Monday, June 2, 2014

Shadows

Still lurking in the shadows after all these years
like a faded old film
making barely discernible projections
in a darkened corner.

I remained unenlightened.

Vintage Vision

We reach for the retro
for a time--did it exist?--
that we hunger to be a part of.

We want to better understand ourselves.
Are we so fundamentally different from each other?
Would we have been friends?

We want to understand *you*,
the unmet enigma
staring at something
off in the unseeable distance
from out of an old photograph.

Friday, March 14, 2014

After decades of walking through life’s gardens,
discovering the intoxicating textures and colors
together
driving leisurely on roads newly-discovered,
sharing our lives,
I never want to lose the taste of it--
of intense new flavors,
like being served exotic food
by someone who can’t help but
love you
on a warm, spring day.


The quiet one
who can't
have fun,
she sits
in the corner
like Little Jack Horner--
like the three little kittens--
there is no pie


His eyes sparkle
like new snow on a moon-lit night,
fiery jewels in a now-weathered face.
His warm complex smile draws me in,
well-mixed as it is with a sadness
indistinguishable from the laughter
as much as sweet cream is indistinguishable
from the bitter coffee it flavors.


Tuesday, May 14, 2013

The Silent Women

The silent women,

go in and out of our lives

secretly suffering--

seeing their doctors

or not

taking the endless series of variously effective prescription medicines

or not

being hospitalized

or not

Remembered by their families for generations?

More likely their lives are covered up and silenced

because they do not fit the family myth

of easy functionality and unbridled superiority.

After all, they did not fit in--did not socialize--

or if they did,

they were too irritated

and out of control

of their own tumultuous emotions

to be able to restrain their anger

at a world

where fate

dealt them the short straw

of mental illness.




Monday, April 22, 2013

I am blown back and forth
like a child's plastic swing
in a hurricane,
it's flimsy chains
becoming hopelessly tangled.

I'm trying not to
throw up.
Poems © Gemma W. Wilson