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 Mar 2013 javert
Liz
Namngivning
 Mar 2013 javert
Liz
I. Anna Sophia, 1878

Her name unfolds like raw white hands
small zaffre eyes, hair gold against her neck,
while the autumn air wafts flaxen motes
the men return from the boats and fields.
She follows the soft ripple of black birds
taking flight from a great distance.

II.  Annie Axelina, 1901

Her ankles are angry chaffs of red rings
as she circles the harbor, Torhamn pressed
into a pale flower between winter’s pages.
She cuts across the black ice lea
with my stride. She boards a boat, daughter
wrapped in her arms, leaning into the gale.

III. Eleanor Maria, 1921

Her roses are blooming burgundy against
the blue of the house and the kitchen heat
curls wisps of blonde into gnarled vines
under her nursing cap. She sews neat rows
of nursery rhymes into a blanket, leafs through
a green scrapbook of poetry and recipes.

Her name echoes back wings and the yearning
lilt of a language not entirely lost to me.

IV. Elizabeth Marie, 1991
Do you ever feel connected to your ancestors, even without having known them?
"Namngivning": (Swedish) The Naming
 Feb 2013 javert
Anna Ray
Untitled
 Feb 2013 javert
Anna Ray
I have always wanted to chop off my hair
But when I walk in
And they smile sweetly
What can I do for you today ***?

Just a trim
A few inches tops
Maybe a couple layers?

And I leave
Disjointed
Disappointed

And I hide behind the layers of boring
That frame my identity
 Feb 2013 javert
Scot Powers
One last time
for old times sake
seems to me to be
the most common
and costly mistake
there has ever been
like one more for the road
it has slipped into the past
a common misconception
I hope it's not your last.

Do you ever wonder
just why we have these sayings?
a decent dose of common sense
will get you through the days
don't rely on witchcraft
or a mystic's read on leaves
just depend upon yourself
and your self preserving ways
for if you listen
to your gut
because it never lies
an unknown intuition
lies just behind your eyes

Just like a hog in mud
or black birds on the line
our very purpose here
really is divine
so throw your hands
up to the sky
and thank the universe
for all the blessing's in your life
it really could be worse
 Feb 2013 javert
Joseph Valle
It was January of 1994
when he told me, "Son, true love,
well, it's hard to come around."
Or maybe he said, "come by."
I can't remember exactly.
Memory is foggy, age, you know.
I never thought I'd ever say that.

I've had a pet since I was born.
Not the same one, they always end
up dying. I haven't gone a year
without one close by me.
Before bed, I pucker my lips
and pretend to kiss twice
behind both ears while whispering
to them, "Goodnight." Then,
I lightly scratch their sanctum,
be it cage or kennel, so they know
I am no ghost; I am truly there.
Dog, cat, rat, it doesn't matter really;
they all just blankly stare back
and continue with their nightly business.

"If you love something, it can
never leave. Only hate can
drive others away, and that,
that's called, 'self-hate.'"
Then he laughed,
he laughed out with stretched
cheeks and gold-capped teeth
and that "eyeglasses-off" look
as if the world was deaf,
blind, and dumb. His
white collar crisp, stiff
with starch. That morning was ours.
Within earshot, the cat was mewing,
awaiting our kitchen entry where,
in the white-walled corner, sat his bowl,
staring at the ceiling, brown, dry, stale.

That morning always comes back to me
like a child returning from school.
Homework on the table and a snack
to eat just before rushing out to
meet up with the neighborhood kids for
a game of football down the road.
They've surely had talks like ours, Dad.
They've rubbed noses and brushed
pink cheeks of late lovers, flashed back
to mother and wrestling with brother.
Those important conversations
that only return with age,
we all remember them.
 Jan 2013 javert
Anna Swir
She was an evil stepmother.
In her old age she is slowly dying
in an empty hovel.

She shudders
like a clutch of burnt paper.
She does not remember that she was evil.
But she knows
that she feels cold.
 Dec 2012 javert
Robyn
At least 6 years in fact
We grew up as sisters
We made up a pact
We fought when I was little
But as I grew up
We began to calm down
We began to make up
She is older than I
At least 6 years in fact
And our goodbye
Is now drawing near
We have not fought forever
Or that's how it might seem
In fact, it has been 6 to a year
But this morning
Was different
And it's really my fault
I keep taking her things you see
So she barged in at 7
As I still slept
About her things she began to ask me
I said I didn't know
To a point that was true
But about where her things were
I knew, I knew
She said "I won't get mad
If you tell me right now"
I said that I'd look
Through my stuff
If she'd just calm down
So I did and I found at least one of her things
But the other I had no idea
She got angry and went to walk out
I said sorry
But she said
"No you're not"
And left me

And I cried and I cried
I fell down on my knees
Until I stopped because there were no more tears
I was heartbroken and guilty
And it hurt more than really
Because it was the first fight that we've had in years
 Dec 2012 javert
Walt Whitman
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
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