Poem 07.07.2021

Somedays it seems as if
I woke on the wrong planet,
as if bed, town, and country changed,
as if even the hemisphere is different now.
No matter what amount of coffee I pour
or how fast my battered feet fly,
I can never catch up to where
I belong.

Archaeology

Drowned cities
spanning the globe
from John Franklin to Roald Amundsen,
all claim to be Atlantis.
Each one shows off their stone arch. Each one
bears a painted image of warriors still in battle,
or women collecting jugs of water despite
being in the deepest fathoms of it.
Each one declares authenticity, holds up their ruins
and begs to be remembered, as
all of us ask to be remember,
to be loved for eternity:
I was here. I was here.
Please
never forget me.

© 2021 Vera S. Scott


“. . . there occurred violent earthquakes and floods; and in a single day and night of misfortune all your warlike men in a body sank into the earth, and the island of Atlantis in like manner disappeared in the depths of the sea.” – Plato

Editing the Glossary

You never were real
genuinely alive, I mean, an actual breathing,
cussing, jig dancing human being.
You were only an idea,
a notion,
like an ex-husband
early on in the relationship
before the ex-part set in, or maybe like
a superstar who doesn’t fart or scratch
in any of the wrong places at the wrong times.
You existed so character one
had a reason to battle against character two
on the way to someplace else that never existed either.
I’m sorry.
I couldn’t simply kill you.
I had to completely write you out.

Mothers of Heroes

What mother wants
her son as a monument,
the rider of a stallion with
both front legs raised,
displaying a plague
that no one reads anymore?

What mother wants
her daughter as a tweetstorm,

thousands of brisk words
and sentences that beg,
plea, and demand
a freedom that never arrives?

What mother wants
her child resting unmarked,
buried with all the other nameless
in unhallowed ground that eventually
gets used as a parking lot?

What mother wants
to carry that much sadness
and claim that it’s pride, say that honor
can supersede the memory
of baby-fine hair, tiny snores,
and all of those silly giggles?

None of them.
It is simply what we do.

Sitting and Talking with Archimedes

I couldn’t build a bench
for conversation
out of memories’ planks and boulders.
My clothes snagged on exposed, rusty nails.
My muscles bruised and grew purple.
So I stand here, the heel
of my left foot worn so far sideways
that my ankle tips and my eyes
watering incessantly from pollen.
My wanky right foot kicks
at the fulcrum like a soccer ball.
An hour I explain to myself. A full hour
to listen to words I had the chance to hear
when they were said the first time.
An hour. If I can only leverage
this splintered branch
underneath the world.

(Note: Based on the familiar meme:
If you could spend one hour
sitting on this bench
in conversation with someone,
who would it be? )