STEPHANIE SCERRA is a new writer and one of our first poets published on Dark Eye Glances.
Currently, she is studying at Mills College in Oakland, California to become an English major with an emphasis in creative writing. In addition to her studies, she is participating in Mills College’s newspaper The Campanil as both the Features Editor and a staff writer.
About my writing: “I’m only eighteen, I have taken a number of creative writing classes and have been passionate about writing for as long as I can remember. Next year, I will be published in Pill Hill Press’ The Daily Flash 2011.
“I am thoroughly inspired by art, particularly photography. People say a picture is worth a thousand words. I believe I’m just one of those people who puts those words together.”
Editor’s note: Even though the words in these poems are simple and unadorned, we were fascinated by the rhythm and repetition in Stephanie’s verse, particularly in Forgotten Memories and White Wine. Read them aloud to appreciate how captivating they are. ~ GVB
Forgotten Memories
Your voice, your voice
Cries out to me
But is swept away
By the wind.
Like a dream, a dream
A muffled sound that lacks meaning
To me.
One tip of the hourglass
Drowns my troubled past.
Seems like, whatever I say,
Will not help the voices go away.
Questioning where my faith lies
As I crumple up love notes you provide
They are all the same to me
All forgotten memories.
Your touch, your touch
As you reach out to me
But reach right through
Nothing.
Like a ghost, a ghost
Invisible to the human eye
I hear you cry.
One tip of the hourglass
Drowns my troubled past.
Seems like, whatever I say,
Will not help the voices go away.
Questioning where my faith lies
As I crumple up love notes you provide
They are all the same to me
All forgotten memories.
One tip of the hourglass
Drowns my troubled past.
Seems like, whatever I say
Will not help the voices go away.
Questioning where my faith lies
As I crumple up love notes you provide
They are all the same to me
All permanent memories.
White Wine
There are still sweet nothings on my lips.
I can still feel them slither down my throat as I drink white wine with careful sips.
I can still feel your blood on my fingertips.
There are still faint love-marks on my hips,
So I know that my night, my emotions were not a dream, and
There are still sweet nothings on my lips.
I watched you take that series of trips,
Saw you slip on my silk stockings, slip down the staircase.
I can still feel your blood on my fingertips.
Despite your skin’s crimson rips,
Your eyes still glitter with that same golden glint.
There are still sweet nothings on my lips.
As I held your broken hands in a terrified grip,
I cooed a tuneless lullaby and buried your heavy head in my breasts.
I can still feel your blood on my fingertips.
Your cracked head makes several nods and dips
As I drag you to the kitchen where the white wine sits.
There are still sweet nothings on my lips.
I can still feel your blood on my fingertips.
Remorse
Your audience watches with their faces dry
As you lie in the deathbed of regret.
Although they are not written on your tombstone,
Your sins are sins that no one shall forget.
The wife you beat with broken beer bottles
Will not remember you as “loving husband and friend.”
The sons you left to raise themselves
Will not mourn “the father on whom we can always depend.”
No one misses you sitting on the sofa,
Handing cigars to your two-year-old nieces.
Those who knew you rest in peace
As you will rest in pieces.
Copyright 2010 Dark Eye Glances ISSN 1923-5836 All International Rights Reserved
By using this website you are agreeing to our Terms of Use
