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Justine Delacroix Poem
oh mighty mother,
protector of calm
reveal your silver dollar face
kiss my brow.
whisper in your misty breath
secrets of the past;
what have you seen
oh ancient one?
_________
silent guardian,
muse of the many
omen of womanhood
bid my pale cheek goodnight.
graze upon my fingertips
hold me gently.
prance on my dewy eyelashes, and
sing me to sleep with your immortal song.
3/9/20
Copyright © Justine Delacroix | Year Posted 2020
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Justine Delacroix Poem
“Men must endure their going hence even as their coming hither. Ripeness is all”-- King Lear Act V Scene ii
Why should not folks be mad
My dear, when women
Wear the same painted face
And men the same slant
Why should not
You throw the pearl of your soul
Into your passions
And eat the fruit of all the trees
In the garden of
The world
When living fully
Is such a healthy flower
To wear on one's bosom
The gift and breath of
Mother Earth Herself
Yet dearest, be wary
Keeping to the trees
On the sunlit side of the garden, shunning
The other for its grey and gloom
When sorrow can also be
The seed to
The sweetest fruit
For I hope you taste the lavender
Of whispered secrets,
The earl gray of misty mornings
Feel your cheek glow red with pleasure
But also learn to hear the words of pain
Or walk on the thorns of remorse
Or learn to lose in life or lust
Yet most all
I wish, my dear,
For you to be able to
Sit and breathe
Wherever you may be
That eternal Breath
From the sweet air that
Touches the sun.
Copyright © Justine Delacroix | Year Posted 2021
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Justine Delacroix Poem
Grandma says
that peaches are the best fruit.
Sticky and sweet, with
yellow flesh and rosy cheeks,
and pink in my mind's eye.
A salve for mental wounds,
she said.
She grew up
with the greatest big peach trees
in her backyard.
They overlooked her farm
with its golden rye
and indigo grass so fragrant
it bit the roots of my throat.
She sang her peaches soft in the summer
and reaped them ripe for her brothers
and watched them grow
in the French sun,
dancing with them when they fell
and loving them into pâtisserie.
These days I pick her peaches
as she watches for the last time
the trees that touched
her mother, and hers before,
and water the ground
when her fingers are too old.
Doing my part
in the namesake of sisterhood
for the indefinite daughters
to come.
These are the peaches,
great pink European peaches,
That are the sweetest.
Copyright © Justine Delacroix | Year Posted 2020
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Justine Delacroix Poem
sit outside until
you forget what you look like
let the sounds and
vibrance of the
river cleanse
you
let it
wash away revealing
your innocent body covered
in ancient dust and
grime
from unused years
revel in confusion
and concern see
the beauty in
fear and
anxiety
nurse your
broken body embrace
change and
live and
let go.
7/23/19
Copyright © Justine Delacroix | Year Posted 2020
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Justine Delacroix Poem
Sitting this morning
head in hand
starting at my bedroom wall;
I remember my mother
sitting like this
her tired eyes
boring holes into the sheetrock
or the streetlight
outside our house
I remember my mother
sitting like this,
I would ask her
what is it Mumma?
what are you thinking of?
And she would reply
nothing, oh nothing,
and she would get up
to get some more coffee
or to think some more
from the kitchen window
Sitting like this
head in hand
in the mornings
boring my own holes
into my own sheetrock wall
or the telephone polls
outside my window,
now I know
what nothing is.
Copyright © Justine Delacroix | Year Posted 2021
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Justine Delacroix Poem
Ripe tomatoes in the supermarket
The red tip of my own nose.
Their lime green imagination
Marauded by Edgar Allen Poe.
Her silver dollar face raises hellfire
Says the stringy girl who believes in ghosts.
Goodnight to the lucky cat
Who kisses my cheek with his prose.
Her calico hat sticks to dewy grass
While the hooves of the lumpy deer carcass doze.
The weight of dreams lifted off my shoulders
By the kiss of conciousness on my nose.
Copyright © Justine Delacroix | Year Posted 2020
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Justine Delacroix Poem
your hands were clammy
wrists thin and
the windshield seductively fogged
begging my wool socks
to draw fuzzy lines
from the dashboard
we both drank from
my green tea
cheeks burning and red,
the crumbs of love
you fed me were but the
ones i already left behind
with such earnest you spoke
whispering in tones of lavender,
earl gray breaths
that came from the bottom
of your stomach.
but you are blind, old boy
you fool who wishes
to adore me so fiercely
when you cannot see
the painted face i hold
in front of your eyes
so we sat for a while
and breathed out
hot breath
from the same air
that touched the sun
Copyright © Justine Delacroix | Year Posted 2021
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Justine Delacroix Poem
For I love you so
I feel in my heart and
in my throat
tugging at the roots of my soul -- oh!
I've never been good at articulating
how I feel
original thinking
never came naturally
but now I look at you and I see
myself, in what I've
seen you as for so long
and I finally
understand
I would see you sitting
head in hand
and beg myself
what are you thinking of?
you would look at me
with condescending eyes
nothing you would say,
nothing
Maybe it is because
I am your age when I
met you
or maybe it is because
I am now not so malleable
that now I know
what nothing is.
1/18/21
Copyright © Justine Delacroix | Year Posted 2021
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Justine Delacroix Poem
i felt the wind of change arrive
as the ache in my heart
crept through my chest
and leaked out
the corners of my eyes
the wind was loud.
gusty and salty
a cleansing breath
it brushed democracy's
stifled cheek
awakening She
once again
nature herself breathed
a sigh of calm,
we felt the warm
glow of love
once again
Copyright © Justine Delacroix | Year Posted 2021
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Justine Delacroix Poem
I hate the way that produce smells
the sick organic sent that
penetrates your mask and
sticks to the back of your throat
even after you're long gone
so that everytime you swallow
you're reminded of half expired
oranges, peaches with
just a whisper of mold,
tomatoes that are comparable
to hackysacks.
It remains and
lingers along with the
vivid image of poverty stricken
families in their beat up
cars packed high with
papers and trash
who try to finagle their
way into recieving just one more
bag of half-rotten
hackysacks so that they might
feed their families
a bit more.
Copyright © Justine Delacroix | Year Posted 2020
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