free verse poem

Shout til Free: a Poem

With a concept from kiki_poetry, I am using a line of poetry from an Asian-American or Pacific Islander poet in honor of AAPI Heritage Month.

Today’s line comes from a poem by Sally Wen Mao, “Anna May Wong Stars as Cyborg #86”. As per kiki_poetry’s instructions, I will italicize the line from “Anna May Wong Stars as Cyborg #86”.

Trigger Warning: Dark themes.

For so long –
too long –
the victors controlled our story.
They told the ending,
wrapped the packaging,
gave it a tidy bow,
and flavored how others saw us.

The men called us “hysterical”.
The rapists said we were “bitches”.
Mothers who found us unlovable
deemed us “troublemakers”.

They all took their turns throwing us
to the wolves,
feeding us
to those with hungry teeth
and starving eyes.

Let’s hijack the narrative,
steer the story ourselves.

We will fight the enemy.
Swim the rising current.
Dance in the streets
the Tarantella.
No longer grit our teeth
but scream if we must.

Shout
and shout
until we are heard
because we will steer this narrative.

Shift this story
from hysterical
to alive,
to fully alive
and aware.

Change our stories
from man-made mythology
to truth.

The truth will free us.

Isabelle Palerma

The Year I Graduated: a Poem

With a concept from kiki_poetry, I am using a line of poetry from an Asian-American or Pacific Islander poet in honor of AAPI Heritage Month.

This line comes from a poem by Hieu Minh Nguyen, “The Study”. As per kiki_poetry’s instructions, I will italicize the line from “The Study”.

I took up many hobbies that year.
I suppose many people did.
I know of people who began baking
out of boredom.
Some started playing word puzzles.
Others, in their isolation, turned toward
the solace of family and friends,
but
when I think of that year,
no one has a face.
I went to school and came home.
The only ones I remember truly
are the ones that really mattered.
The ones that I saw every day.
The open faces who taught me the things
I needed to know
and the ones I loved.
But most were a phantom.
Just strangers posing as friends.
Colleagues pretending to be more.
And those I passed in hallways
who now are nothing more than whispers.
These were voices
but are now forgotten.
Faces
now anonymous collages.
Something I thought I built
now collapsed.
It was a year of hard work with nothing
to show for except a piece of paper
buried underneath a pile of books.
Nothing more to show for except
a pile of names like obituaries
and memorials of the dead
in a year of a pandemic.

Isabelle Palerma

Whole & Perfect (as Us): a Poem

With a concept from kiki_poetry, I am using a line of poetry from an Asian-American or Pacific Islander poet in honor of AAPI Heritage Month.

I do realize I’m late to the month’s theme, but I hope to make up for it in the next few days.

Today’s line comes from a poem by Sarah Gambito, “Yolanda”. As per kiki_poetry’s instructions, I will italicize the line from “Yolanda”.

I gazed upon you, and you were
a divine feast,
flawless in your imperfections
and everything about you shrieked
neediness.
We were so far from what we came from –
godliness and purity,
and yet,
nonetheless, when we made love,
weeping with each other’s blood
in our eyes,
we stared
and witnessed one another
as whole
and perfect.

Isabelle Palerma

Mourning: a Poem

A prompt from Maureen Thorson.

“Write your own meditation on grief, with a middle section in which a question is repeated with different answers given.”

We dressed our mirrors in black,
hiding our reflections from even ourselves.
Our songs turn to lamentations,
our eyes wet with tears.

How do you mourn your dead?
You speak their name
so they will not be forgotten.

How do you mourn your dead?
You find their symbolic language
and look for them
every day.

How do you mourn your dead?
You don’t mourn the loss.
You celebrate the life they led.
You wear colors so bright
we look like confetti.
You dance under a full moon
to songs that feel like worship.

We visit cemeteries
and talk to ghosts,
whisper prayers to candles.

How do you mourn your dead?
We celebrate the days we shared
and forget the ugly rot of death.

Isabelle Palerma

This Vision of Myself: a Poem

Remind me
what it’s like to be exuberantly seven –
climbing trees without worrying about
the consequences of falling
or bloody noses
or if that branch might crack.

What it’s like to chase someone
while riding bikes
without worrying about skinned knees
or twisted, broken bones.

What it’s like to be three –
painting all the colors
because rainbows are my favorite color
and nobody told me my art is terrible yet.

Remind me
it’s okay to be fragile
like I was at fifteen,
easily a pendulum swing,
singing Fleetwood Mac with my boyfriend
in the attic bedroom
one minute, debating what it’d be like
to kiss him,
tasting pot on his breath.
The next, crying
because he’d rather play his guitar
than go to some silly homecoming dance
with me.

Remind me
it’s okay to write the poetry like I did
at eleven,
crying, staring at the moon,
wondering why God robbed me of
the only people who understand me.

Remind me what it’s like to be
in my twenties and trying so hard
to be perfect and in control
when everything was falling apart.

Or my thirties and realizing life
is kintsugi and mosaic combined.

Sometimes, I look at myself
and wonder who I am.
If I’m just a matryoshka doll
disguised as human.
The mirror is broken.
I don’t fully see myself yet,
and I’m not sure I ever will.