A Villanelle for a Villain
Was I not too young, tell me truly, speak
the dew of life was still upon my face,
when I refused to take that final leap
to loose my life when not yet at its peak.
I took a deathly kiss in his embrace.
Was I not too young, tell me truly, speak?
Unwise, unwise was I, or simply meek
how I mortally erred was a disgrace,
when I refused to take that final leap.
No life was this, no haven for the weak
eternal, soulless, hell no resting place.
Was I not too young, tell me truly, speak?
Existence now bares a fetid reek
I've replaced the grace of heaven chaste,
when I refused to take that final leap.
I face the nightmares now, hear the shrieks,
ah, remember there was dew on my face.
Was I not too young, tell me truly, speak
when I refused to take that final leap.
PoetrySoup 11/26/13
The Devil Made Me Do
It
It had been a long night, an hour drive just to be with my
sister. One must stay in touch with family; it’s the right thing to do. I don't
even know what movie we saw. Here she was again in all her glory whining, and
whimpering, about her conditions. Confined space is the wrong place to be with
someone bi-polar. Sometimes, I think the family should mark her eruptions on a
calendar, maybe there’s a pattern? She was hungry; her blood sugar was low;
hurry, get her home!
“Geez Sis, if my life depended on carrying peanuts, I'd make
damn sure I had them with me!” I my replied.
the sleet fell
through the headlight beams:
fog inside
“You bleeping self-centered witch!” Her reply.
And on and on, enumerating all my faults at the top of her
lungs. Her face was darting back and forth across the stick shift like a viper.
The weather was so bad, and her screaming so loud; I almost drove us up a
telephone pole. The back road to her house was serpentine through a pinewood,
and over narrow, slick, bridges. Well, about fifteen minutes into my
dissection, I burst a gut.
“You need to have some control. Your diet is horrible. I
wish you could see yourself eating. Your plate might as well be a trough.”
There now I’ve gone and done it, I thought to myself. The little devil in me
was all smiles. When we pulled into the driveway; she leapt out.
the car door
slams rattling the glass:
eyes wet as rain glass
It only felt good for a moment. It was true; she did deserve
the comment. She’d felt free to butcher me, but, it was wrong to try to hurt
her. The momentary release, which felt so good, has given us months of anguish.
Poetry Soup 9/3/14
Gendercide
Gender inequity thought harmless, normal,
causes gendercide in dark alleys less formal.
In India, China, and Pakistan
Girl children when born are killed out of hand.
Still wet from the womb and with no regret,
they are poisoned or starved, seen as a debt.
The cost of their life’s enormous dowries;
for in parts of our world they’re property.
Sold if they’re lucky to live as chattel
closed in houses less valued than cattle.
Equality
denied by fathers, sons
new prostitutes formed by girls on the run.
What of the
gender equity crisis I say
the twenty-first century, still this way?
Poetry Soup 7/23/09
Deborah Guzzi is a healing facilitator. She spends her days
giving healing touch through massage, Japanese Shiatsu and Reiki. Occasionally,
she writes for Massage and Aroma Therapy Magazines. She travels the world
expanding her knowledge of healing modalities and writing inspiration. She has
walked the Great Wall of China, seen Nepal (during the civil war), Japan, Egypt
(two weeks before ‘The Arab Spring’), and most recently Peru. Her poetry
appears in Magazines in the UK, Exsistere in Canada, Tincture in Australia, Cha:Asian
Literary Review, China, others in India, Greece, and the USA.
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