I am please to announce that I have two poems, “An Open Window” and “The Slow Dance,” in Volume 10 of Heroin Love Songs. Thank you Jack Henry for sharing these works. Please enjoy a host of other great writers featured in the issue.
The Fine Art of Vigilance
This replication, this hidden secret
beneath my skin unlocked by
the sun has me searching
for shade and shadows.
Everything that grows
needs light and warmth.
It’s a power we all
take for granted.
I feel my mind fall into obsession
about times of day and UV index
about covering every inch of my body.
A hole in my face slowly fills in
with new skin and new life, the margins
deemed clean but suspicion lingers.
What happened once, can happen again.
Purple circles outline more areas of worry
like small targets the universe has given me
to remember the fine art of vigilance.
No more long walks on the beach
or sun filled moments in any season
or carefree days taken by the hand at whim.
There are only hats
and being unfashionably
This is somehow sad and beautiful
I realized no one has missed me
or my words as I faded from the poetry scene
silently as I arrived.
No one noticed I was gone
no one knocking at my door
or requesting anything of me.
I had settled into my life before
where poems rushed out
because I would die if they stayed;
no longer writing to be seen
or heard, after so many years of invisibility.
I miss them sometimes,
the writers and the connection
and the sense I belonged
to something greater than myself.
Most of them are in the same place I left them,
huddled in a café reading or putting out meager books.
No one has made it
like we all dreamed we would.
I don’t have any official links to share with you at this time, but I would like to put a bug in your ear about upcoming publications I will appear in.
My poem “You Don’t Get to Win This Time” will appear in the inaugural edition of Misfit Quill.
My poems “The Language of Flowers” and “The Night Tiger” will appear in the inaugural edition of The Last Day of the Year Poetry.
My poems “The Fine Line” and “Filthy,” as well as my short story “Rancid Meat Fingers” will appear in the inaugural edition of Rogue Wolf Press. I will also have several photographs in that publication.
I will be sure to do official postings once all of these are live. Support small press and small press writers. We all want to swim in the big pond someday.
It’s no big surprise that my pace for posting has slowed down because in the last few months I’ve had the incredible opportunity to fall in love. Gasp. I know. I had written it off, to be honest. So many failed attempts made it harder to see hope. The interesting thing is that I wasn’t looking for love. I had gotten right with myself about being alone for the rest of my life. I figured if my grandmother could do it, so could I. She was one of the strongest, kindest ladies I ever had the pleasure of knowing and loving.
In a previous post back in April, I am sure I mentioned that I was doing something new for poetry month. I collaborated with another poet by using their overall theme and then their daily prompts. It took me exactly 27 days to fall in love with him. Romantic and silly, right? That about sums me up, anyway. When the month of poetry was over, we decided that we weren’t ready to let go.
Each day has been an adventure. We write poems separately now and I continue to work on both of my novels. We inspire each other to write better, to reach farther, to try new avenues. This is the best part of collaboration. Along with all of this, we have taken to writing each other love letters which we send the old-fashioned way through the mail.
This spawned a poem by him about a 4th century Prince and Princess. He asked me to write the second part of this series. It was a bit of a reach for me, but I did it. As something special, I had sewn, quilted, and beaded a piece to go with the poem. His work inspired my work. I can’t wait to see where it all goes.
Here is my poem in the series:
Amor Aeternus, PT. 2
The season pass so slowly
it hurts to breathe
as I sit by the window
waiting for my prince to return.
The memory of his gentle fingertips
trailing the edge of my cheek,
the way his eyes pleaded forgiveness
as he left the castle, haunts me still.
At night, sleep eludes me, calls up my ghosts
as I walk the cold stones to the tower.
I call out to the moon, tracing the sky
and it’s barely visible constellations.
With the sunrise on my face
I yawn like a cat soaking in the rays.
We share seemingly different worlds
and I pretend the warmth of his body covers mine.
The strength in his eyes carries me through
the days, follow me in every shadow.
The damp fog raises the imprint
of his kisses upon my neck.
I’m filled with longing, a deep impatience
though there is nothing to be done.
There is no salve to cure my heart,
no way to close the distance.
The kingdom grows restless in his absence
as they look to me for guidance.
My leadership half-hearted
and I feel the wolves closing in.
I stare at the horizon for his hopeful return,
the chair an uncomfortable punishment
as I stitch another patchwork with nimble hands.
They automatically flesh our hearts into the fabric.
Oh eternal love, come back to me,
I whisper into the wind, hopeful
my words will find his ear
and bring his safe return.
Aleathia Drehmer 2020
Many years ago I got into writing different types of formed poetry. I have always been a free verse sort of girl, but have appreciated what it takes to write in meter or form. This poem is a Sestina. I cannot validate how well crafted it is, but it was fun to write.
The joy of writing for me is the challenge to push myself past the comfort zone. I learn so much about myself when I do this. I gain perspective and open up my mind to being more accepting of different types of writing that I might not be familiar with. This is one of five or six Sestina that I wrote. My process is putting out a call for words and then taking some of them to create the poem. This makes it adventurous. Enjoy.
