The Poetry Marathon

Like old tattered boxes

Stacked in the dusty corner

Forgotten

Like blue flowered plates

Behind a cupboard door

Waiting

Like a glossy coffee table book

On display

Some cold

As if left outdoors overnight

In January

Others warm

As a July night

Glowing with fireflies

My memories

Eve Remillard

6/22/19

They journeyed back

Across continents, an ocean.

Through time and long-buried

Memories.

To stand in an emerald-green field

Neatly punctuated with white

Crosses, Stars of David.

They were supported by

Walkers, canes, wheelchairs,

Each other.

Their memories rushing forward

Like the waves of Normandy

As they set the world free

From tyranny

And became

Prisoners of war

In their own minds

Carrying men to safety

Through the tide of courage.

For long moments

They were not betrayed

By their aging bodies,

Foggy minds.

Once again, they carried

The world to freedom

On their shoulders,

In their arms,

On their honor,

In their hearts.

“I was a young man once.”

Eve Remillard

6/22/19

This will  be my 4th Poetry Marathon, my 3rd Half. This year, my daughter Mary will be joining me again and we will be writing several poems as a mother/daughter team. Two years ago, we did this while she was working in Chile as a teacher. She is back home now in the United States teaching children. I teach math and science to incarcerated men. Mary and I are both looking forward to this year’s 1st Half Marathon.

Mother/Daughter Reflections

I stare at myself in the glare

Of the mirror

And wonder what became of

My youth, my beauty.

I see the same eyes, my mouth,

The furrow I make with my brows

When I think,

And realize those have not aged.

I turn, and look at the beauty

I have created who smiles back at me,

And wonder at what I have created

Her youth, her beauty

With my eyes the same green,

A different mouth,

Love and kindness radiating from within.

Her feet do not stay in one place,

Her wanderlust hungry for knowledge

Of other people, places, cultures.

Her freedom to explore this Earth fascinates me

As she brings the world home to me

With her vivid descriptions, her passion.

At first glance,

I am not my mother’s daughter.

But get a little closer and

you’ll see I have her eyes,

her hands,

her hair in the favoring lighting.

When I look at the woman from whom these traits have been shared,

I see myself too.

I wonder what she thinks of me,

With my features from her and

My free heart as well.

She will tell you she isn’t as free

But I disagree.

Her freedom is in her words,

Her affections,

Her food.

The expressions on her face pay her no justice

For all the freedom

She has given in her sacrifices.

Eve T. Remillard & Mary Gabis

Questions

Does the moon smile at everything, or only the things that make her happy?

Does the ocean sound different when it cries?

Do the mountains know they have brothers and sisters?

Do the deserts have thirst?

Does the jungle have a favorite tune?

Do the trees have growing pains?

Does the rain miss the sun?

Is the sun lonely as the brightest star?

Are the rocks exhausted from being ageless?

Are earthquakes Earth’s exercise?

Does the bottom of the ocean wish to see daylight?

Do the trees wish to hug each other?

The universe speaks no matter who listens.

Eve T. Remillard & Mary Gabis

Wherever I go…

I carry your heart…

As if it is the finest crystal

gently, ever so gently,

In the palm of my hand.

Wherever I go…

I carry your heart…

As if it is a downy feather

tenderly, ever so tenderly

Along the curve of my soul.

Wherever I go…

I carry your heart…

As if it is a precious treasure

lovingly, ever so lovingly

Like a whisper on my heart.

Eve T. Remillard

Everyday, at 6 a.m. she leaves her house from her warm bed.

She sets up a stand outside the metro

Selling little items you might need on the go.

Chewing gum, chocolate bars, newspapers too,

But one other item you need but never knew.

She uncovers the box from the plastic shield,

Inside are fried treats, the kind a true baker might yield.

She takes out the powdered sugar, as white as can be

And sprinkles it atop in rounds two, maybe three.

Why she caught my eye,

It’s a funny reason why.

Her hair is bright red and curly,

Visibly seen at a time of day so early.

The color matches the treats before she powders them sweet

And I think to myself, “Is her red color masking the years that earned white underneath?”

Mary Gabis

The first time I

met you I drowned

in the blue of your eyes, in

the ocean of their blue. The

smile you flashed me set fire

to my soul. My desire of

your heart lies in having

the joy of loving you,

of holding your hand, I

will die in the depths of your blue ocean, my spirit impassioned, your name

                                                                        on my heart eternally burned.

* Based on the line “I drowned in the fire of having you, I burned,” from the poem “Antique,” by Robert Pinsky

She looked at the eye

of the universe

so very close

that she hardly

blinked

for fear of

missing out

on its secrets.

But then, of course,

she had to blink,

as humans have the need to do so.

And when she did

moisten her scleras,

the universe responded.

It blinked back at her.

As she leaned closer

to get a better look

at what had just happened or

what she thought had happened,

she realized something.

She blinked.

The universe blinked.

What she thought she was observing

was actually observing her, too.

That’s when a small bunch

of the lush, long eyelashes

in the eye of the universe

began to pull themselves away from the lid,

away from the others.

But as she peered closer,

she saw that the moving bunch of eyelashes

were not eyelashes at all.

Rather, they were eight nimble legs

of a spider

stirring as it awakened from its nap.

How long had the spider been there?

How long was her nap?

Had the blinking disturbed this spider’s slumber?

The spider pulled herself up

in her gossamer spidery elegance

and began to walk

out of the rainbow projecting eye of the universe.

She did so without ever blinking or looking back.

The eye of the universe and the girl blinked simultaneously

as the spider climbed out into the starry night sky.

She would never know her grace had been observed,

she was indeed undisturbed.

Mary Gabis

Before darkness

in summer

there is a hush

that settles like dust motes.

In the distance

cars hum quietly,

their cones of light leading the way.

A lone lawnmower buzzes,

as if to cut the light short.

Children’s voices are muffled

as they emerge from a pool.

A sprinkler cuts an arc

across the lawn, relieving its thirst.

Before darkness

in summer

there is a sense of privilege

of unending days.

Lines form for ice cream,

moths darting at the neon sign.

Couples walk along the beach,

their feet in the lapping waves.

People sit on dimly-lit porches,

sharing stories of summers long past.

Beach towels are hung on railings and lines,

haphazardly telling the day’s adventures.

Before darkness

in summer

There is a mystery

that only the stars can see

as the world slowly exposes itself

just before sleep.

Eve T. Remillard