poetry

The Passion

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It’s one thing to resurrect from the dead:
Hell, millions of people do that every morning.

The real miracle
is to die and walk among the living—
parched, hungry, full of holes,
tongue broken and white as chalk,
sun moon stars and earth
pressing against the small of your back—
and nobody notices a thing.

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©A. D. Joyce, 2014

 

Octogenarian

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I was the smallest girl in second grade
and Miss Perry, a clear-eyed
pretty bird of a teacher,
always picked me
to help her
with the little classroom chores.
I had a sister who had
more friends than I did and the other
was smarter. But every day
I would dream I was
the belle of the ball.
No matter what the weather,
I declared my life a holiday.
These memories often visit me
during the day, imagine that,
all these years later, life later,
all the joys and tragedies later.
At night, I worry about
the one breath that won’t return to me.
In the end, thoughts don’t die.

(Written for the “Midweek Motif” over at the Poets United blog. The prompt was titled “Holy Days and Holidays.”)

©A. D. Joyce, 2014

Oiseaux, les abeilles, et des papillons

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Oiseaux, les abeilles, et des papillons
Abordent les fleurs
Violet, rouge, jaune, et de plus
Et il est difficile de dire
Qui est d’avoir le plus de plaisir
Oiseaux, abeilles, papillons, fleurs
Ailes, pieds, becs, piqûre
Pistils, pétales, ovaires
En français ou en anglais
C’est la langue du printemps

©A. D. Joyce, 2014

the in crowd

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If Mars formed life, then life on Earth could have been seeded by life on Mars, making every life form on Earth descended from Martians. – Neil Degrasse Tyson

oxygen is all the rage on earth
that is
if you want to live
but on mars
breathing is not as popular
at least not with oxygen

while you’re here on earth though
stay in with the in crowd
breathe the ever loving air

©A. D. Joyce, 2014

in search of a play

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it is the height of summer
in a residential neighborhood
the sun is a bare spotlight
on me age seven
standing on the front porch stage right
while people carry boxes
from my house to the truck
the little boy who comes over to play
asks where are you going
i say that we are moving
and i know my answer is a tangent
but it is the best i can muster
i start to say that daddy is not coming with us
but i am pulled by the hand
to exit in a daze stage left
the neighborhood is watching
and as i get into the car
i wonder if i will ever see
the little boy again

©A. D. Joyce, 2014