first poem (1st hour of half marathon)
First Poem
What will this day bring?
questions?
ponderings?
wonderings?
all unknown here at this start
Hour One
Here we begin, our challenge awaits
A marathon of words, thoughts, ideas, beliefs
Let the chaos begin! Good luck and Godspeed!
9 am Poem
The Peace of Nature
I listen to the birds’ calls
Telling them my worries
Letting them carry them away
I feel the grass beneath me
Taking comfort as it tickles my feet
I smell the flowers
Letting sweet overtake the sour
I see the sun rise
Its fiery red signaling a hopeful new day
I taste the salty tears as they flow
Releasing the pain to nature
Fear
Alone
Unprotected
In a silent world,
Calling- For- Life
Government shines
People decline
Life- line
Resigns
Guides -Pines
Into the dark grinds
Of movement
Power defines
Oneness
Within
Poem #1: Shapeshifter
Sometimes I wish
I could melt like ice
And then freeze back together
To form a new shape.
Then when things got too hot
I could take a different shape
And start again.
Poem 1
I stand at the shore
Waving my hand
To those who
Have embarked on
The journey
I am not invited
Like quicksilver,
Their smiles, faces,
Voices, hands, mannerisms
Disappear into the fog,
Toward sunrise, sunset,
Rise up to the stars
Of the navy night sky.
My bruised and battered heart
Aches
All of you whom I have loved
Have left me to repair myself,
To mend the tears in the squares
Of the quilt of my life.
Feeling abandoned,
I turn from the shore
And move forward
Alone.
Eve Remillard
6/13/2015
Day is begun
Sky is grey
Heart is full
Day is begun
Night is furled
Crows now call
Day is young
Songs are song
Evidence…
The layers edged with a sharp hook, responsibility was granted, it was not up to him or them, but Me, it was up to me, regardless of the weight, pathetic on the timing, irrelavent to decoding. I grabbed the tip and it impressed upon my skin the first sight of blood set in…
Poem #1: Russian Spy Lady
“Russian Spy Lady”
She checked out, clairvoyantly, books about cooking and Russian history,
sixteen dollars in overdue fines, and left as quick
as the bells on the front door handle ceased chiming.
Without and accent, Rosalind Russell grin; given four weeks,
her heels will clap with the library carpet again,
And we will earn more than a dissolved hello from evasive eyes
at her next visit.
No speculation, just a tossing of replies and an escape like Tippi Hedren’s in “Marnie.”
I have already forgotten her name, or even the fog of one stated,
the moment her tires peeled themselves off the parking lot.
Once a week, the library assistant and I remind ourselves of the
ominous air that lady who spied our shelves puzzled our minds with,
always glancing at the hallway entrance now,
hoping she will slyly wander in.
Is it that she would reappear to us, or simply disappear
from elsewhere, fleeing here in disguised posture?
I’ve heard the most suspicious people frequent one particular place–
and yet doesn’t everybody?
I shrug it off, lean back, check out my own books,
and laugh at the possibilities.