free verse poetry

If I Forget: 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 Don Mee Choi, “Wings of Return”. As per kiki_poetry’s instructions, I will italicize the line from “Wings of Return”.

If I forget your name, please forgive me, I’m not myself today. My memories have memories all their own. Sometimes, the memories come. Sometimes, they go.

They have a word for this, you know. What’s the word? My memory isn’t what it used to be.

You wouldn’t understand. You’re just so young. Too young. When I was your age. When I was young.

My memories have memories all their own. Memory’s memory. Memory’s child. My memory lives inside a dust-filled armoire, inside a hope chest, inside a rarely looked at steamer trunk.

My memories are the children of ancestors whose names we’ve forgotten. We’ve forgotten so much.

If I forget your name, please forgive me, I’m not myself today. Sometimes, the memories come. Sometimes, they go. You wouldn’t understand.

You’re just so young. Too young. When I was your age. When I was young. When I was young. When I was young…

When I was young, I didn’t forget so much.

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

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.

Isabelle Palerma

Restored Sight/Rediscovery: a Poem

A prompt from a.r. rogers:

“If I gave in to my free will today…”

It’s easy to think someone else
is the master of our circumstances –
a puppeteer
and we’re marionettes, strings tugged on.
But if I were in charge
of my own strings for a change,
perhaps I would cross a few things off
my list – not my to-do list,
but my bucket list.

Instead of going grocery shopping,
I’d go zip lining in the jungle.
Instead of writing poetry in my room,
I’d be performing it on a stage.
Instead of being a coward,
I’d be brave.
Instead of loving,
I’d make love in the rain.

I never wished to be hollow.
I never wished to be empty.
& yet, somewhere along the way,
I lost sight of free will, and I gave my keys
to a different master.
Somewhere along the way, I surrendered
myself and nobody found the heart
to tell me
I could be anything I want.
I just need to rediscover my free will.

This is the beginning of restored sight.
The start of a rediscovery.

I’m giving in to my free will today.

Isabelle Palerma

The Rules of the Game: a Poem

A prompt from Megan Amber.

“the rules of the game.”

Nobody ever taught me the rules,
yet
it seems like everyone else was given
some kind of handbook
to follow.

I don’t even know if I have the same pieces
or even a game board.

I’m still circling back to square one,
trying to understand where I am
and why I’m here.
The rules of the game were never explicit,
and yet
everyone else knows how to follow them.

I’m lost as usual, searching
for something,
some kind of footing,
some kind of grounding,
but it isn’t a puzzle where you just
slide a piece in and it interlocks.

Nothing makes sense.
Like I said,
I’m lost
as usual,
and I’m stuck
searching for a rulebook,
some kind of handbook
to follow.