HOUR SIXTEEN POEM # 16 24 HOUR POEM MARATHON ON MY WAY TO HEAVEN On my way to heaven What a journey it will be On my way to see Jesus And give him his glory My life’s work On this earth is done And…

Just One More Tiny Bite. And I am heavier than before In underwear too tight to bear. A closet full of pretty clothes, Designs I used to wear. I Was So Fair! But wine and burgers Fries and steaks In those few moments Merry make…

I wonder how much you think you know me. I mean, according to many, my emotions are an open book, and I have no talent for telling tall-tales, even if my life depended on it. I definitely wouldn’t be able to play poker. But those…

The hour of recrimination and poltergeists Relaxed on my cloud, tears seep from my eyes. I don’t want to know what makes me sad I want to ignore it. Racing thoughts disappear and it’s a struggle to remember the details. Only shells of emotions are…

I Try Not to Think About the private jokes we shared our favorite pink pajamas on Christmas morning sleeping in the old white Chevy touching tongues because it felt funny giggling till we couldn’t catch our breath fighting over the blankets at grandma’s your morning…

The Medicine Man in Hill City rode in on a Crazy Horse. While I struggled to hold his committee I was swept into his light source. Behind his golden gates stretched across heaven and Earth he told me of many fates tied directly to my rebirth….

Sometimes I try to do as others always say you should do when you feel, say, your lip tremble for a split-hair second when you realize that she never calls And when she does it’s basically to pretend for whoever she’s around that I’m even…

I pour my memories through this pen Climbing down the lines and margins The maturing letters bond and stretch  They burn my eyes with their truth Fresh paper loses its virginity When thoughts become written word They stain and press themselves Like gravel into a…

Black cat, Luna, sits in window, gazes at night Moon smiles at namesake   Eve Remillard 6/13/2015

Never wrote a single line in ink, all graphite lyricism, swabbed by constant indecisive eraser smudges. Dixons, Ticonderogas–the works– torturing a pencil until it was shorter than my pinky finger, burdensome, my forearm earning its exercise from hours of writing and mindless music in the…