24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I smile often
Despite the pain
Denying the existence
of this physical strain.
I see the world
As I want it
To be
A world in which
We should always
see.
Beauty, laughter and Light
In all places.
As joy moves through all
empty spaces.
Bringing happiness to those
in need
And improving all life,
Yes, indeed.
Copyright 2015, Ingrid Exner
Dreaded time has come …
His long time battle ended in a long run.
Bottled monster … long and short had long gone.
What remains was replaced by pain and regrets.
A life lived in a pathetic state.
Life with him was a roller coaster …
One week sober … one month of heaven.
A month with monster in a bottle … a year in hell.
Though he struggled to stand in dignity;
We witnessed his defeated fight in futility.
We were fashioned in his wit …
But not defined by his grief.
Served as a trophy of the life he didn’t dreamed off.
As he loved us the best he could.
But the bottled monster that gleamed in blood;
Sparkled like an enchanting temptress …
Lurked him in a fog.
As he whispered his last breath …
Tears abundantly flowed … not in pain but resigned.
He held my hands and mouthed the words.
“Thank you for loving me … despite of.
“Hush” … I said … “You are fine Dad.”
As I kissed him, in my heart and in my thought.
He loved us the best he could.
cathedral walls
giving way to
the sunlight…
framing
a warm June afternoon
after a strong rain
with thunderstorm…
no more dust left
not even the fluff
from dandelions
next to the
crumbling walls…
from last year
no more raindrops
lying down
before my
footsteps
These eyes have hosted a million tragedies
This heart has fought a thousand battles
These hands have handled a dozen mishaps
These feet have walked a score of miles
These fingers have picked at hundreds of scars
This head conjures terrible things
These bones are broken in many places
This mouth spits up vats of poison
These legs dance to the wrong instruments
This body is flawed
This body is broken
This body is mine
This body is strong
This body is perfect.
Cold wind heavy rain
Johnny’s heart’s broken again
Pitter pitter pat
Your blue eyes…
are the sky after a storm
are the place where the sky and the ocean meet
are a summer twilight
are the peace in my soul.
I could look into eternity for
their beauty and calm.
Eve Remillard
6/13/2015
A revival of the senses
The warmth of the sun’s rays
penetrating winter pale skin
surrounded by a concrete fortress of my fears
broken down by the triumphs and failures of risks
a opening to a spring meadow
stirring up a childlike gittiness
to run until I can’t run anymore
and fall down onto blankets of tulips, daffodils, and dandelions in the midst of green sprigs
a newness, a refreshing sense of what could be
I am your wildfire.
Your burning Santa Anas.
With heat that makes men come undone
Strong enough to melt the sun.
(His surface drips like wax.)
Uncontrollable at best.
Spontaneous Combustion.
Ashes on my breath.
Keep your distance, love,
or be burned to your death.
(Love is a fairy tale made up in your head.)
I am climbing the Irish skill tree
on Duolingo. I’m still on the basics.
Na cailiní, na fir, óleann uisce,
tá úll agat, that kind of thing.
I’ve been told I have Irish blood
in me, somewhere. I like to think
it’s concentrated in my shins,
the tibia and fibula, the marrow.
I was passed up for a college-sponsored
trip to Ireland two years ago.
I was too irritable, had already
gone abroad, and I was full of hate.
Now that I am a bit closer to full
of an old language, even its slightly
duller official version, and this tongue
belongs to people who precipitated me,
I might make my own leap across
the ocean this time, go where the stones
are still wreathed in life, where grass
is not greener per se but there is a
certain sense of history about the earth,
the lingering myth, whispers of the dead.
Through the gate!
On the other side, lies sunlight;
On the other side, lies hope;
On the other side, lies freedom,
But to get there we must go
Through the Gate!
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