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)
“Her Moving On”
I sit listlessly by.
I listen closely for a sign of life.
Cancer has locked its deadly talons in you.
Swaddled in death’s grip.
It seeps through your pores.
I feel its weight crushing you.
All of the pain with nothing but a hefty morphine dose to gain.
I squeeze your hand and plead with you to kick death in its teeth and wake up.
My pleas and prayers are to avail.
The tears won’t cease.
I have betrayed my emotions all day.
Now a river runs through me, astray.
I cannot bear the thought of her moving unto another plane.
I cannot bear to lose her.
My baby sister.
Bad Habit
Tearing bits and pieces,
shredding thin slivers of flesh.
Nervous tension,
stop holding my breathe.
No feeling only numbness,
swollen skin exposed beneath,
not to mention,
keep grinding my teeth.
Mouth starts bleeding,
salty sting, surrounding smile,
guessin’ healings,
gonna take awhile.
Poem #23: As If I Could Taste Heaven At This Height
In my mind I was better than this.
I am only a letter to you. Writing you in the dark.
Can’t even tell if I am still smiling, let alone nodding
through everything said to me, an implication of encouragement
lost in the delivery.
The crafting noise of woodpecker in early morning helps me
forget almost putting ice into my milk.
And I want to laugh out of context.
Every smile a silent mechanic effortless in its arch,
pendulum happiness reversed, instantly a reflection upturned.
If only you were the paper I sketched verse, perfectly blank.
Surgically, I rake the leaves out of the lawn’s hair,
the posture dad taught me.
A crowd of possible words massacred in mind.
Chores are eventually bereft of their own title,
a surrendered habit. Never thinking the same thing twice,
while doing so. All we are, talk and clatter.
She, the clock, and me, spinning in her hands.
Invertebrate clouds morphing into unspoken,
unearthly contortions. A wind so pure curled in my
palms raised, then departed from my fingers’ slit reach.
The wind in my face, Heaven, I question,
plying me to taste its particle?
Poem 11
I have been…
a baby
a little girl
a daughter
a sister
a student
a friend
a girlfriend
a bride
a wife
I am…
a mother
a friend
a teacher
a writer
a dreamer
a survivor
I will always be
a mystery to myself
Eve Remillard
6/13/2015