Archive for November, 2011

Jeannie, Aged Eleven


17 Nov

 

Face of an angel.

Timid eyes of a deer.
A whisper like cotton.
A laugh that brings tears.
A strong aura you can see from afar.
A fragile life that can vanish
Like a shooting star.

If you make a wish,
I’ll make it come true.
Because my friend,
I so much love you.

Only a brutal twist of fate
Could tear our wishes apart.
Alas, little girl you were born
With a hole in your heart.

An unfair world full of chronic madness.
Deserving souls feeling ironic sadness.
One day you’re outside playing and laughing.
Then you’re in a cold, white room,
Crying and gasping.

Helpless parents in quiet hallways roam.
“Mommy, Daddy, I want to go home!”
“I promise dear it won’t be long.
Just rest your head down
While Mommy sings you a song.”
Daddy cries….Mommy prays.
“Dear Lord, bring us back
The good old days.”

Your sisters at home
Stare at your empty bed.
“God bring her home soon,” the older one said.
The middle child felt remorse and shame.
Never meant to tease you.
She’ll never be the same.

You’re feeling better.
Your doctors are too.
A welcome home party
Will be ready for you.
But home is not where you’re going.
Not the home you think.
For the angels have prepared a bed
Where you can peacefully sleep.

Your spirit remains strong,
But your body too weak.
Mom and Dad look at each other….
“Our future looks bleak.
Don’t let her see us cry…
Remain strong for our reason to live.”
“Mommy, Daddy,” you say.
“I have nothing more to give.”

Time to go.
Time to bid adieu.
From the center of my soul,
I will deeply miss you.

Mommy holds your hand,
As you hold the hand of death.
Before I can say goodbye…
You’re gone.
With the sound of a swan’s last breath.

There are no words.
Just make-believe smiles…
Wearisome chatter.
Silent tears…
Dreams shattered.

Where are you my friend?
Where did you go?
Why is this day of mourning
Going so slow?

Oh, there you are.
I can see you at last.
But this isn’t the face
I knew from the past.
Seeing you lying in a small, pink box
In a pretty white dress.
Is a sight that will for years
Cause me great distress.

Dead brown hair…
Translucent skin…
Somebody bring her back to life
With just one kiss.

No such luck.
You’re gone for good.
Can’t say goodbye.
I know I should.

Do you want to scream,
“Don’t leave me!” I wonder.
As they lower you six feet under?

As I walk away
I do not say goodbye.
For I know we will see each other
In the afterlife.

Watch over us as you wake up
With the morning dew.
Until then we will live our lives…

Without you….

-Tanya Powell

The Last Broadcast Cycle


17 Nov
What follows is my first attempt at an interconnected poetry cycle
about a radio DJ contemplating suicide during his station's farewell
broadcast. As per a friend's plea it ends happy. I hope you enjoy it.
- C. Serret
To Part 1

The Last Broadcast


17 Nov

Back to Introduction

Part 1

It’s the last broadcast of a dying year
filled with strife and fear,
bloodshed and tears,
til this moment we’ve denied
what led us here
So we come to the broadcast
proclaiming the obvious
choking the positive
all the while urging the end
But we fail to see
the sweet and the lovely
the moments of calm
that make our moments, our lives
worthwhile

– C. Serret

To Part 2

 

 

 

Morning Static


17 Nov

Back To Part 1

 Part 2
In my sleep I think I hear you speak
but I can't make it out through the sound of breakfast
It's just a half-remembered lullaby you never sung
a distant memory you didn't want a part of
It's morning static
the fading signal of a lost station
the white noise of waking
Morning static
the departure from dreams and the brief stop in wants
but can't have
the moment where I briefly believe
that you cared for me
- C. Serret

Part 3

Turning the Dial


16 Nov

To Part 2

 

Part 3
I keep turning the dial
Passing by women like a stuttering station,
only staying long enough to catch their surface impression
Yeah turning the dial, ending the song before it ends me
never pausing, screw regretting
But you got gorgeous eyes and a smile that seems to stick
to me and my heart
and I can't seem to find the knob
So I'm turning with you, pausing in this moment
finding that the world can fit in my arms
finding I want to stay
with you and this feeling
that I don't want or need to turn the dial