He moved slowly and purposefully through splintered
feelings. His heart pumping around the protruding tusk
impaled in his chest. It sang deeply of moon.
It pulsated and vibrated more intensely than the alabaster
skin of her thighs. How he wanted to blanket
his body with her; how he wanted to shovel
his way to her voice again. He knelt down, hands forming a shovel
and began digging earth, his mind splintered
into left brain and right with no meninges blanket
to force them to work together. He felt the tusk
burrow deeper with each movement, its girth of stained alabaster
shining like an iridescent beacon screaming at the moon.
“Burn, burn, burn!!” shouted the wicked moon.
Her rays laser beaming the flesh built shovel.
“I will not let you spoil her alabaster
soul again. I will not,” said the high, tight voice. His ears splintered
into a million fragments of universe on the ruined tusk,
laying dimensions of sound over the dirt like a sonic blanket.
It was all so invisible, her hatred, this blanket.
He pawed at it on the sparkled ground moon
forming in the lake of blood dripping from the tusk.
He never meant to lay his hands on that shovel,
never meant to enjoy the wood as it splintered
beneath his palms, as it cracked her alabaster
skull with resonance. She breathed untouched alabaster
no more; she was damaged. He had done it and now this blanket
of silence suffocated him as the night cursed him in splintered
tongues. He stood a devil redeemed under the moon.
The spade lay there detached, a broken tool, a shovel
no more. His head hung there now noticing the tusk.
She had closed in on him like lust, arms behind her, gripping the tusk
her daddy had killed for in Africa, its gypsum alabaster
shine his recollection to her beauty that could shovel
away a mountain as easy as folding a blanket.
She had kissed his lips in front of the testament of the moon
and punctured his faith with the ivory. He was splintered
morbidly by the pointed tusk. Her lies, an evil blanket
all along—alabaster lies forged deep in hatred by the moon!
He lay his broken hand/shovel down, now numb and splintered.
A Wall in Naples, 1782
One long white stocking
hangs from the balcony
swinging its toes, brushing
the tree tops, brushing against
the murderous beige wall.
Bricks birth through the stucco,
holes left from weather
and persistent birds
each perforating the sanctuary
of the stocking’s owner.
I wait for her to push through the door.
I wait for the window to throw its sash.
I wait for the sun to cease its brutal pummeling.
I wait for the stars
to give me a taste
of silk in my mouth,
against my teeth.
Recently, I have been reading poems at night and recording them. My friend and I send them back and forth. This is a helpful tool to understanding where changes need to be made in the flow of a poem. This particular poem is an old one and was previously published. Most of the poems you read here are published except for the occasional recent work.
My life as a nurse has afforded me the opportunity to see people in every shade of their personality and to imagine myself in their heads. This poem will someday be part of a manuscript I’m putting together called “Little Graveyards” which chronicles small and large deaths I’ve seen in the ER or just in vulnerable people in general.
Skin heals inside out.
We watch the wounds close,
pushing up new cells daily.
It’s her own small miracle
self-created again and again
and again and again
with the razor slowly biting
into microcosmic layers.
Each thickness its own
dimension in time. She stands
witness to blood rising
from skin folds, valleys made
of her innate need for destruction.
A river is nourished
with every ripple it pushes
up over the banks, spilling
into the empty valley
of her heart.
It’s easy medicine for her.
Each groove alleviates pain quicker
than any pill, or couch session.
Making her remember,
that despite it all, she’s still alive.
I know I previously posted to the home page and maybe another post about being published at the Big Windows Review, but here is another. I have two poems in Issue 19, Spring 2020
This literary magazine is part of the Writing Center at Washtenaw Community College in Ann Arbor, MI which is run by Tom Zimmerman and Katherine Snow. Thanks so much to them both for including my work in their spring issue.
I’ve come to realize that at 46, I have spent a lifetime chasing the idea of love. It’s an abstract concept that most have a hard time holding in their hand long enough to understand. The feeling, when it’s true, might have you huddled in the corner whispering “my precious.”
Love is something we want to keep, but can’t name or map or diagram out to know when it is true. Like many people, I have spent the aforementioned lifetime with a conglomerate definition of love that comes from society, movies, books, and learned environment.
The concept is often too heavy for a person to consider individually. This would mean each of us would have to stand before the mirror and not be ashamed of what looks back at us. What happens when all those areas I have gleaned a definition of love from are broken?
The last three years have been a journey to love myself. I have started this late in life, but with a good set of tools: experience, knowledge, friendship. The journey will continue as my years tack on, but right now, in the strangest of times, I have found my definition of love.
Any of It
Sometimes I want to write
a poem where our breath
meets as it dances over
our lips and tongue.
what it felt like
to be loved
to know the weight
of an arm across
the wet warmth
of velvet kisses,
The way laughter pulls
two souls together,
or the surprise of existence
the morning sun brings,
Or how a hand slides
into another, grounding
the world into reality,
the quiet closeness in awe
of a sunset, fingers tangled
in the soft waves of my hair.
These were all dreams I once had,
the sweet rambles of sleep
and rearranged heartbeats,
soft delirium easily trapped
in the dark minutes before midnight.