The Poetry Marathon

Forget Me Nots

Your face was troubled.

Expressions of fear and worry on your brow.

As the days pass by so slowly,

Your breathing is becoming rattled and labored now.

Two images in the darkness again appear.

One of peaceful countenance as you lie so still.

The other of amazing flowers of vivid blue.

O My Sweet Mama i wish that you could stay.

The Velvet azure flowers have slipped into hazy shadows,

And now have slipped away!

In dimming light of evening comes to me a thought:

The blue flowers that I saw were definitely “Forget Me Not’s”

I sat beside your bed and and listened carefully and watched,

As you took your last two breaths.

Hot tears flooded down as I bowed my head in prayer.

Rest well underneath His wings, I’ll see you soon when we all get to Heaven Fair.

 

Lying, Wide Awake

Twelve next month, that preteen brink.

I have a new step-daddy,

a new baby sister too!

Momma is so happy, I think-

                  with everyone but you.

 

Says I must deserve the welt

from the tops of my feet to my

shoulders

she shrugs,

He wields a braided belt.

 

He says, “stand still or you’ll get more”.

The bruises are kept covered.

We never see Grandma anymore.

Uncles that doted on me,

removed to a distant shore.

 

The new uncles are his brothers,

the “love” a different kind.

Pain, much deeper than my skin.

Locked in my bedroom – I scream- I beg- I holler-

she doesn’t even try to come in.

 

Thirty years long past-

I scream, I beg, I holler.

Still, nightmare visits blast.

Please somebody wake me-

out of this forever, take me.

 

By-gone, but not forgotten are

the terrors of

my life-

embarrassed and ashamed,

I can be nobodies wife.

Sky is the limit!

I am at sea, on a giant’s belly.

He is so gentle that I am allowed

To cross the waters with his aid.

Such a nice passage! And he’s happy to help.

 

I give him a warm smile and I meet

Some winged creatures, possibly angels.

They offer me a pair of wings and point to the sky.

I am grateful and despite my fear, I can’t wait to fly!

20 February 1993

The man behind the counter
has a drinking problem

He ignores me
I leave

In the middle of the grassy field
on the other side of the chain-link fence
an old woman, wrapped in blankets and shawls
rocks in her chair
oblivious to everything

Next to the field
an abandoned freight car
sits on now unused tracks

I look inside
it is empty, except for a black stove
and a manual typewriter

Walking back towards the field
I find a small piece of paper
by the fence

On it are printed three words:

lurks
ahead
1

Suddenly, everything is bright
as though I have just awakened
and my eyes have not had time to adjust

I rub my eyes
when I look at the piece of paper again
it has changed:

lurks
ahead
6

I shrug, and put it in my pocket

But when I take it out again
it has changed:

lurks
ahead
7

I rub my eyes and look again:

lurks
ahead
8

And again:

lurks
ahead
9

I crumple up the paper
and stuff it in my pocket

What could this mean?

I look out at the field:
the old woman in the rocking chair
is gone

Am I in the right place?

I turn around—
the freight car is now gone
the typewriter has been left between the rails

I cross the street
and make my way back to the ticket counter

The young woman on duty
tells me the flight to Cincinnati
is leaving now

The man in the next line
is carrying nine copies of TIME magazine

He looks at me and shrugs

 

---

(22 June 2019, Hour Five)

Hour 5 – Tome of Light

There are several of us

unruly children

climbing the stacks

toppling books onto the floor

constructing fortresses of fiction

and using paperbacks as weaponry

nearby a librarian mutters in disdain

There are other uses for those

 

Stalling out in fervent play

a faint humming catches my ear

between thumb and forefinger

and draws me near

a worn leatherbound tome

reels me in

crimson and burning

it calls me by name

I stretch a small hand to its binding

golden sparks jump through my arm

onto the cover

revealing gilded symbols

the room floods with light

its ancient wisdom unfurls

and I begin to remember

Fall

To be awake is knowing this isn’t real in the flash of the landing

Fom there to here is a long way

Let the mattress catch me if I fall

 

The Kiss That Never Was

I was lying on the ground

My head in his lap.

Dazzled by his smile

I felt such bliss.

 

Someone uttered “Give him a kiss!”

And his eyes twinkled down at me;

That mischievous grin

that was always at the ready

 

I leaned up

Smooched him on the cheek.

“Aww.  Come on!” the others muttered,

And Bruce devilishly agreed.

 

He leaned his lips into mine

His beard scratchy against my face.

He kissed me like he meant it

And the crowd cheered.

 

Bruce Willis, you handsome fella

I believe you made me blush.

Even now as I recall that moment

My heart smiles in fondness for you.

 

I don’t know 

What would have happened next

Had I not awakened.

But sometimes . . . I wonder.

 

Smoldering

We are always in-between,
even when our present version
is no more and has become
compost

Our smolderings can become exhausted
flickering out in becalming winds or
whipped up in the winds of change
consuming our present vision.

The hope for a bird of prey
to pluck up the embers
of my demonic cells
glimmers inside me

Checking In (H5)

I will not
I will not
I will not
check the door
the lock
the handle
only to be flung back
against the wall when your
your hatefulness bursts across the
threshold without even breaking a sweat.

I will not.
I will not
I will not
cower in a corner
as you pepper my space
and spray my pink and green walls
with the buttons and blood
of all I kiss goodnight

No.
No.
No.
I will not check the door
the lock
the handle
and help you get in
only to wreak havoc and pain
leave me afraid…ashamed…alone.

No!
No!
No!
I will not.
I will not.
I will not
take the bait,
check the door
the lock
the handle

I will not
I will not
I will not
let you in
by checking whether you’re locked out.

No.
No.
No.
I will not.
I will not.
I will not

Damn it.
I will.
Again.
And again.

The Bus

(Based on the painting by Frida Kahlo)

I sigh as I board the bus

on my way to the market,

my basket over my arm.

I notice,

as I do with everything in my life,

the irritation I feel

toward the others who share my bench.

Their open faces,

comfort with their own bodies,

while I age and

wear my unhappiness like a cloak.

 

I will plan a meal

for a man I once loved.

He will gobble it down

wordlessly

scraping his plate clean.

He will wipe his mouth

and grunt as his chair

moves away from the table.

 

I will wash the dishes

while he reads paper,

rustling the pages

and sighing as though he has

the weight of the world

upon his shoulders.

 

We will go to bed,

barely a word spoken

between us

our backs to each other,

not touching.

 

And I will remember

how he once

hungered for me

in my youth, my beauty.

Now my heart is as heavy

as my child-stretched middle

Both aching and empty

From lack of love,

His touch.

 

Eve Remillard

6/22/19