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Best Poems Written by Therese Pace

Below are the all-time best Therese Pace poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Gaia

How can we disregard her?
Lineage makes her  organic. 
Fountain of life.
Primordial deity
with regeneration folded in her girth.

Feminine, she connects
‘now’ with ‘then’
by the seed
of rebirth.
Nature is her origin.       

Like a swan,
her power lies in water,
extension,
in the umbilical chord
of time perennial.                             

Spring mobilizes her.
Sacred portal, matriarch,
she has been there for us
for milleniums:
breasts, womb, fertility,  

horned bull’s head
morphing
into a sanctum of growth,
a cocoon of miracle,                        
a swelling of fleshy bud.

Rejoice.
Kiss her. Respect her.
Mother earth is pregnant
and her cohort                                        
is sky.

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White

WHITE

Thumbs up for the whiteness of white, pure, 
natural or gently recreated on a dentist’s chair. 
How beautiful it manifests itself in smiling! 
Would I wish otherwise for me but to 
display it, giggling, in a gleaming double row?

Fashionistas flaunt the pastel off of it in textile, 
up to the nth degree of ecru, fresh, summery, 
though its ivory on furniture is unsightly, 
smacks of sloth and derelition, darkening 
with the onslaught of time and smoke. 

Can they not, brush in hand, minister to
its mellowed, yellowed dullness, the slow 
crisscross strokes obediently correcting, 
obliterating jaundice? Which scrupoulous 
makeover doesn’t do justice to a body?

I dread the bulky, overbrightness of it, bluish, 
harsh, in a stretch of frozen land. The awful, 
frequent spading of it, come winter. Laugh at 
its scoffed at inelegance in gentlemen’s socks. 
Allow me to calculate its whiteness in an 

elephant, that I may stay afloat. Dread the 
paleness of it on a frightened face- all the 
shades from waxen to ashen to green, the 
lifelessness of a chloroform smelling body 
lying still, in wait, at a funeral parlour.

To adore it in the spirit of a guileless child,
in the frolicky gait of White Dorper lambs,
in the sheer beauty of the Cliffs of Dover.
To delight myself, rightly, in the wisdom 
of its waving in peace or in surrender.

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Rainbow Lady

RAINBOW LADY

(Life begins at forty...  Walter B. Pitkin)

Yes, if you believe in miracles.
If you take lows for pinnacles.

I will turn the page tomorrow,
sign a fresh lease come what may,
forty windblown years behind me,
a few more to come my way.

I will get on by tomorrow,
forty streams still frothing wet,
plenty tadpoles floating useless,
plenty eggs all turning bad.

I’ll become a rainbow lady:
blue for the moods, violet etches  
the geography of stressed feet, 
yellow for the callouses, the jaundice 

and the sallowness of teeth. Orangy
red for the flashes, hot like lamps,
opening like fireworks; indigo for the
makeshift love in between cramps.

Half a truth today, hope to live by
intended as the smile before the sigh.

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The Tall and Short of It

Impossible to miss him in a crowd, 
jet black moving chimney, one head 
above the rest as though he walks on stilts. 
In the sun his head of hair, 
coiffured, defies brand new enamel. 
Mostly he plays god, flits like a butterfly 
in post chrysalis stage: choosing the
very best, discarding. The rest, he’s man 
at large, a parakeet. In the rare cases 
when he’s not making calls, wrapt, blabbing,
gesticulating, he’s chatting up some chick
just about his same size, her crush worn 
like a charge inside her eyes, someone with     
parched lips needing his own as salver,
someone malleable enough that can be bent 
without breaking, someone dim and foolish.
Not like me who, despite distance and size
can see through him, his gossamer.

Details | Therese Pace Poem

Worlds

WORLDS

I switch
from one to the other
on a regular basis.

One delivers bread
the other, 
space and comfort.

Acclaim is not
in a high place
on their agendas.

When one world
tires of me, it sends me
to the other with a headache

When I grow tired of the other
habit takes me out
on an unwinding mission.

Neither of my worlds
contemplate a merger. 
They hate the rubbing of shoulders.

Grudgingly, they acknowledge my presence. 
When I’m around no more,
None will be the wiser.