poems

Half-breaths

Grieving is being
      at the bottom
      of quicksand
      trying to claw
      my way up —
because I need to breathe

When you died, my
      breath left with you
      my lungs, my life —
filled with half-breaths

I’m thankful for your life
is all that gets me through

Terri Guillemets

Deep calleth unto deep

great mysterious
multitudinous
voice of the sea —

a composite of all
sounds of the world
brought down
by all the rivers
in their courses
through the lands —

all the sounds
the earth utters
to the heavens
in its daily life —

the tinkle and drip
of pellucid springs
hidden deep in
remote hill countries —

the rattling laughter
of summer streams
with rustling leaves
and piping birds —

the deep whisper
of the woods and
the boom and roar
as they wrestle
with the winds —

the crash of waterfalls
echoes of mountains
the rush of storms and
roll and peal of thunder —

the merry shouts
of playing children
commingled murmurs
of manifold labor and
brooding world-spirit —

the clatter and
grinding of mills
the tumultuous
straining voices
of busy towns —

the world-embracing sea
has taken in and blended
and harmonized all these
into its own eternal call —

as you, child of the world
sit there and listen
your own comes back
to you in that mighty voice —

deep calling unto deep
the soul of the sea
to the soul of the man —

—Rev. James H. Ecob, D.D. (1844–1921), from “The Call of the Universe,” Psalm 42:7 sermon, 1904, poetically abridged by Terri Guillemets

________________
Ecob began his sermon: “I have long wanted some one whose soul hears, to write a poem on this subject, the call of the sea.” The good reverend already had the contents of the poem right there in his prose; I simply set it free for him and sincerely hope that the new creation is to his liking. —tg, 2023

Who Shall Measure?

From my highest hill
I watched for Antares.
Brief would be his glimmer
Where the long line of mountains
Duped the horizon
With vague, rambling mist.

And I shall never know
If that was Antares’
Eye on the earth-line,
Or the gleam of a lantern
The wild poet carried;
For God who saw both
Only laughs when I ask him.

—Olive Tilford Dargan (1869–1968), Lute and Furrow, 1922

My heart sees all the better

my eyes can’t see as well anymore
but my heart sees all the better

my ears have begun to fail me
but I hear the quiet budding of success

I move more slowly now
but have learned to be still with myself

my aching body is stiff and sore
but my spirit has never felt so fine

my memory is slipping
but I’ve got a firm grip on what it is to live

my head is going gray
but I have found all my true colors

I get out of bed earlier
but still have plenty of dreams

I live more softly
but don’t back down from doing hard things

my teeth are getting artificially replaced
but my soul is real and all my own

my bones are brittle
but my resolve is strong

I no longer bounce back
but continue to look forward

I tell the same stories over and again
but become a new me every day

I’m nearer to the end
yet I have only just begun

Terri Guillemets

Fading out

syl·​la·​bles in my life
i cannot utter anymore
with the grace of youth
i stutter with freedom
and slur in wild love
words that once made
sense now are blind
faith doesn’t see and
hope rarely speaks
i’ve never needed you
to spell it out for me
the echo of emptiness
calls out like the sea
ebbing flowing waving
crashing shoring up
a million tear drops
whisper gently into
the gossamer of years
winds blow away our
comforts of home in
a smoke of memories
lost childhood remains
both here and gone
audible and sadly silent
echoes of those poems
voice words that sound
exactly the same but mean
something entirely different

Terri Guillemets

Him

He asked to meet
He wanted to talk

He tried to kiss me
He tried to grab

We parted ways

He was mad
That I wouldn’t
Give him anything

I was mad about
What he was
Trying to take

Terri Guillemets