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Rita A. Simmonds Poem
Loyalty
is love
brick by brick
in every instant
but is only admiration
as a tower
to the distant.
April 20, 2016
for Loyalty Contest
Copyright © Rita A. Simmonds | Year Posted 2016
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Rita A. Simmonds Poem
The book and nook go hand in glove
and hold my hope inside.
The pages turn to fervent love
my corner can’t confine.
I won’t suppose a wealthy sir
can love a Jane like me.
And while my soul screams “Rochester”
I have no urge to eat.
This man can toy with me all day
and keep me up at night.
A fire burns behind his door.
I won’t turn out the light.
How can our love be ended now
with chapters left—fifteen?
He teases me with sullen brow.
My heart is lost in leaves.
No sooner, “Yes, I’ll be your bride!”
My veil is torn in two.
The wife you’ve kept, but cannot hide
has turned our niche to ruin.
I’ve gone too far to be so crushed.
And hours in one place.
When I arrive at happiness
I’ll stand and stretch my legs!
'2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 18' Poetry Contest
For Favorite Contest
My experience reading JANE EYRE by Charlotte Brontë
Copyright © Rita A. Simmonds | Year Posted 2016
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Rita A. Simmonds Poem
"Saudade is a pleasure you suffer, an ailment you enjoy." ~ Manuel de Melo
I sit in our room and think of you,
ponder your framed, steady gaze,
touch the circle on the wall
where you placed your head
during those days of propped pillows,
watching the Discovery Channel in bed.
You liked to learn about faraway places,
black holes, other universes.
I remember the hour you
slipped into one of them.
You left your skin and bones,
keys, wallet, phone,
all your clothes,
the halo above our bed:
All the un-necessities
for this new place where you live,
though you visit me in dreams.
Are you an image on a screen?
You never let me see the other side.
Do you have some secret that must be kept?
I keep everything the same,
don’t even stretch my leg across our bed
just in case you want to slip back again,
though I know you won’t return.
I’ll have to come to you instead.
“We have to pay the price,” is what you always said:
The toll it takes, every day, to re-accept
this new arrangement that’s been made,
where there’s pain, yes, but also wonderment, allure.
I still believe you, and there’s more to believe.
You swore you’d never leave.
Saudade Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
February 7, 2019
Copyright © Rita A. Simmonds | Year Posted 2019
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Rita A. Simmonds Poem
I saw you playing on the beach,
the sky so blue but out-of-reach.
You started throwing sand so high
it hit the sun right in the eye!
He pulled the clouds around his head
like fluffy pillows from a bed.
Then rain poured down from darkened sky;
You didn’t mean to make him cry.
Copyright © Rita A. Simmonds | Year Posted 2016
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Rita A. Simmonds Poem
The garbage men are the first to be heard,
beeping, bumping, throwing, thumping.
The work of their hands
leave nothing but empty cans
scattered on the curb.
Children rise and run late
heavily backpacked.
The crossing guard blows her whistle
and scurries them inside white lines
with their weight that nearly bends them back.
Day drives on to sun blast.
Trains shake overhead.
So many different tongues rise from sidewalks
up subway stairs
through turnstile gates
that sing to every swiping hand.
It’s not even eight
and I’ve heard enough for a day.
I plug my ears with song from a different sphere.
My city doesn’t make a sound
that I can hear.
June 19, 2016
for Sounds of the Day - Poetry Contest
Copyright © Rita A. Simmonds | Year Posted 2016
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Rita A. Simmonds Poem
Gun shots popped.
Revelers dropped and bled.
Most ran.
The injured lay
on the trash-covered ground.
Some stayed and covered
the wounded or dead.
The shooter was found and shot.
Or maybe he turned the gun on himself.
But he comes back again,
the same rage in a different cell,
the same soul in a different skin.
The crime has not been solved.
Let’s call it what it is:
A serial killing spree.
Open wounds are re-shot
shattering nerves and floating debris—
a stronger blast hits the same spot.
We cannot heal.
We have no real security.
Is it time to say,
“Mountains, fall on us!
We don’t want to see anymore.”?
Or is this another isolated incident
in a neighbor’s back yard
that we can ignore?
Rita A. Simmonds
Early October, 2017
Copyright © Rita A. Simmonds | Year Posted 2017
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Rita A. Simmonds Poem
Even should a mother forget
but she cannot
but even if she could
God has sent His mother
to hold the bloodied limbs
in her arms
just as she held God’s humanity
in the folds of her dress
when all had been done.
Her altar of flesh
prepared His Body to rise.
She is there, too,
in the darkened room
where millions of mothers
are crying or trying to forget
or feeling the weight of life
left, gone—regretful or not,
God’s Mother is there
just the same
piecing together
the most bewildering puzzle—
Why?
She cries and remembers
the nails
the spear
the sword,
the pressure
the fear
the force
all for dismemberment.
But it is not the end.
Holding severed flesh
on her lap
in the folds of her dress
she prepares her children
to rise.
But what comes before
is freedom’s forgotten side,
the hidden part
the place we’re not allowed to see
or think about too long.
What would it be like
if our minds could comprehend
the choice placed in our lives—
the tiny seed we could nourish or not?
What would it be like
if we really understood
this freedom to accept or not:
Everyone!
Pro-life, pro-choice, nonaligned!
What would it be like
if we all understood
the freedom that we have
every second of the day
to build or destroy
to speak or be silent
to accept or reject
to say “I” in the face of given-ness.
What choice do we make?
Or do we simply not choose,
let others decide
the fate of our own flesh and blood
and “I”
Will we say:
I didn’t really want to, but…?
Killed our own selves
abandoned our will
left it to die
alone
on the side of the road.
Our own self dismembered
acting against its soul.
But God’s image will not be erased
though the dismembered member
of the human race
is killed by its own.
Maternity waits
and holds our freedom
in the folds of her dress.
The choice has been made.
We can say “no” or “yes.”
Rita A. Simmonds
January 23, 2019
Copyright © Rita A. Simmonds | Year Posted 2019
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Rita A. Simmonds Poem
Song: The Sound of Silence
Cliché: Writing on the wall
Image: Three
I talk with you, again
on the elevated train.
No more writing on the wall
to ten thousand people,
maybe more.
Graffiti ignored,
it’s just you and me
side by side
engrossed
in fast finger talk
to someone else
before the train goes down.
Copyright © Rita A. Simmonds | Year Posted 2016
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Rita A. Simmonds Poem
Your gossip got me good—
shoved the knife in deep
slashed our sisterhood
turned it like a key
struck a nerve
smeared the blood
flew the words
slung the mud—
What fresh dirt your talk’s become—
enough to bury me!
You may have ruined my name
and canceled my career.
What pains me most is not to know
the meaning of good years.
for Pretty Talker - Poetry Contest
June 19, 2016
Copyright © Rita A. Simmonds | Year Posted 2016
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Rita A. Simmonds Poem
I don't mind being alone, as long as You are always with me.
Best One Liner
July 13, 2016
Copyright © Rita A. Simmonds | Year Posted 2016
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