The Poetry Marathon

My muse was dead

it seemed.

Or perhaps it was hibernating.

I thought perhaps it was dead

for it had been so long since

it had shown its beauty to me.

But then began the experiences

that awakened it…

loss, grief,

forgiveness, patience, grace,

limitless love,

understanding the depths of the human soul,

strength I never knew I possessed.

I also found my muse in

deep, strong friendship,

in gentle company,

in the gifts God has blessed me with.

My muse lives…

in the joy I feel from

those who love me.

Eve Remillard

6/14/2015

Walking along the shore on summer Sunday afternoons,

collecting rocks and shells, cooling our feet,

you and I.

I always wanted to walk behind you to fit my feet

into your footprints

before the waves came to take them away.

My heart was always afraid a wave would come

to take you away from me.

You were strong and brave in my eyes.

You believed in me and knew I could do great things.

You helped me with my homework and got me past

third grade math.

You took the first story I ever wrote to work

and shared it with everyone in the office.

You took my first poem too.

You knew I had a gift with words.

One day the wave came

to take you away from me.

When things get hard for me,

I write my words and

remember you,

whispering your name for strength:

“Daddy.”

Eve Remillard

6/14/2015

An all-nighter

by myself

in a house I’ve lived in

for eight years.

I’ve paced,

tossed and turned,

but never stayed up all night.

The windows are open to let in

the cool summer night air

and the birds awaken early

in anticipation of sunrise.

Luna prowls about in the shadows,

finally perching in the window.

I sit wrapped in a quilt at the kitchen table

the glow of the computer screen

and a cup of hot coffee

helping me to meet the challenge

I set for myself:

24 poems in 24 hours.

Eve Remillard

6/14/2015

William Shakespeare

and Emily Dickinson

were discovered in spite

of the lack of a Poetry Marathon.

(Emily was actually discovered posthumously)

And all the poet greats in between lived lives

of napping and eating and working and raising children.

They were not trying to be better than another poet,

they were too busy challenging themselves,

as only a good writer would.

Empathy toward their fellow man is what made

the great writers what they were.

Eve Remillard

6/14/2015

“When they write my obituary.” *

What will they say?

Will they remember that I hate to be recognized?

Will they leave out the unimportant details

such as where I worked or went to school?

Instead, will it highlight that my proudest accomplishments

were my three children?

Will they remember to mention

what made me laugh?

what made me cry?

Will they mention that I enjoyed

reading and writing and poetry?

Will my obituary remember that I loved

to love and be loved?

“When they write my obituary.” *

Eve Remillard

6/14/2015

*Quote from The History of Love, by Nicole Krauss

My hands have…

been the first to hold a newborn baby,

prepared a meal,

changed diapers,

taught young hands how to write,

put a puzzle together,

crocheted a blanket,

written countless words,

cradled a sick child,

planted flowers,

shaved my father’s whiskery face,

been the last to hold my sister,

folded in prayer,

caressed a loved one’s hand,

held the hands of a loved one making the final journey,

reached for the hands of my young children.

My hands are strong…

they are connected directly to my heart.

Eve Remillard

6/14/2015

Pansies…

one of the first flowers to appear in the spring,

they last all through the heat of the summer,

and often hang tough through the chill of the first frost.

With their little faces,

pansies are a reflection of our soul…

they are survivors,

they witness so much,

and they always come back.

Eve Remillard

6/14/2015

“A watched pot never boils”

my grandmother used to say.

Truer words were never spoken.

A watched pot never boils…

A poem never writes itself…

not without great labor…

and waiting…

And then the words boil over…

from the heart

from mine, to another

who feels the same things.

A connection is made…

all because my heart

boiled over with words.

Eve Remillard

6/14/2015

Pen to paper

no ink,

no thoughts come.

Where are the words

that come unbidden

as I drift off to sleep

or observe life passing by?

Where are the words

I drown in

as I am overcome

with emotion or love?

Eve Remillard

6/14/2015

The stars sprinkled down around us

As I looked into the blue sky of your eyes

The sun tucked itself in behind its purple blanket

The moon hung above on its silver beams to watch over us

The tide rose and fell in syncopation with our mutual heartbeat

And all was right in my world

Eve Remillard

6/14/2015