Same Air

I wrote this poem in 1993...

Same Air

The same air.
We're all,
breathing,
the same air.

Is it choking you too?
Is it making you so sick
that you have to
blame me,
hate me,
say that it's my "kind"
that's fouling up your breathing?

Do I have to
get out of
your way,
your face,
so that you can breathe,
a little easier?

So that you don't feel
like I'm taking
all the air,
and you are left
with nothing,
gasping.

Do you want me
to apologize for
getting in your
breathing,
space?

I won't do that.

It's all
the same,
air,
and there's
plenty of it,
and it's free.

Daisy C. Abreu

First and Last

I've probably mentioned this before, but I wrote a book about ten years ago (OK, more like going on twelve years). It's twenty-six poems, that I wrote in no particular order. Somehow when I put them all together, they made sense. They tell the story of who I was and who I loved at that time in my life. Now that I'm writing again, and I'm more serious about the writing, I'm wondering if it's time to do something with these. Take a look and let me know what you think. Thanks.

Here's the opener:

A

Ambitious

Brunette seeks

Caring,

Devoted,

Exuberant

Foreigner to

Give

Her

Insight and

Joy. Must have

Killer smile,

Legs of steel and good

Manners.

No

Opportunists

Please.

Questions

Regarding

Sexual appetite

To be asked later.

Until our

Very anticipated

Walk through an

X-rated garden,

Your face

Zooms in my memory.

3.26.97

And the closer:

Z

Zinc

Arrives at the

Back of my throat,

Closing it

Directly.

Every bit of

Flesh

Gooses.

How

Is it possible?

Jellyfish for hands. Where

Knees once

Lived,

Marshmallows

Now

Own the

Place.

Quite

Remarkable this

Spell. And

To have kept me

Under, you must be

Well

Versed in the

X-otic language of

Yes.

4.10.97

Poem for the Moment

I've made some notes in my book, finished Bird by Bird and started Thinking About Memoir. Now what? A poem.

The Words

There they are
on the page
And now
I'm writing
The words, the words, the words
sometimes they don't show up
sometimes I can't keep up
it is surprising
their presence
is a comfort
and a terror
all at once
No one may ever see them
There it is
the comfort
and the terror
all at once

Daisy C. Abreu, 9/16/07
revised 1/25/09

Another Old Song

Another poem, revised a bit. I wrote this when I was nineteen. Good Lord!

Some Nights

Some nights
I linger in my room
listening to Billie Holliday.
I sit at my window and
write in my journal
the stories of my life.

Your picture hangs on a rusty nail
over the roll top desk.
You stare at me from your brass cage.
You watch me with those eyes.
I put down my pen,
return your gaze.

I think of the starlet
you ran away with last summer
all high heels and red lipstick
and I wonder if she’s
playing Joan Crawford
to your Cecil B. DeMille.

Then I laugh out loud
because the thought of you
wearing a monocle
and carrying a megaphone
is just too much.

Daisy C. Abreu

November 11/91
revised 1/27/08

Still Tweaking

I tweaked another poem tonight. Why am I still trying to fix things when they were supposedly "finished" fourteen years ago? Good question (on many levels). I think they can be better, I think I can make them better. It gives me some perspective. It gives me a new jumping off point. It's an exercise in editing. I'm stalling. Yeah, that's it. All of the above. Plus it's a rainy night, so it seems appropriate to post this one. Anyway, here it is.

Rescued from the Rain

Standing in my doorway
smelling like a wet dog
eyes pleading to be let in

And that stupid grin of yours
all those perfect little teeth
begging my forgiveness
you swore it was the
last time
“Scout's honor”

I believed you
gave you a towel
you sighed from underneath
endless apologies

Yet when I freed you
from my terrycloth grip
you were still grinning
no remorse
just those perfect little teeth
and the scent of a wet dog
rescued from the rain

Daisy C. Abreu 3.31.93
revised 10.24.2007

I don't know if I'll go through my entire catalog of poems, tweak and post them here. That seems daunting and I would rather get some of the newer stuff up (yes, there is some new stuff). I'm just not there yet. Also, I'm enjoying revisiting some of the newer older stuff. It reminds me of what my life was like back then, how far I've come with my work (and my life) and how far I've got to go (total cliche, but true).

I'm seeing some college friends this weekend as part of an artists retreat. I'm hopeful that good things will come out of that and be posted here. In the interim, please enjoy memory lane.

Tweaking The Old Stuff

I wrote this one wrote a long time ago, about that boy from long ago. The version below is slightly modified. I still like this one. It's quiet.

Star

I love you.
Is that too much to say?
Too soon to say it?
I do.
Every time I see you
I say it.
Softly,
under my breath,
so you barely know.
Mouthing it to myself.
A prayer.
Like the Hail Marys I whisper
while kneeling in an empty church
on any given afternoon.
Like when I'm walking home
and see that first star.
Star light,
Star bright.
Only you're that star.
That far off thing
I wish could bring me
what I want.
And I lie here,
knowing you're
lying with her,
praying to her,
wishing on her,
mouthing in her ear.
I wonder if she knows
she's your star
or that you're mine.


Daisy C. Abreu
3.31.1996
revised 10.22.07
for jpb

First Poem in the New Apartment

It goes without saying that this is a draft.

And Still...

The air is still.
And so am I,
for once.
At last
the stirring has
somehow
ceased.
The ebb and flow,
the constant waves
of emoting,
expressing
the need
to not swallow every scream.
This moment,
however brief,
brings the peace
to face
but not erase
the past
and prepare for whatever
still awaits.

Daisy C. Abreu
August 24, 2007