Daymares and other dreams

Daymares, Nightmares, Wild Mares, Tame Mares


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Tuesday Morning

I am late to work and have the time
to fix your breakfast, a hard boiled egg
and toast cut crosswise, jewel-green
medallions of kiwi on your plate,
I am here sipping coffee beside you
looking over your spelling worksheets,
remind you to brush your teeth,
put on a sweatshirt before you board
the bus, help you roll up the cuffs
of jeans you’ll soon grow into,
feel this ordinary peace I never take
for granted, a simple happy
smile in your eyes as you kiss
me goodbye, and leave
for school.

© 2015 Laura Levesque


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Today was a very good day

In the late winter and early spring of 1991, I was eighteen years old at large in Manhattan. Just 22 years after the Stonewall riots, I explored Greenwich Village with giddy intoxication, hopping from one gay club to the next with my best friend in a culture that was wildly exciting, exuberant with joy and energy. It was like nothing else I had ever experienced. When I was in high school, kids didn’t even talk about being gay. I wasn’t sure what it really meant until I left for college at 17, and started my short career as a student of the New School for Social Research in NYC.

One of our favorite clubs, the Limelight, was in an old gothic church- every room was decorated in a different theme- the foyer was Alice’s trip through the looking glass. And that’s exactly what it felt like to me. When I marched alongside my friends in the pride parades of the early 90’s, it seemed to me like the culture’s first stirrings of a shift towards acceptance and visibility. Same-sex marriage wasn’t even a topic of discussion. It didn’t seem possible then. Just coming out and living openly was a victory for so many.

I am thrilled and proud and moved beyond words today. My own children are launching into a very different world, and if this achievement attaining civil rights and acceptance can happen in 20 years, I have hope that together we can achieve so much more.

lgbt_american_flags


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The finer points of bad behavior

The finer points of bad behavior

A little catholic schoolgirl that once
was me tumbled notions which seemed
contradictory around in my six-year-old
brain, what could the differences
of mortal and venial sins confer
if separated only by degree, and why
did Jesus have so many brides
when the church clearly did not
endorse bigamy?
if I was bad, originally spoiled,
how did mumbled chanting,
repeated over and often,
do anything at all
to absolve such daunting fate?

By high school I’d given up contemplating
such lofty matters of faith,
and threw my lot in with the sinners.
Or not, I hear Pope Frank is working hard
to de-obfuscate some of the church’s
thornier tangle of dogma and bureaucracy,
though I fear he’s probably too late.
He doesn’t want to give up his plate
of daily spaghetti, or work out in
the Vatican gym, and is already laying
groundwork for putting his two-years’
notice of papal resignation in. He’d
rather go eat pizza, god knows
I can’t blame him.


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NaPoWriMo 2015

April is here- wow, that was fast.

For the past 8 or 9 years, I have been participating in National Poetry Writing Month, a yearly challenge to write and self-publish one poem each day, every day, in April. Scratch April Fools for 2015. I’ve just been too busy. My eldest daughter embarked on her first trans-atlantic voyage, on her own, to visit her long distance boyfriend and his family in England. What an adventure for an 18 year old. I am excited for her, a bit anxious, and proud. I see manifest in her our family’s wanderlust and spirit of wonder and curiousity to explore the world.

In this spirit, I will post one poem from this year’s NaPo challenge here at random. It will stay up for a few days, before it is replaced with another. I invite everyone who writes to join in with us. And if writing poetry isn’t your thing, try reading some. The poetry of nature is around us everywhere as the world wakes up- especially in April.


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Her Laughter Rising, Rising From the Deep

Two springs ago, I planted dry-rooted twigs
someone promised me were redbud trees.
On my knees, I dug a hole in my new hill
with my bare hands, staked with bamboo
and a child’s pinwheel. Through the droughts
and killing winters, they grew
crowns of reddish teardrop leaves,
which seem to laugh as they dance,
silverback, when the fiercest stormwinds blow.

© 2014 Laura Levesque

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