Hour 11. (2019)
Restless but free
The road now lies almost evenly
Behind and ahead
My tired limbs know not to cease
The Bigs are Coming to Town
The Bigs are Coming to Town
Virginia Carraway Stark
Bigs come
When they come to town
They move the streets
They turn the dumpsters upside down
They put in DUMBS
They do as they please
because
They’re Bigs
And they do as they please
Rewrite scripts
Make monsters where they will
If you tell anyone you saw them
No one will believe you
Because they are the Bigs
And it’s best just to Deny
Every Little you see knows it’s best
If they see a Big
To just turn and walk the other way
If a Big asks you a question
You best tell them the truth
Then forget they asked you
Or they’ll do worse than tell on you
Here’s a secret the Bigs
Want everyone to know
And that’s that
Even when they aren’t in town
And you don’t see them
They will always see you
If you see a man or woman
With a knowing gleam
In their eye
They could look like their homeless
Or they could look like they work
For the FBI
They could look like your mom or dad
They could be anyone at all
They could look like your best friend
All grown up
They could even look like you or I
They’re the Bigs
They put in tunnels everywhere
And cameras too
You don’t have to be paranoid
Because they will know whatever they want to know
And dismiss the things that doesn’t matter to them
Or eradicate anything that gets in their way
The Bigs come to town
They’re watching at the cinema
They’re watching at the street lights too
They watch you in the elevator
They see you in every camera’s gleaming eye
The Bigs are always in town
They come by gleaming car
They come by shining jet
They come by things that hover
And we are very sure
I will swear
Do not exist yet!
Hour eleven: Apology: the Trump mug in my grandparents’ kitchen
It floats in the dishwater
like the eyeball of some
great beast, watching me
through grease & soap suds.
my grandmother is saying
something about the rain,
worrying about the nearby
farmers & the price of corn
in the coming months,
but all I can think about
is the children living behind
chickenwire, sleeping on
concrete floors. When I used
to stay the night, my grandmother
would bring in extra pillows
& lay down beside me until
I fell asleep, though my mother
was only thirty miles away,
though I had never gone
a night without a goodnight
kiss, my favorite stuffed
animal. What would she say
to a Syrian child crying for
their mother? Could she look
that child in the eye and call them
vermin, say that it doesn’t matter
if their home is in the belly
of a bombshell, that they
will find no safety here?
Or would she hold that crying
child & hum until they fell
asleep, put them to bed
in the guest room, line
the mattress with pillows
to protect them even as
they slept? the mug turns
in the grimy water & I wonder
how many grandparents had mugs
with swastikas that spun
quietly in the sink while they
talked about the price of corn
& if it looked like rain again,
never about what makes one child
more human than another.
Spirit
An essence
Nomadic it shifts
Filling this echoing cavity
The hallows of hallowed bone
Meaning to movement
Intention to itinerant instincts
A higher form of self
Or is it?
Created of me
Alive within
An atmospheric shift
It rises up recalcitrant
Drawing up indomitable
A conflagration ready
To set the world ablaze
Hour Eleven – To my Former Self (2000 – 2007)
Image courtesy of 9Gans at Pixabay
Dear Former Me
I would just like to let you know that
you have eventually left
the abuser that nearly destroyed you.
For what it’s worth: you have regained
What you have lost: yourself
You’re still working on a few things, though,
but you’re getting there.
What you wanted most of all, to get a dog again
Has been accomplished.
And she’s the cutest little thing on four legs…
Guess what: your dream of being
a freelance writer is also being fulfilled.
Just a little more work,
And you will be where you’ve always wanted to be
Your son (my son) is married and has a daughter.
