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Zoe Guillory Poems
Songs of September
The leaves faded to orange. Dappled light at sunset; a spiritual balance. The fire of Death as is licks up the green. Faded to orange and fell like hanged men.
The Backwards Boy in the Backwards World
In the early morning, she is lying on the floor. He kneels and whispers, 'I love you.' And whishes he was sorry. He doesn't want to move, so he stays, dreaming about what they could have had if she would have only listened to him. He shakes his head, floating between dreaming and waking, knowing that they're coming to take him away from her forever. He stares down at her. She is pale and covered with blood and bruises. She doesn't look like a real person. Everything seems strange, like a dream. Like a nightmare in which you lose everything. Light shines through the bloody windows, like an enchanted forest, the dappled shadow of the red leaves rippled on her silent body. He peers through the door, waiting, and thinking of years ago when he first met her. First loved her. First controled her. But years is only the day before yesterday. He is still trying to believe that they will never take her body. but the house is cracking open, because last night, he made her perfect. He made her his.
So I was left along, waking from a forced sleep, my head resting on a pillow of leaves. Brown leaves that had dried weeks ago.
Where I'm From
I am from paintbrushes, spilled out chaotically on the kitchen table like dry leaves lying in the coulee. I am from gathered dust
Along Came a Spider
Three small children played under the trees, giggling as the crimson leaves floated down onto their soft, innocent hands. They ran about after eacher other
Cowardice or Intelligence?
I am afraid of the Darkness and the Light, the Eyes that lurk behind the Trees of Honesty, waiting to catch our Mistakes. I am afraid that the End may be near,
The Lost People of a Peaceful Place
I sit quietly under the trees, staring at my barrier of leaves. They whisper against each other, telling me the stories of a long-forgotten past. Of a world many generations ago, that housed a very different people.
Reach out and rewind your clock before it melts away like the flow of crimson from a dying animal that slowly loses its color,
Thoughts at a Zoo
Tiny, brown, innocent eyes that have only seen the world for a year peer over the cheep, run-down wood as gentle, yet clumsy fingers
Your Chamber of Memory
A house for the dead who are not dead. A cage, a prison where you hold your abusers. Beautiful on the outside. Inviting. Like a mansion, welcoming and decorated.
Years in the Making
I was born at a drumbeat, the blare of a trumpet. A homecoming parade to mark my arrival.
Though the world just beyond the darkness in which the girl was curled up was unreachable,
A Desparate Song
Mockingbirds are the only birds to sing all the colors. The most beautiful of them all is the saddest, and she sings
The rustle of leaves, The patter of tiny feet, The whisper of the river, The stillness of the air,
Comments about Zoe Guillory
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Songs of September
The leaves faded to orange.
Dappled light at sunset; a spiritual balance.
The fire of Death as is licks up the green.
Faded to orange and fell like hanged men.
And dried to brown.
Fresh earth; the bark of their mothers.
The poverty of the cities of filth.
Dried to brown and crushed like insects.
The trees were left alone.
As the squirrels scurry.
Scurry to gather their life's work
and survive through the soft snow
and the cold hard ground.
The silent crunches of dried leaves;
Death sets beneath the weight of the wind.
The heat of love had ...