free verse

Where Does Belief Lie: a Prose Poem.

A prompt from Felixflautajrpoetry.

“Describe a place you visited often, what you heard there, who you wanted to become. Write in the second person. Describe it to yourself. Describe yourself.”

Even at thirteen, fourteen, you were questioning, a Doubting Thomas, and you held more interest in the artistry, the pageantry of the faith — the stained glass windows and the gravitas of the priests. The crescendo of the songs, the rise and fall of the Hallelujahs. The Latin. Always the Latin.

Yet you wanted to believe. You always wanted to believe. You wanted to feel something. You wanted to feel it in your heart like your mother did when her fingers moved across the rosary beads, but you never did.

You felt reverence in other ways. Your heart felt big — so big, too big for your chest — when you drove through the mountains with your family or you passed through with friends. When you stood against the ocean or watched a storm come through.

You felt grandeur in the ways that made you feel small and reminded you we’re just infinitesimally tiny. But in that church, in those pews, you look at that crucifix and you don’t seem to see it.

But you go. You go every Sunday. You go each Sunday and you go those holy days of obligation. Your fingers move across the rosary beads.

And yet, you don’t feel it in your heart. Not at the stained glass windows nor the gravitas of the priests. Not even the crescendo of the songs. Even when it came time for the rise and fall of the Hallelujahs. Or even the Eucharist.

You wanted to feel the holiness — the reverence — when you walked, head bowed, into a cathedral. But it was just a building. It was beautiful, yes, but you didn’t feel God there.

You felt God in other ways: standing at the ocean, looking as far past the water as you could; driving through mountains; and when you flew. Any time the world reminded you how small you were.

But a church, even a cathedral, that wasn’t it. Those were man-made. Something manufactured to make us feel something, and you’d rather feel God out there somewhere.

But you were young then, you were thirteen, fourteen. Questioning. Doubting. And small. Even the sound of the choir did not shrink you even smaller than you already were.

The metallic clanking of the thurible at the priest’s side as the fragrant scent of frankincense wafts toward you, and you did not grow more expansive, nor did you shrink.

You doubted, but still, you plunged forward with a faith you weren’t sure you believed in.

Isabelle Palerma

Before you Ask: a Poem

Trigger Warning: This poem contains dark themes and is intended for audiences who can handle these themes. If you are experiencing symptoms of depression or suicidal thoughts, please see a mental health professional or refer to my list found here.

Before you ask,
yes,
I am feeling sad and hopeless,
and I do have a lack of pleasure
in doing things I previously enjoyed —
like writing poetry or talking
to my imaginary friends.

& yes, I’m aware
how it makes me sound
when I say “talking to my imaginary friends”
but I’m an author and a poet,
I play with words for fun.

This isn’t fun
for me.
These wellness checks.
These inventories on my feelings:
check “yes” or “no”,
rate your feelings on a scale.

Most days, I’d rather paint you
a watercolor of my emotions,
let the feelings wash together until
you can’t tell ecstatic bliss
from despondency.

But today,
before you ask,
words are falling apart,
they’re fragile ghosts who haunt me
but don’t seem to speak my language.

Before you ask,
the poet in me doesn’t want to waste
the paper.
She thinks it’s better used
for a brilliant mathematician
cycling through his numbers
or a census-taker calculating persons
than to listen to her trivial whining.

Yet here I go.

Before you ask,
yes, I suppose it’s natural
to plan these things.
To work out the logistics of life
and to perhaps even plot out
the details of death.
But I’m not Sylvia Plath,
contemplating the temperature to set
my oven,
nor am I going to the ocean
with stones weighing down my pockets.

I have too many plans.
Too many things to do.
I would have too many goodbyes to say.
Too many books to donate.
I still have unfinished stories burning
in me.
Before you ask,
the light in my eyes flickers
and yes, even dulls,
but though the disease tries to steal me,
as I go through these inventory questions,
I discover
I’m not ready to leave

just yet.

Isabelle Palerma

Needs: a Poem

A prompt from Odessa Grimm.

“I was not born to be quiet.”

I did not come into this world quietly.
My birth was not out of fairy tales
but horror stories of blood
and weakening hearts,
mothers who felt torn apart by my cries.
The shrieking of a baby
who would not be silenced.
Even in slumber, I begged for someone
to love me.
It was about love, about need.
I always needed.
It was something that seemed like greed
to those who did not understand,
but if I could vocalize those cries,
I could tell them
I was not born to be quiet.
I simply had needs
I could not put to words.
Needs for love and attention.
And now, as an adult,
I still cry out,
begging, at times,
for love and attention.

Isabelle Palerma

Poet Spotlight on: Odessa Grimm

Odessa Grimm, in their own words, is a poet who writes from the places people usually avoid – the quiet, heavy corners shaped by memory, trauma, and heartbreak.

Their work is raw and honest; sometimes, according to Odessa, it can be “uncomfortable” because they don’t believe in softening the truth to make it easier to hold.

When did you realize your writing voice had developed into your own?

It wasn’t just a single moment – more like when I noticed I stopped asking for permission to write and be myself. I realized my voice had settled in when I could read something and recognize it as something I was actually proud of.

How do you decide what goes into a poem and what to leave out?

I try to keep what carries weight and brings emotions out. If a line is only there to sound pretty, it usually goes. If it hurts a little, I leave it in.

What would your younger self think of your poems?

I think my younger self would feel seen – maybe a little exposed. Probably surprised the things they tried to hide became the very material I write about. There might be pride there but also a quiet kind of grief, realizing that the reason why I’m writing is because we lost our best friend.

What is a line from a famous poem that haunts you?

A line that stays with me is from Emily Dickinson:

“Tell the truth, but tell it slant.“

It lingers because it understands something essential about poetry that truth can be too sharp to face.

Angling it, shaping it doesn’t weaken it. It makes it survivable, and sometimes, more honest.

Do you believe poetry has the power to shape the world we live in?

I do think it can shape the world we live in but not in loud, immediate ways. It works slower than that. It changes how people see, and once perception shifts, choices follow.

A poem can name something someone didn’t have language for before, and that alone can alter how they move through life.

girls like me stop blooming
when we are told
your anger is unbecoming
your brightness is too much
your mouth is a threat
so we grey
quietly
& rot
elegantly.

-Odessa Grimm

Isabelle Palerma

The Woman who Couldn’t Die: a Blackout Poem

A prompt from Maureen Thorson.

“Write your own blackout poem. Maybe you’ll find something of interest in the Internet Archives.”

According to Claire McNerney, from The Writing Cooperative, “blackout poetry is a form of found poetry where the poet takes a text and removes words from it, creating a new text”.

Here’s mine:

She looked like a goddess,
no doubt,
in another way,
she seemed very much a woman.
She was primitive,
casual
in her childlike uncovering of her body,
in the unconcern of the eyes of others
when she bathed.
She knew that she was beautiful;
and she had knowledge of the power
of beauty.

She watched a wild goose fly overhead,
watched it as it disappeared from sight.
“Tell me,” she said, “where did I come from?”

Needling of apprehension through my body.
How much she should be told
was not easy to determine.
“From across the sea.”
“It must have been long ago.”
“Yes. It was long ago.”