poems

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

Raw: a Poem

Slice through the heart of me
and wonder why I feel so raw.
There’s bleeding somewhere,
and yet I’m still searching for the cut.
I’ll seek out the scars,
but I didn’t know I was the one
clinging to the knife.

Isabelle Palerma

Lover, Lover: a Poem

A prompt from Maureen Thorson.

“In your poem for today, use a simple phrase repeatedly, and then make statements that invert or contradict that phrase.”

I wasn’t a lover; I was in love.
I transcribed messages from Cupid
onto your skin in lazy patterns.
I wasn’t a lover; I was in love.
I wrote you sonnets for each season
your heart quivered.
I wasn’t a lover; I was in love.
I drank of the light that glimmered
from your gazes.
I wasn’t a lover; I was in love.
I followed the pattern of your gait
and translated it into a message
only Morse himself could understand.
I wasn’t a lover; I was in love.
I took lessons in elocution,
so I could speak your name
in the most divine way.
I wasn’t a lover; I was in love.
I tasted the nectar of your cologne
to better ache for your touch
when you weren’t near.
I wasn’t a lover; I was in love.
I memorized poems to whisper
into the moonlight to send off
so you could still hear me –
even when I wasn’t near.
I wasn’t a lover; I was in love.
I always did love you, even before
the words cascaded from my lips.

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.