By Sheryl Marie
Poetry and Short Stories listed below:
"Déjà vu", "Sad Song", "Touching Trees", "Winter's Tail",
& "In Your Mother's Tummy".
Poem Déjà vu
Received Honorable Mention
SLO Nightwriters
25th Annual Golden Quill Awards
Déjà vu
We were never meant to meet,
Not me,
Not you,
Not with such sweet sublime Déjà vu.
We were never meant to meet,
Not by any definition,
Our lives began on opposite sides of the world,
Opposite sides of the spectrum,
The new world and the old,
The bright,
The dark,
The warmth at my time,
Was in your time,
The cold.
Never were we meant to meet,
To reach a common smile,
Nor our eyes to gaze into one another’s,
Nor were our souls meant to lightly linger for a while.
It would have been far more feasible to find a four leaf clover,
In the desert,
Thriving in the withering waterless silt,
Then to turn another heart beat over,
In this sweet Déjà vu,
We somehow,
Someway,
Built.
So how has this come to pass?
How come my breath’s held tight in my chest?
How is it you can’t mutter my name without being lifted from the ground?
We envelop one another,
All disappear which was once among us,
And that was once all around.
Our story told again for the very first time,
You encompassing me and I here encompassing you,
Never were we meant to meet,
Yet here it is again for me and once again for you,
Our sweet sublime,
Our forever again,
Once more,
Déjà vu.
Below is the link to my poem "Sad Song" that was published on the Arts & Culture Commission of Contra Costa County Website.
(This was an Ekphrastic Event where Artists displayed their paintings and photographs, and then poets from all over submitted poetry to compliment the artwork.)
Sad Song
It was not for the crowd,
That was not why he picked up the trombone,
Not for the musician’s mystic magic shroud,
It was for him and himself alone.
The sad song he played through and with his horn,
The two sang as one, the one was as none,
Only resonating sounds held onto existence,
From which the music was born.
In base clef he shouldered a note of “G”, He crescendo on through,The slide slid up, down, a brief pause, an entrance,Another note from breath to bell became so blue.
Applause was full when all was said and done,Empathetic faces beamed, Hearts held still against their will,Each peer pouring belief that the song called to them only,As if they, themselves were the only one.
Yet it was not for the crowd,
That was not why he picked up the trombone,
Not why he held its brass so proud,
Not why he lingered on each touching tone.
It was for his heart and soul alone,all along,
It was his heart, his soul,
And his sad, sad song.
Touching Trees
The trees knew from seed that one day they would touch,
Their roots mingled through soil tumbling with sprout,
Consciousness bent on joining above in wind, sunlight and golden rays of such.
Rough dark, smooth bark, ringlets marked their lifelong sign,
Leaves cried to the floor upon Mother Nature’s humble touch,
Their branches spread wide, unfolding new growth, breathing out, breathing out time.
Then one day the sun leaned in closer, held tight within their sight,
The trees knew from seed that one day they would touch,
That day came with a voice from the breeze pulling between tender shades of light.
Their leaves intertwined with a depth capturing all they could please,
They grew together spirited, separate, unique and unbound,
In that moment, they became touching trees.
I am cold. Time passes by me. I don’t realize how lonely I am due to my overwhelming need for nourishment from mother earth.
Fur covers my skin with a soft heavenly glow, making my beauty innocent, yet unforgettable. Shelter is a thorn encrusted bush, a faded brown resonance from the Colorado torment. I lust for fresh grass, greenery of any kind, but find none. With my gentle tongue, I taste the snow.
Did I see a flicker of movement? My body is raw with ripples of energy, even before the predator over the horizon breathes in my presence. Now I am gone, a ghost, a blur, the chase is on. I am floating over the soil with long feet that appear never to touch the ground long enough to leave an impression of my existence.
Scenery gallops by me trying to reach out and touch my cotton tail. It does not succeed. I am wild with speed, lost to all smells and sights expect the maze that pushes the distance between the predator and myself. I do not stop, because it is in my blood.
I do not stop, but then I am cornered, my path is cut off by a giant tree that even my legs cannot hop over. I have gone as far as my will and as far as my heart beat will take me. Frozen in fear, I suspend time. I have no concept of mortality, but my fright plummets from my long ears to my empty belly.
The shape is coming closer towards my ground, devouring the space between us. It glides over the snow, around rocks and aspen trees in a whirl of determination. Then I can finally see it. I can see that my threat was merely another of my kind.
I move towards her, she hops over me and scurries behind a tree, white dust spraying up, glittering the area. I am wearing no fear now. I find her in a nook between a cluster of shrubs and join her. We sit side by side, pressed against each other.
I am no longer cold.
In Your Mother’s Tummy
Little baby girl in your mother’s tummy,
You do not know your mother as we do,
Because you do not remember her as we do,
She, to you, is something new.
You do not remember her first spoken word,
You do not remember her first fall,
You do not remember her doing hands stands against the side of the house,
Up against the wall.
But we do.
You do not remember her sitting at her father’s desk,
Pretending she was a businesswoman with a goal,
You do not remember the hours she spent at the piano,
Learning to play “Heart and Soul”.
You do not remember her in her Girl Scouts uniform,
You do not remember when she played the trombone,
You do not remember when she was too scared of the dark to walk next door
at night alone,
You do not remember her first swim race,
You do not remember her cheer-leading,
You do not remember when her hands turn blue,
When she first went to Lake Tahoe skiing.
But we do
You do not remember her shoulder we've cried on and her open heart,
You do not remember her giggles,
Or her tears when a dear friend was torn apart.
Baby girl, your mother is as new to you as this world.
Yet You know not of this world or this place.
You know not of the warm glitters of sunshine and how it will dance down
from the heavens to warm your face.
You know not of raindrops that cry from the upward cloudy space,
Or of snowflakes that fall of pure white,
Coating the earth with their soft delicate grace.
But you soon will.
You will know all this and know her name.
You will fall, giggle and cry as she did,
Just the same,
And then one day you will whisper in her ear,
Soft, sweet and tame…
“Mother, do you remember?”