Poem 12
Black cat, Luna, sits
in window, gazes at night
Moon smiles at namesake
Eve Remillard
6/13/2015
Poem #24: Pencils
Never wrote a single line in ink, all
graphite lyricism, swabbed by constant indecisive eraser smudges.
Dixons, Ticonderogas–the works–
torturing a pencil until it was shorter than my pinky finger,
burdensome, my forearm earning its exercise from hours
of writing and mindless music in the background.
Ticonderogas, however, were the best, always one in the single
helix spine of my notebook. When the eraser f!attens,
sparse of any more use, I would sharpen and remove
its green-metallic carapace, extending its lifespan surgically.
Although pencil lead tends to fade with every closing of covers,
I enjoy knowing that however old the words become,
I’ll still be able to read my sloppy handwriting,
and know its age is not finished.
The Path to Light
I didn’t choose that path back then.
I was afraid. Too oft warned of the
Consequence of being myself.
I am Janice Joy, not Joy Elizabeth,
The child whose body lay in blood
That hot August day.
The dogs were gone, and my arm
Still whole, yet wrapped in bloody
Cotton torn from the shirt of my hero.
I have chosen the wrong path
Again and again, wondering of the
Consequence of truth, or opening the door.
It’s been the devil waiting there
To test the sacredness of life,
And prove that Jews are not a chosen few.
Who knew a child could prove them wrong,
Come back again, and with a song
Remind these demons of eternity?
Yet still, the pain of death and life
Is not a pastime I adore
Or want still more.
No.
I am done being her.
Probably the wrong path again
To take in this fascist state.
Hour Fifteen
I, being of sound mind and body, do hereby leave you:
My mind-
Where dreams of greatness once manifested,
Where a plethora of useless knowledge once swam,
Where words of wisdom once danced,
Where hopes and aspirations once congregated,
Where fond memories now lie.
My hands-
That once held the precious cargo of my future,
That once caressed the intimate places of ones who promised forever,
That once cradled my head weary of the world,
That once clenched in outrage, anger, and grief,
That once rose in compliance and surrender.
My heart-
Full of love for ones deserving and undeserving,
Full of admiration for those who stood brave and strong,
Full of compassion for the downtrodden and despaired,
Full of regret for chances not taken and mistakes made,
Full of sorrow for broken trust and untruth.
My soul-
Which embodies all of me:
Every thought, every feeling, every hope, every dream, every memory, every secret of who I was truly meant to be.
Mind, Hand, Heart, and Soul: My Legacy for You…
Kisses
Need your kisses.
On my lips.
Need your magic that only you can.
Give me.
Need your love too caress my heart.
Too place of love
Hour Fifteen
Write a poem that has a chance of being very meaningful to someone you are very close to, or someone you want to be close to.
——————————————————————————————————————-
Gone from all we were
together we sat at night
watching the same moon.
work to make it work,
and you can make it through,
only forming dust into chalk?
#16 – System of taste
Tasteful you are
Tasteful I am
Is that enough?
For a love story
Your state system
And my system of taste
Are they compatible?
When you turn your back to me
Tasteful I am
Tasteful you are
Is that enough?
For a love story
Ode to a character
My book (movie) in my head never ends,
so placing you in the leading role was
easy; your wit and charm give others pause,
but your chameleon ways help my plot blend.
I laugh when people are taken a back
by the many things you do to cause thought,
as if they own you, not a movie, but
the person wrapped up in plastic sack.
Perhaps its your swift smile, or boisterous laugh
that make them forget the fiction of the tale
told through digital, celluloid and stage;
the person they create is real, full of life
even if, like in my head, it’s a pale
ghost in front of them, sitting on the page
A Photograph
It has to be in sepia, with some of the lighter parts
fading into some past century.
I simply can’t imagine you in colour. Disney characters
live on colour, are shaped by colour. You, by contrast,
I associate with scent, if sepia has any scent.
If it has, then the scent of rosewood, as in an antique
box. Mahogany doesn’t smell of anything, it is simply
dark, but not as dark as ebony. Your features are dark
enough, too dark to make out.
Except your eyes, which would be almost charcoal.
Almost. What would really be dark would be your
eyebrows. The sepia would soften them.
And the rosewood? For your hair, perhaps? It would be
shorter than mine. The colour of dark henna, but
henna has its own scent. That wouldn’t do, unless sepia
and henna go together. Yes, that might do the trick.
Rosewood would have been too much. I would end up
thinking of your arms, which have never embraced me,
or your shoulders. Even without having ever met you,
I can’t really think of you as a rose.
© Ella Wagemakers, 05.55 Dutch time (= 23.55 EST in the US)