Manic-Depression/Gravity

Since my first poem for this post is quite short, I decided to post TWO short poems. One dark, one slightly humorous. The first is "Manic-Depression," a poem I wrote about being Bipolar (thank you, Capt. Obvious). The second is "Gravity." This one I wrote about the fact that I always seem to slip when I wear high heels in my college. Nowhere else do I fall or stumble in these shoes- only at school.

"Manic-Depression"

I bandage all these cuts with lies
as the phoenix in my mind doth rise.
Before I fall down,
upon me they'll frown
when they notice the spark in my eyes.


"Gravity"

I'm a constant victim
to gravity's action,
cuz like a seasoned prostitute
high heels have no traction.

Gisele

I am currently breaking my "one post-per-week" rule to bring you the latest in my poetic excursions. The poem is for Gisele Galante Broida, the woman with whom I am currently enthralled. The 54-year-old Frenchwoman bears a striking resemblance to her mother, screen legend Olivia de Havilland (my IDOL, if you haven't read my past posts), and for some reason I find myself drawn to her. Not in a romantic way (not exactly, anyway), but in that maternal sort of attachment way. As happens to me a lot with older women I find interesting. I wrote the poem with the intent of sounding like a lesbian stalker. It just sounded fun. The poem is still in the working stages, so this is just a preview of what may become a decent piece of literature. So, here for your eyes, is my newest poem, aptly titled "Gisele."


I've watched you from a distance,
looking through the mask you wear.
I've looked beyond your smile,
seeing every scar you bear.

I've heard your heart beat faster
as you try to catch your breath.
Sweet time is rushing past you,
so you'll sleep upon your death.

Illusions smash to pieces
like a glass house kissed by rock.
Innocence is mythical;
sweet romance left the dock.

The pawn has hit the conflict,
like a wall of brick or stone.
So wide the world we venture;
in the end we trek alone.

But I shall follow closely
as you navigate each street,
basking in your victories,
mourning each defeat.

My Gisele, of poise and grace,
of beauty fine and fair-
you're forever in my heart,
in every midnight prayer.

But you shall never see me
for I watch so far away.
I don't wish to disturb thee,
so distant I shall stay.

But still, I watch intently,
seeing all you try to hide.
Close behind your every step
as you walk the world so wide.

September Rain

The poem I wrote for Yvonne de Carlo on September 1, 2007. That would have been her 85th birthday. She died on January 8 of that same year. As a young child I developed a strange attachment to Yvonne. I had no stable maternal figure, but since no matter where I was I was always watching "Munsters" reruns, Yvonne became a substitute. She became a surrogate mother to me. I loved and respected her very much, and still have not gotten over her death. I have written several poems for her since her death. The first one being "Goodnight," which I wrote as soon as I heard about her death. "Dear Yvonne" was written during my first week of summer in 2007; "Salome- Where She Danced" was written a few weeks later. Then, I wrote both "Fall Into Darkness" and "Letting Go" in the same day. But the one I treasure most is this one. Partly because I wrote it on her birthday, and partly because I think it's the best out of all of them. So, enjoy.


Clouds of gray slow dance in the pale September sky-
a barricade of darkness that derails your angel light.
Dejected voices whisper words that echo through the night.
Faded red of moon's eclipse bears blood of years gone by.

Twinkle stars shine bright within the deep blue of your eyes.
The ocean trench runs deeper than regret of faithless lies.
Pretty smiles cover up the bruises that you hide.
There's just an empty wineglass left to catch the tears you've cried.


R.I.P



Yvonne de Carlo (September 1, 1922 - January 8, 2007)

Miss Charlotte

A poem about the film "Hush... Hush, Sweet Charlotte," starring Bette Davis and my idol, Olivia de Havilland.

Young Miss Charlotte Hollis was forsaken by her lover.
Most say 'twas she who killed him and her daddy was the cover,
for no one could deny the bloodstains found upon her dress.
Still, Charlotte swore her innocence- to crime she'd not confess.
But given what they knew, the town saw only one solution:
Charlotte was the culprit in her lover's execution.
And so, from that day forward townsfolk whispered and they talked,
laying down a quilt of eggshells on the ground where Charlotte walked.
And all she had to fill the gaping void within her heart
was a music box John gave her when their love was at its start.
It's sweet piano rhythm lulls her to a land of dreams
where hope hangs pungent in the air, and nothing's what it seems.
'Tis here that she can dance with him and feel his love's embrace;
and it's here that she speak with him, and touch his gentle face.
But morning's light shall bring her to the truth and day begins.
Once again upon a cross, repenting for another's sins.
But is it true atonement when there's nothing to atone for?
Should they throw these stones when there is nothing to throw stones for?
But how could she defend herself when she knew not the truth?
These lies consumed her innocence and stole away her youth.
Now in her crippled twilight years, she needs another's care.
For this she calls upon a long-lost kindred spirit fair.
How sweet her cousin Miriam had always seemed to be.
Yet one eve Miss Charlotte found out something unbeknownst to she.
Dear Miriam was not the sweet and lovely saint at all,
for many moons agi her kind demeanor took a fall.
Charlotte knew her secret now- she'd blackmailed Mrs. Mayhew.
She let them blame young Charlotte and great riches were her thank you.
Tell the truth or walk away from this was Charlotte's twisted plight.
Alas, she knew what she must do, and that it must be done this night.
She's spent er life in shadows, but tonight she'll grow new wings.
What a tangled web we weave; what solace retribution brings.

America's Queen

Written for Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, inspired by her strength and poise after the death of John F. Kennedy.

It's a gaslight situation,
the downfall of a nation.
Gunshots bringing more than death to just one man.

The tears were in your eyes
but, for the world, you didn't cry.
The strongest of them all, you held his hand.

His final moments dragging on,
you told yourself you must be strong,
and you hoped that Caroline would understand.

Your only other bother?
Little John would have no father.
There'd be no one there to make that boy a man.

Cameras flashed like lightning
catching images so frightening
that, to this day, they still affect our land.

But it was bloodstains on your dress
that told the world he was at rest.
Then there was grief that, for this country, you'd withstand.

You never told the story
that is Oswald's crowning glory-
you took the past and buried it in sand.

It was your grace that kept our nation
from collapsing in Damnation
and, to you, we give an everlasting hand.

For even in your death you're seen
as the past, the present, and future Queen
of a nation that, because of you, still stands.

And written on your epitaph
is "In darkness she had made us laugh."
For, when no one else could, we said "Jackie can."