-C. Serret

 

 

 

 

 

On The Bus To Nowhere


16 Nov

On the bus to nowhere, yr face smooth in the shadow
but its around you, the haze
i can smell it.

yr eyes are blue blazing things
in yr smooth baby face
burning in the fire of junk.

keep my eyes away from you because i know it will get me
that tractor beam of poppies
you don’t move but to lift it up and lift it up
the gibbering junkie laugh

ah shit you got me and im caught
but you dont see me thru the haze
get off the bus, man yer wasted
yr eyes burning with cold junk fire

standing at the corner of Birch and Lurch
yr baby face creased with the lines of yr life
mouth open and working spit streaming
tears dont dampen the fire

ill watch you as long as i am able but you dont see me
yer staring off into the desperate infinity of junk
and you know its touch and it knows yours
its you and its forever and you wish you would die
i wish you would die

 

-Immelman

…And this panel asks you,


16 Nov

…And this panel asks you,
‘To what degree does your faith define you?”
the bluish grit of the television screen
[men pasty pale and sweating]

Maaaaaaaa like a sheep

cuts through the sleepy living room dust storm.
They will tell you what they know you want to hear
As soon as it is said, it is forgotten and twisted

oh i never said that, did i say that? what i meant was mnaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
that’s right, tighten yr belt because you just became the hundredth sheep
and these sheep are starving

 

-Immelman

Dirty Old Box


14 Nov

Dirty old box.
Covered by times dust.
It sits in the corner of the room
That life forgot.

To open it up
May overwhelm the soul
With memories that died
So long ago.

Oily scent of leather.
An album that holds the secrets.
It says they’re still here.

Time to let the ghosts out.
Set the restless ones free.
Time to remember.

Sweet nostalgia of 70’s past
Help me close my eyes

And take me back.

-Tanya Powell

Sometimes I Hear Them


14 Nov

Sometimes I hear them,
In the middle of the night.
I turn on the lights.
I walk down a hallway
They’ve never been in.
Their voices have faded.
They never lived here.
They must have followed me.

I only see them in my dreams.
Can they ever see me?
If they can are they proud?
Do they know how happy I am
Without them?
Do they know why I feel so free?
Do they know how much I miss them?

I want them to know,
That the sun has found its way
Into my life.
I can walk outside
And not be afraid
Of the dark cloud that hung over our home.

Now I see a bright light.
Three beautiful rays of
Hope…happiness.. and love,
Make their way through the trees.
They touch the flowers.
They kiss the grass.
They have found a lost soul at last.

I feel the warmth on my face.
Along with a smile
That I thought had died.
I close my eyes and realize.
The rays are the spirits
Of the ones who left me.

They had died without saying goodbye.
I wondered where they were.
They’ve been here the whole time.
Giving me the sunshine
They were unable to give before.

I can see the blue skies.
So clear…so beautiful.
They took away the clouds.
They did all that for me.
Because at one time…

I was their sunshine.

 

-Tanya Powell

Sweet Candy


14 Nov

Born too soon
But never too late.
Fighting and screaming.
A miracle was made.

Strawberries and vanilla.
Swallowed up by a crib.
Blue eyes that light the sky.
A scared and delicate soul.

A two pound baby
That the angels want to hold.
They wanted her from the beginning.
Over the years they let her know.

Every day was a struggle.
A moment of peace between tears.
I’d hold her hand.
She’d close her eyes.
I’d give her a kiss.
She’d try to smile.

They would tug at her heart strings.
I held her as long as I could.
She’s mine!
She doesn’t belong to you!

Bring back her sight.
Bring back her mind.
Bring back her health.
Bring back her life.
Bring her back to me.
To let us live the way
It was meant to be.

Today I can only see her face.
In the tiny little frame.
That sits on top of the piano.
Wanting to come out to sit and play.

Yesterday she sat there.
Pounding notes that screamed
She was alive.
Tomorrow the notes will be silent.
We won’t hear music anymore.

But when the sun goes down
And it starts to rain.
I’ll sit on the piano bench
And she will be there.

My mother Candy….

As sweet as her name.

 

-Tanya Powell


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