Hi! If you’re looking at this post, it’s probably because because I linked you here for a college supplement question, or you’re reviewing my Arts Merit Scholarship portfolio.
Don’t worry, it’s me, Gari Eberly!
Some of my poems are also online at cdhslitmag.wordpress.com
Anyway, thanks for visiting!
She deserved a castle reserved just for her,
adorned with stones and lined with fur
as precious as the memories she gave me.
But that was not what she got.
I am so sorry she did not.
I’ve never met a woman as graceful as she;
she carried an aura like a Beethoven symphony:
a queen’s soul, stuck in a one bedroom apartment.
That was what she got.
I wish she had a better lot.
And in that department,
she cared for me since kindergarten.
For more than 17 years she held her gaze at the same blank wall.
To this place she was chained,
and yet she never complained.
Hardship wore her down like a frayed lilac shawl
until she held the strength of a tattered rag doll.
I hated being powerless.
The years ticked by
and we were out of time.
We stumbled through with cowardice
and now were only left with a feeling of sourness.
After years and years of talking about buying a castle…
we have a bank account sitting worthless in a vault.
I can only help but feel it is our fault.
jumbled up, a drop
of oil in water.
Fluid, she sways through
the sea current, dress
billowing to match her movements.
A bell-bodied beauty,
conceals toxic intent.
In performance, her form
hides sweet chloroform
peeking out from below
her blush ballet skirt.
The audience is enraptured
by her hidden figure, paralyzed
by Medusa’s stone smile.
But move to embrace her,
and you’ll taste the grave
on your tongue.
For a moment, echoes over the ocean sound your obituary —
these jagged cliffs are your gravestones, and perhaps
the algae the rolling waves offer to the shoreline is
the water’s apology.
For sending your casket deep into the corals.
For seasoning the ocean salty with your panic.
For surging your lifeless limbs away from land.
Gray, gray, gray, your grave is no different, though instead of
mounds of freshly turned dirt, you’re covered with
foaming white rapids, which I imagine cover more to be discovered.
Did you cry?
Are you the reason ocean water stings?
Did your tears erode these rivers on my cheeks,
stealing away youth in exchange for what
the Atlantic stole from you?
I can’t decipher if blood or an ocean breeze rushes in my mind
when I think about how water burned your lungs and
thrashed you along the current like a
lone garment in a washing machine.
And so the ocean only grows,
belly full with violence.
I dot the water with primrose
but am only met with silence.
A poem, metaphysical, is still a sketchbook
your mind can stretch in, planning elaborate ideals,
that, when written, jet off like a squid
and leave only a splattered ink blot on the paper.
Between thoughts and language lies a barren battlefield
where poems exist as phantom limbs: lines can form,
but with disconnect within; a frayed wire, a tangle
of nerves that breeds desire, but no words.
Poems must burst out of the dilapidated language
that houses them, like the forest fire that begins from
one strike of lightning inspiration.
Poems must stick raw to the physical world, a thread
caught bloody to an open wound: an intense,
agony that still echoes years after.
Therefore, poets must cast their shots into the night
over and over, until one finally catches and becomes a
pinprick of light, standing out among the ink-spilled sky.