughts flashback to Madrid when I came close to having Romie on the clinic steps. I call Mary to let her know they’re five minutes apart. She doesn’t seem the least unnerved but consoles me in a calm, loving voice,

“Jenny there’s no time for me to drive 45 minutes to pick you up, then drive another 45 minutes to the hospital. butt not to worry … everything will be ok.”

“Everything will be OK?

“Yes. Everything will be OK? Maybe I should call an ambulance. Oh my God, here comes another one.”

“Honey by the time the ambulance arrives it will be too late. No, you drive yourself.”

“Drive myself?”

“Yes, drive yourself.”

“Drive myself where?”

“Drive yourself to the hospital. I’ll meet you there and take care of the boys.”

The kids help me into the car while I pray the two dollars worth of gas I put in yesterday is enough to get us to the hospital 45 minutes away. As I pull out, the sun is going down fast as we drive along this desolate country road. My labor pains are growing more intense, now at three minutes intervals. I feel like this baby is about to fall down between my legs on top of the brakes. Maybe I would pull over and have it in one of the cornfields over there. I’m trying to stay calm but Romie is kicking the back of my car seat, rocking back and forth repeatedly saying,

“I want M&M’s,” “I want M&M’s,” “Mommy, I want M&M’s.”

Finally. I’ve got just enough gas left to pull into guest parking at JFK Hospital. The pains are now one minutes apart as I drive my Chevy up to, and almost through the glass entrance door. I waddle out of the car, grab the kids by their shirttails, the one still screaming at the top of his lungs, “I want M & M’s,” and announce to everyone within ear short in the reception room,

“I’m having a baby,’ and throw the keys on the front desk.

“Park the car if there’s enough gas.”

The nurses and doctors in the emergency room are shocked that I drove such a distance fully dilated. Right now this baby doesn’t care what I do or where I am. It only knows it’s good to go. However, everyone knows what Romie wants because the candy machine’s out of order. As they wheel me upstairs to the delivery room, I can still hear his little whiny voice trailing in the background,

“Mommy, I want M & M’s.

I’m rushed to the delivery room where my water bag immediately breaks. The nurse wipes the sweat off my forehead, and whispers in my ear that despite all odds, a frank breech notwithstanding, my little son is here. Unlike a normal delivery, he came out with his feet pointed downward, his hands reaching up, and his head tilted back. His birth could have had serious complications.

The maternity ward is packed tonight. Even though I paid the hospital bill in advance, I’m surprised to find myself on a bed in the hallway. After all we’ve been through together, I’m too happy to care where I am. It’s almost surreal that only months ago we drove across America in the sweltering heat of summer. Zola weighed less than three lbs, yet here we are 1 1/2 months later. I’ve given birth to an eight lb. baby and we’re out of that hellish life in Hollywood.

Review: “Jennifer Brookin’s memoir ‘Tharon Ann’ is reminiscent of Mark Twain, Will Rogers and other authors who write in unconventional ways. It is a revelation of her struggle to find a successful and more deeply, meaningful life. She does so with self deprecating humor, passion, and sheer determination. This book led me to deeply reflect on my own and humanity’s struggles and destiny. reviewer, Randall Woods: I highly recommend this 5-star memoir.

dragonfly shimmies across winter’s lake

dragonfly shimmies across winter’s lake
my heart grows cold
in this blizzard of unbalanced hibernation
thoughts come as strangers today
Oh Weaver,
you have more important things to do than loving me
“Daughter, loving you is a full time job”
I live each year with exuberance
everyday as spring
stoke a fire in my gathering hut
your staff to keep me warn
all that remains is a deep ravine once my heart
my Weaver answers,
“Daughter all you need do is
come to me, come to me”
no matter the circumstance
I still seek your favor


Five-Star Review of Living Under the Weaver’s Hut

book review

From Stanocles:

“Very much in the tradition of Eastern mystic devotional poetry, i.e. that of Rumi, Attar, and others, the book Living Under the Weaver’s Hut contains the author’s songs of spiritual love and longing for her Master, guide, adept, holy person, or in the author’s term, “weaver.” I recently read that Rumi (in translation) is the best selling poet in America, a testament to our universal longing for meaning in today’s frenetic world. These poems, in exquisite and lyric free verse, are one person’s such songs. She makes no claims, offers no doctrine, does not expect the reader to conclude anything other than the poems are written in love to the Weaver. The word “darshan” refers to when a disciple receives the vision of sight of her Master’s glance. I can do no better than to quote from the book, “… again and again I turn my face to you / your darshan weavers feelings in me / that moves my heart / to prayer.” If you read mystic devotional poetry, you will love this book.”

image001 (2)



doubters only believe what they see

doubters only believe what they see
you know the type
dark sunglasses at night for a better view
Oh Weaver
guard my arrested heart from neighbors who wonder
what has come over me now that I wear mistletoe in my hair
they say I’m eccentric
just bring on the handcuffs
you’re welcome to everything in my old closet
early this morning before the sun had yet to rise
I heard you say,
we are the infamous bullfrog quartet
free to all who would dare my kind of loving”
Beloved Ji
there is a lion in me so easily provoked
rears its head each time a stranger attempts to enter
its cage without knocking
when the sweet silence of heartache
is disturbed
From: Page 97 – Living Under the Weaver’s Hut…/…/1729752012


I had almost forgotten you

I had almost forgotten you my spring beloved last

caught up as I am in this secret rebirth

repeating itself this time each year

my possessive heart would wrap you in my head scarf

make you every bit as finite as those very things

I wish safe passage from

Oh Weaver

be generous for I am so foolish

hold me captive in your moon pocket

how long the distance between a bud and a flowering rose

I retrace my footsteps same as swallows

exhaust themselves

winging back to Capistrano each year

again and again I turn my face to you

your darshan weaves feelings in me

that moves my heart

to prayer