Four Poems Published in Revista Triplov:
Journal of Arts, Religion and Science
Welcome to triplov, Althea Romeo-Mark:
Lisbon, Portugal
Leaving
(for Daisy Valborg Marsh-Romeo)
She sleeps, deeply.
We watch her chest heave lightly,
like a young babe.
We wonder if she can hear us
when we speak.
Dad says her chin needs shaving.
She would not wish to look
like an unkempt hobo or
a homeless creature
who has lost her way
in this world that hounds the weak.
We speak softly,
wonder if she is listening,
hope we are not saying things
that hurt her feelings.
“Is she going to wake up?”
“Shhh. She might hear us, you know.”
Still hopeful, we slip out
after two hours of holding
and rubbing her hands,
whispering, “See you tomorrow.”
But she departs during the night,
fed up with the hair she cannot trim,
tired of having to lie still,
and hurting with bedsores
she cannot tend to.
Bored also with conversations
she cannot partake in,
and sick of being an object
people come to stare at.
She is weary of being looked after
When she has cared for others
all her life.
© Althea Romeo-Mark 07.09.17
My mom, Daisy Valborg Marsh-Romeo
January 23, 1922-September 24, 1993
Balloon
She is full of tears,
waiting for the moment—
a piercing look of knowing pity,
a pricking word of sympathy,
a shared intimate memory,
waiting to burst,
let go of loss.
Still brimming with the sight
and sound of suffering,
the agony of waiting,
the slowing of breathing
the memory of last rasping,
the crossing still unacceptable.
The touch till stabbing –
hand cold, hard as marble
at the final viewing.
She is still waiting to break.
What will it take—
a pen to paper,
special song,
favorite hymn,
a photo shared
an apparition,
a secret sèance?
What will it take
to perforate that pain,
empty her soul of sorrow?
© Althea Romeo-Mark 07.08.17
Just A Few More, Papa God
During shopping spree,
a rattan tray of roastcorns
snares the man’s attention.
The seller does not speak.
A wide straw hat shelters her from the sun.
Sweat slinks down her brown face.
Her eyes beg him to buy one or two.
.
She’s been there since morning
sitting on her hand-hewn stool
husking corn, peeling cassava,
fanning coal to roast them,
to parch peanuts.
She offers boiled alternatives
to suit the taste of customers.
Their eye to eye conversation,
reveals a meager living.
He understands there
are many mouths to feed.
He, with his big shopping bags,
treats his entourage her snacks,
then rushes off without looking back.
She looks up to sky,
scans her competitors who line the streets,
gazes at her dwindling coal sack,
and prays “Just a few more, Papa God,
just a few more.”
© Althea Romeo-Mark 06.08.2017
Hand in Hand
The vein-raised hand grasping
the smaller, softer hand,
seems to squeeze it.
The man’s eyes
speak of fear and loss,
and the need to cling.
The girl he guides
takes in the surging throng
hustling through the passage-way
of the train station.
The owner of the veined hands,
hawk-eyed in bus and tram,
leads her home, where
he will secure windows,
double-lock doors.
How long will this feeling last?
Can someone assure him
that nobody will pounce again,
deprive him of yet another loved one?
©Althea Romeo-Mark, 2004
There are so many feelings we hold on to, refuse to let go. Look at the beauty around you; drop them like fall leaves spiraling. They will lie peacefully on the ground, sink into Mother Earth's bosom.
Althea Romeo-Mark, Caribbean writer/poet
Haitian art work
Love your poems: so visible, so compassionate and so tender.
ReplyDeleteIrène Kaesermann.