The Poetry Marathon

Hour Eighteen

Actions can be tough, I know, but get it together folks.
Speak with authority, with conviction, or keep it in.
Louder, be like a foghorn, yelp your truths unto the night sky!
Than to have died spiritually, better to have lived.
Words can shape, more erosive than raging torrents.

Too much talking, too little saying, too much nothing, too few Actions.
Mind rests on its doing, thoughts stay on what the tongue may Speak.
No matter the depth of shadow, light always shines Louder.
Thankfully we don’t have to even know the meaning, other Than
that it all revolves around the energy resonating from magick Words.

Hour 14: Autobiography of a Face

This is where he hit me with
a Sunday School slate,
punishment for playing a hot game
of Tic-Tac-Toe on the back of a pew
with a pocket knife. I was winning.

These freckles came
from years of forced labor
in his gardens, upper and lower.
Down below, we grew tomatoes, beans, onions.
Above, bushels of potatoes, corn, and melons.

I’m glad you can’t see inside
this face, where it is wired together,
after it cracked from the force of a blow,
in 1974. You don’t want to know.

Solitary, And I know It (Hour Eighteen)

I was in a sacred place that had changed.

I struggled to take my shoes off.

I sat down in a different place and lo,

I saw you, heard you singing

Where I didn’t expect you to be.

I could not believe eyes, ears.

But it was you, and you seemed amused.

 

Now I am walking down a path, that changes,

And changes again.

I am dropping berries, my shawl is slipping.

I pass by those who know you, but I do not stop.

Somehow this journey is solitary,

And I know it.

Poem 16

“A watched pot never boils”

my grandmother used to say.

Truer words were never spoken.

A watched pot never boils…

A poem never writes itself…

not without great labor…

and waiting…

And then the words boil over…

from the heart

from mine, to another

who feels the same things.

A connection is made…

all because my heart

boiled over with words.

 

Eve Remillard

6/14/2015

 

You/I (18)

Now, you walk away all
smug superiority and I
am relieved that the charade
is over.

Now, you escape from the city and I
can return to my throne
of art galleries & local restaurants
in peace.

Now, you retreat to silence and I
chatter endlessly at every
encounter, grateful for renewed
human connection.

Now, you are shattered and I
am stitched back together
by a band of monkeys
moving on.

Fourteen…

green beans sliding down the wall

homework floating in the tub

and you, Dad

with your feet in the car

upside down

your face in the grass

dome light on for all the world to see

the glitter of the can in your hand

the can on the lawn

under the seat I see

one can, two cans, three…

my Mother

and Me

as we drag you in

night after night

and you smile in your sleep

and you snore

and you never remember, Dad.

…you never remember.

I hate green beans.

#18

There is no place like home.
There is no place I call home.
There are places I come from,
there are places I’ve been to,
there are places I’m going.
There is a space I’m using,
a place that’s mine for occupancy,
but is it home?
I no longer belong where I came from,
(I think I never did)
I am not yet where am I going,
and I am only temporarily passing
through the space that I’m using.
There might be a place
that is like home, but how
would I know, if I don’t
have a home to compare it to?

hour 8 poem

 

we need to follow

the footsteps

already there…

fresh snow this spring we need

to clean from the Apple

tree we need to Watch before we need to go again… We need a New house every season

Frustration

I lie here, watching seconds slide away,
With pre-dawn colours lighting up the sky,
And wish I could command sleep: “go” or “stay”
And know that it would mock me if I try.
Great roaring yawns rip through me with each breath
Demanding I drop everything and snooze.
As soon as I begin to droop, excess
Of undreamt dreams assault my senses, too!

Perhaps the half would have been wise at first,
I didn’t think that I would have to train!
Kicked off with such an energetic burst,
Then fizzled after midnight, the acclaim
No longer strong enough to dull the thirst
For R.E.M. sleep, or a working brain.

---

Form: Sonnet.

I started this in hour fifteen, and fell asleep at the computer. Here it is then, the hurdle that felled me. Catching up would be easy enough, but not in line with the rules. One poem an hour… and I slept for two-and-a-half hours straight. I dream pretty vividly, but not in verse. 

 

 

Poem 15

Pen to paper

no ink,

no thoughts come.

Where are the words

that come unbidden

as I drift off to sleep

or observe life passing by?

Where are the words

I drown in

as I am overcome

with emotion or love?

 

Eve Remillard

6/14/2015