A few minor things can be improved in his life
But step by step, he’s getting there…
We’re not doing too bad, you and I
and right now you’re participating
in a Poetry Marathon…
Something your abuser said you couldn’t do…
Take care (I know you will)
From “The future you”
Antoinette LeRoux © 2019
Dear Cheetah, age 7
Dear Cheetah, age 7,
I hope you are fine. Really and truly fine, not the fake fine we learned to tell mom and dad when they asked, “What was the trouble? Why aren’t you sleeping?” I writing you today to tell you that that you are amazing and you are safe. Don’t be scared. I know it isn’t easy to sleep, but don’t scare yourself You are fine. Isn’t it funny how protected you are in your innocence? I was telling Mom just the other day - she’s older that Grandma now, by the way - I told her about all of the neighbors that used to give you candy, so you didn’t have to cross the street to go to the store. They let the whole neighborhood play in their yards. Why, without fences, it was hard to tell where one yard ended and the next one started. And they didn’t care. I wanted to write to you and tell you that you jump farther from the swings than anyone can. That’s why Mr. Gulleckson called you Cheetah. I guess you looked like a cat to him. Don’t be so hard on yourself and if you could, please practice being on time so you aren’t grounded your entire fourth grade year. Take care of yourself, Laurie, Cheetah no longer PS write back soon!
Prompt 14: To Yesterme
Yesterme, both friend and foe.
How I hate and love you so.
Hate you for mistakes you’ve made.
Love you when the truth you’ve paid.
Retrospectively, I see,
What a being you’ve made of me.
Yesterme, I’ll have you know,
I have seen your private show—
Every dark thought you have spawned
Every living thing, you’ve wronged.
Every good thing you’ve set free.
Times you’ve spent creating me.
Yesterme I can’t change you.
You’re not me; that much is true.
Now old Yesterme— I’m new!
Be content. Time makes us two.
Dear Kevin who likes to take shortcuts sometimes
Okay, we have to talk
Every few years
you try to save yourself time or effort
by taking shortcuts
You know what I’m talking about—
don’t even lie
Let me remind you:
That time at the Graham Hill playground
when your bicycle chain fell off?
You couldn’t use the brakes to stop
so you steered right into the chain-link fence?
Fortunately, the boys were all right
That time in the Cleveland parking lot?
You were in a rush to get to your first class
so you went up the dirt embankment, tripped
and fell on a piece of glass?
Spent the morning in the emergency room?
Six stitches? Ring a bell?
That time at Crazy Mike’s when you jumped up
to grab something from the other side of the counter
and your ribs hit the edge on the way down?
That still hurts sometimes, you know
That time when Levitz was delivering the new living room furniture
but got lost in that wacky little area
where the street names trade places?
After flagging them down
you ran across the lawn and tried to jump up to the front door
so you wouldn’t have to go up TWO STEPS?
You didn’t break it, but that ankle will never be quite right…
That time you went with the wife to get a new car
after one of the kids totalled it in a wreck?
You should have bought used, I’m telling you
’cause that thing was already doomed
even without the damn kids
All those times you grabbed everything from the car
because you didn’t want to make two or three trips
then tripped on the stairs because you couldn’t see where your feet were?
How long did it take before you could pull stuff out of the washing machine
without going OW–OW–OW–OW?
That’s right!
Or that time you were carrying that big-ass box out to your car
from your mom’s house and fell down those TWO STEPS?
Remember how it took two or three years
for that arm to get back to normal?
Don’t tell me you don’t—you still have the elbow brace to prove it
And what about that time you married your ex
because y’all thought you were so mature now
and all the bad shit was already behind you?
Uh-huh—where are you now?
Remember:
Make the extra trips
Walk around the whatever
Take the stairs
Don’t rush
Do it right
And most of all—history is not a shortcut
Love,
Future Kevin
(22 June 2019, Hour 10)
Midnight
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Strung out on hysterics, kissing midnight
In this moonlight dancing on the red curtain, your skin, almost seems flushed with rouge
As I play your body like a violin, pluck your strings
Creating symphonies, rising above the clouds
Haiku
Words flowing from pen,
Evoked from my heart, mind’s eye
Memoirs of my soul
Eve Remillard
6/22/19