Thursday, 5 November 2015

3 Poems by Becca Lamarre

dreamscape cornering sharp turns

I dreamt of killer whales
some sort of tsunami commanded
these beautiful beasts to me
black and white shadow against landscape
arcing to and fro swallowing
lineages up whole

      there was a snake in the house
      we chased it around like it was a grand game
      I laughed through tears, “we have a snake problem!”
      while you smacked at my hollow with the broom

next I was between an ageless couple
lovely one shared hot water whispers of her
husband’s promiscuity, of the deposits
he made into his secretary
all this while blaming me for
fluid slowly seeping from her shell

      to follow I was gifted a white bible
      blew smoke from the cover to bare
      your name inscribed like a square hole in the sun
      this vessel cradled inside a tone
      both sound and shade that I can only
      dream is the creation of the ghost
      yesterday’s acts of expectance
      with undertones of allegiance to allegory


under the bowery, outside the brick
red brick yonder o’
the strings of the heart

enter the rippling bouquet
very silently you
said once upon a time

like I love you but I cannot
it’s a lone spicket with
not a bucket to fill

us is a powerful notion
or maybe a concept yarn
hand spun into a curve

steadfast but much too soft
stitched into our thoughts eternal
imprinted upon our very cells

the cold and the wind blow
right through the flaw in my center
mine is not a wavering obsession

the dark and the light

aint it great
when the winter cold freezes
the squalid garden lurkers
and you don’t have to tiptoe no more
you don’t have to walk slow and creeplike      
so as not to frighten the kids

aint it grand
when the ice encapsulates the grasses and trees
wraps ‘em up in wavered light
beauty peaks after all that wait
they were confident before but now
just thicket waiting to be discarded

irony oh irony
you hold hands with fate
you faithful playmates
skipping naughtily through daybreaks
and peering triumphant
at piles of pillowcases tattered


Becca Lamarre grew up in a town in Indiana known for its many railroad crossings and the smell of its paper mills. She holds a MA in Higher Education and a BS in Psychology from Ball State University and her fascination with human behavior and motivations strongly influences her writing. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Uppagus and Indiana Voice Journal. She currently lives in Chicago with her family where she is at work on her first full-length collection.

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