Isabelle Palerma

Author & Poet

Recent Posts

    • Marigold Verses: Day Seven

      A prompt from deepwildcoaching:

      “What would you place on an altar of memory? During Día de los Muertos, many Mexican families create ofrendas, or altars adorned with photographs, candles… and treasured belongings to honor and welcome departed loved ones.

      What if we could build an altar entirely from words? What would you place upon it?

      Write a poem as an offering. Let your words become something you place upon the altar.”

      We were taught to treat
      the dead
      with the reverence
      reserved for Catholic priests,
      the holiness we kept
      on standby
      for saints.

      My lips touched the cheek
      of an empty house
      which once contained in it, a spirit, something more, but
      whose love was tough,
      yet the first of its kind.

      When his cigarettes burnt
      like autumn leaves,
      I solemnly listened
      to the paper and tobacco
      ignite, too.

      Part of story-sharing was the pack of Winstons at the table.

      Listening to the cadence
      of his slightly accented voice
      as he talked,
      and remembering now,
      I feel so small, buried down
      with the memories of someone I built so large
      in my mind.

      And yet, frailty is the skeleton
      of a man who built an empire
      around a name.
      He collapsed his world,
      shrinking it, due to enemies,
      and expanding it, giving it
      wings
      when he found love.

      I am much like him in this:
      when I love,
      it grows bigger than you.
      It cannot be contained
      in a vase with marigolds,

      not on an altar.

      But if I do not have love
      in my heart,
      the way the hatred burns
      like the barrel of a gun
      and I’m the one staring
      you
      down
      through the crosshairs.
      Gun loaded,
      and a finger is on the trigger.

      Is this love or sorrow?
      Am I saying goodbye
      or simply pointing out
      where you end and I begin?

      I thought I didn’t believe in
      ghost stories,
      but now,
      I wonder.

      Isabelle Palerma

    • Marigold Verses: Day Six

      A prompt from deepwildcoaching:

      “How do we give language to something that is no longer there? Absence is not always empty. Sometimes, it has a scent, a texture, a sound…Write a poem about absence without using the word ‘missing’.”

      Orphaned of love,
      you stand vulnerable of everything
      that crafted you of yourself,
      waiting to feel something

      other than empty.

      You are a ghost,
      haunting corridors
      you once called home.

      When familiar voices call,
      they tell you
      your voice is as thin as
      spider webs
      and as hollow as
      phantasmagoric memories.

      You no longer answer those calls.
      You no longer explain yourself
      to those who don’t understand
      the sensation
      when you wear his favorite sweater, fabric fraying, loose-fitting,
      to put an end to loneliness;

      the feeling that comes
      when you drink her favorite chai
      so you can remember
      the taste of autumn,
      even when it is January

      all the time;

      the feeling that comes
      when you are willing
      to do
      whatever it takes
      to stop haunting
      your own life
      with the emptiness,
      with the memories
      of those who won’t —
      those who can’t —
      return.

      It feels like death
      every day,
      these goodbyes
      that run along your mouth
      like mini serrations.

      Isabelle Palerma

    • A Series of Marigold Verses: Day Five

      A prompt from deepwildcoaching:

      “Write about a presence that still walks beside you. Something you’ve lost, a memory, or a part of yourself that refuses to disappear.”

      i: the void you left behind

      Whether it’s through
      the erosion of time
      or
      something more permanent,

      I will never forgive you
      for abandoning me & leaving behind a crater.

      The neglect wound
      is shaped like you
      and leaves behind
      a scar.

      Each of you brought
      a unique self
      into my life,
      and it’s like the hourglass
      shattered and snatched you
      back —
      one by one.

      Until I was left
      without.

      Simply clutching
      delicate fragments of myself and memories.

      ii: exhuming memories

      The memory that walks
      beside me
      is this.

      The moment I walked
      into a hospital room
      a minute after he passed,
      she told us
      to say goodbye.

      I remember it well.
      His bright topaz eyes
      lost their luster before me.
      His gaze went dark.
      His skin from soft to rigid
      as we sat,
      tears numbing our cheekbones.

      We cried all day,
      emptying our bodies
      of every tear we possessed.
      Even the sky separated
      and wept with us.

      So many memories,
      but the dead deserve
      their goodbyes told, too —
      not buried six feet underground.

      iii: the lost girl finding herself

      Hand in hand,
      this part of me refuses to flicker, refuses to
      fade.

      Some might grow
      sheepish of this part,
      even embarrassed
      of this lost little girl,
      but I’ve learned to love
      all parts of myself.

      The little girl in my soul
      for so long
      waited for permission
      to come out & play.
      She danced & twirled
      in a quiet part
      of my heart —
      offbeat and yet,
      a little timid.

      Her clothes were loud,
      and yet,
      she was scared.
      She wanted to be noticed,
      and yet,
      at the same time,
      she wanted to hide.

      Today,
      she stepped out
      in her favorite dress
      and no longer waited
      for permission.

      Just played.
      Danced & twirled
      out loud.

      This lost little girl
      is finally finding herself.

      Isabelle Palerma

    • Marigold Verses: Day Four

      A prompt from deepwildcoaching:

      “Compaschúli, or marigold, petals traditionally guide souls home during Día de Muertos. Imagine creating a path of marigolds.

      Who or what would guide you home? What would the path look like? Where would it begin, and where might it lead?

      Write a poem about the path of marigolds and the homecoming it makes possible.”

      Take me by the hand
      and
      guide me
      through these landscapes
      familiar yet unknown.

      I trust you
      with this journey.
      And though I know these
      forests,
      with fireflies, dragonflies,
      and the bioluminescence
      of a crawling moss
      like neon cursive on a tree,
      the realm I typically recognize
      is unfamiliar.
      But I’m not alone.

      I have a hand to hold.
      Many hands touching me,
      reminding me
      I am safe.

      I follow a path
      through a forest
      between trees,
      in the valley
      between mountains.

      And those who have gone
      before me —
      the one who turned a new leaf;
      the grandfather
      with the voice of gravel
      and hands of smooth leather;
      the grandmother
      with soft hazel eyes;

      the friend whom
      died too young
      and lived like fire —
      bright and fast;
      the ancestors I never knew.

      They all lead me
      home.

      Isabelle Palerma

    • Marigold Verses: Day Three

      A prompt from deepwildcoaching:

      “Imagine your bones as keepers of memory, both personal and ancestral. What stories might they hold? What have they carried in silence? Write a poem from the perspective of your bones. Let them speak in their own voice.”

      Warning: Potentially triggering writing ahead, featuring broad depictions of abuse.

      This is what it feels like to exist where I don’t belong.
      A broken bone doesn’t forget.
      I want to tell her
      she hears my lamentations
      but does not listen.

      If I crack out of place,
      she finds a way
      to mend me,
      yet even in the healing,
      she writes my anguish
      off
      as drama.

      These are things
      a broken bone doesn’t forget.

      “Sticks and stones
      may break my bones,”
      she taunts as though
      a skeleton is just
      a fragile thing, and
      by ignoring the fractures,
      she’s strong.

      But
      a broken bone doesn’t forget.

      Yet I remember every night
      he threw me to the ground,
      every time he twisted limbs
      and every splintered part of
      myself.

      A broken bone doesn’t forget.

      Mangled and contorted,
      but not forgotten.

      I remember her telling me
      to try a little harder
      with a limp arm,
      limp from
      where I was broken.
      The X-ray showed the breakage,
      and yet,
      we were pushed harder.

      To be better.

      Told I wasn’t broken.

      A broken bone can’t forget.
      It’s in our lineage
      to remember.

      Isabelle Palerma