Poem 20

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


Reverie (explosions in the sky)

I see them

Those memories

They flash in non-linear fashion

A long line up of regret

One soul

Losing in dreams

Lasting in drama

Drifting thru past lives

In the present name

I see them

A line of lovers

Friends betrayed

Friends believed in

Long lists of less

Shapes burning in darkness

My darkness

Private and alone

Memories floating on clouds

Memories lying in graves


Shame Depression

The ultimate torment

Riding the wind to my own

encounter with karma

What will the guides say

When we meet

How will they judge

This long list of loss and


I imagine they will be less harsh

More coaching

Less blaming

Maybe not

I glide into an endless sea of reverie

Assaulted by my own failings

My own choices

My own eternal judgment

Maybe forgotten

Put away in a small box

Hidden under the bed

But always in my heart

Always eating my soul.







Twentieth poem

Floating above,
I look on my life.
I’ve gotten the part in the play!

I know my lines,
I’ve practiced, rehearsed.
Stage make up is all in place.

The show goes well,
They ask for encore.
Who am I to decline?

The costume seems real.
It hides all the scars.
That helps keep the illusion.

Falling Away

How interesting to find
that your final rejection should
bring such relief…

black strands of needy fatness
falling away from me like rain;
with none of the resistance I expected.

How interesting to learn
that the knowing of you was my pain –
and not the loss I feared, after all.

Those words I had always dreaded:
“I don’t want you.”
were so splendid when they came,
that my world turned quietly sideways
and I caught the view of a love to be lived.

Forever freed from the immensity of your shadow
and the hurt you wheel squeakily behind it.

Love and Youth

Look at me, I am three.

And the world doesn’t quite scare me yet.

My parent’s fears have yet to invade

I am free…

Mom used to tell me, “Don’t be in such a hurry.”

Growing up was a race.

And I was bound and determined to run it. To win.

To one day declare. “I was young, once.”

Young eyes, despite the obvious advantage

Are so short sighted.

It’s age that remedies this, though.

Irony has a sense of humor, too, I suppose.

It is also in matters of love, that youth can make even the most eagle sighted

Love is also a race, I’ve come to find.
This race I was also bound and determined to run. To win.
To one day declare, “I was in love, once
I scratched that last word out.
I had to

Unlike youth, which you can experience only once
Love comes and goes many times over
In many forms and never the same way twice
Regardless of the scars left behind as reminders

Youth, is measured in time.
Eventually, you can never be young ever again.
Love, on the other hand, is measured in moments of knowing glances
and late night talks about your day
and how much I hated being away from you.

Homing Pigeon

In the sudden snow storm, the blizzard that white washed the landscape, you guided us home by instinct. Noone could see where fields and ditches and streets connected, so thick was winter’s blanket. The flakes falling like feathers from heaven weighed down my lashes and asked me to stay where I was, but you would not impose. We had to go despite the snow in spite of the snow to spite the snow.

Slowly, you turned the wheel and applied the gas. Navigating by virtue of the memory of millions of previously safe passages along that path. Your mind maneuvered us many miles safely to our door without incident. You knew the way by heart.

Years later, you got lost in the setting sun while making that very drive. That was when we clipped your wings.



by Karen Sullivan

Form: Prose Poetry


By this music would I love you




(ever so slowly)

I would love you deliciously

fingertips on fire

eyes closed

lips parted

tempted by the taste of you


then lovingly




I would love you

love you

love you



Until the end of time

(and beyond)


Your hand in Mine

With your hand in mine
we race together
back into time

a time where our love
lasted longer
where it grew a bit
where we were able
to enjoy the sweet
nectar within

with your hand in mine
i revealed a side
only you could bear
to see
with my hand in yours
i found you
right where you needed
to be

with your hand in mine
we shared
our scars
our fears
our hopes
our dreams

with your hand in mine
i am here for you
your are there for me

with our hands clenched
into the spaces of
the other
we’ve learned
to find happiness
in the smallest
of places
exchanged between
each glance we’ve made
in the softest touches
of our kisses
in the silent “i love you’s”

with your hand in mine
we race back to that time

-Angelica Villarruel