24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I don’t want to be the first to say this
I fret because my skin is brown
Why don’t you like me?
Is my hair too wild?
My curls too tangled
Twisted my lock at night
For length and acceptance
Can my skin pass the paper bag test?
My silence taken for dishonesty
Why make my curves a gimmick?
Pressure to be a clone
Don’t look at me
I’m different
I live for the imagery of travel
The journey and the road
That finds us closer to the sun
Away from the cold, dark forest
I live for the endless roads
Stretched out across vast lands
Of my imagination
Winding mountain passages
Going straight to the heart
Come with me as we drive
Windows down
Air freely moving
Into the soul of these words
Doll
For Paul
It was always your smile, Doll
The words are written yet rumble and roll through my belly like thunder
It is not the first time I have blushed when so addressed
The pitch-forked feminist on my shoulder thinks I should be offended, feel diminished
I do not
Instead, I feel something akin to cherished
Una flor del jardín
Bien cultivada, podada de las cosas negativas, de defectos
A well-watered orchid
Fragrant and glistening
Tongue-lavished by the sun
Say it again
Again
Otra vez
© Davita Joie 2016
Gull Island
To think that the chimney on Gull Island
is the only remnant of history left
on the shore that has forgotten sand or soil.
To think that its stark whiteness is just
the shining of shit & rot & feather
from where I stand underneath a tall willow.
To think that is home to so many makes me
wonder if dominion in freedom can be enough
to forget about what the damage done is.
To think that the gulls would fight so hard for
their home that they would ruin it in turn.
She reads a lot.
In buses and in trains,
in bed and on the couch,
while eating and even walking,
at all the times of day and night.
Another – writes, restlessly,
especially at night.
Both prose and poetry, in all their forms.
Prefers the pen, but clicks away
on keyboard, if scribbled notes before.
She cooks.
With pleasure and with skill,
precision and experimentation,
forever looking to improve
on taste and visual perception.
Another – eats,
enjoying every bite,
yet rating it. Expecting nothing
less than perfect of the chef.
She cries,
though not at happy endings,
but at uncertainties, injustices,
at loss of beauty
in the world.
Another – laughs,
at silly little things,
at great achievements
(no, no, out of pleasure!
out of shared happiness)
and at herself.
They’re different,
and there’s so many more
that I dare not all list at once.
Make no mistake,
I know them all,
too well, yet none at all.
They’re all together,
not alone,
within myself,
for they’re all me.
“Be the best version of yourself” it is said
Avoid the watered down version, others crave
Avoid dulling anything despite the observation ways
Avoid that negative talk that leaves one frozen in the situation
Avoid holding what is not yours to hold, in time, space, each moment.
It is said, “In nothingness, we are everything”
Currently a personal truth
In nothingness there is freedom
Nothing held~Nothing wished for, no labels—Poof~
Being nothing allows us to be whatever we want to be
At birth, this Is
Being~naturally
Naked, One with everything
Open, honest – Mind, body, soul
Vulnerability, dependant for a bit, relying on
Then
Gender, names, clothes, toys
All before we have a say, and then fun begins
The fun of navigation through this existence
This life full of creation that is limited to a perspective
This perspective is from the outside, and not yours to hold
It is no wonder, this is why so many do not know where to begin
Those strong enough, unwavering, will hold their inner selves-soul
The rest could take a moment and listen well
Trust brings many issues if we let it
Trust in another is interchanging and key
Allowing one to Be, just as they are, accepting
Allowing one to Be, corresponding without judgment, or bias
Allowing the unfolding of the miracle within
This part is much more fun than another self-perceived container.
Lately I feel it all
Rushing into me
A house fire blazing
From room to room
Leaving only charred foundations
Caked with soot
And I am left standing
Shivering in the ashes
Grateful for the in and out
Of my lungs
Grieving over what’s lost
With the tiniest certainty
One day I’ll rebuild
(My fear of failing goes back to time immemorial.)
Afraid to fail afraid to fall
Because your anger I still recall
‘Might be embarrassed might hear a nag
That’s why in trying It’s where I lag
Upon the stage…
I have found my love.
To act . . .
To sing . . .
To entertain…
Accolades have come;
Criticisms, too.
I am an Actor;
Female.
We are all Actors.
Labels . . .
Male or Female;
We act…
On stage . . .
On television “sets”…
Or film “sets”
Or “on location”…
What came first?
Stage . . .
Live!
I have the talent…
Rejection is no longer,
The Issue.
Fame?
A bit, infamously.
Ageism…
You betcha’!
I once was “too young”…
For my age.
Now, I am too old;
For my youth.
My age is supposed to be gray…
Wrinkled.
I am smooth…
My face is round and red;
My hair is still red, gold and brown.
Sure, there’s gray . . .
Never long, though.
My angst?
To play 40 . . .
When I’m 50?
And at a strange age.
The business of show…
Wants you very young…
Or very old!
Old Looking, that is.
And I am chubby.
Stick to stage…
Where size is not always…
How you are judged?
And then there’s that dirty word:
I fear to utter —
A four letter hell for us…
creative types.
WORK
What our parents called:
“A Real Job”
Or we called:
Our “Day Job”
A waitress at 50?!
No way!
A secretary . . .
50 and heavy…
Ageism strikes again.
I want to act . . .
On the Broadway stage…
Make my debut.
Fame, perhaps?
To be recognized?
Accepted?
Applauded?
Will writing be the way,
Let’s say . . .
To feeling appreciated?
Do I need that?
I want it . . .
I deserve it…
It is my passion;
To act. . .
To sing . . .
Even if no one noticed–
Except the casting director.
Of course!
And the cast…
Send me a sign . . .
My heart carries yours
Wherever I go
And you are with me
In my prayers,
In my thoughts.
It is how I keep you
Near.
Eve Remillard
8/13/2016