Marilyn Rea Beyer, Narrator / Voice Over / Writer - Words have power.
Photo by Dan Tappan











Featured at VERSE|VISUAL event, May 18-20 at the Haskell-Hall House, Ipswich MA
Jack
 
People say it’s just a summer romance . . .
And it isn’t really love at all.”
 
But they never saw you
on the high dive.
Or studied the shape of your face
with your lazy eye above your Roman nose.
Or noticed that you had lips shaped just like Paul Newman’s.
They didn’t know that your coy silence had been polished
by your hard father and that I was your first soft thing.
 
You glowed like the far cold rings of Saturn,
But I reached for you anyway and you tilted on your axis
And slid towards me on the seat of the carnival ride
And briefly we breathed together in time.
 
So that over the span of so many summers,
the loss of you still makes me spin and dive and burn
like the pavement at the parking lot of the town pool,
my eyes stinging with chlorine and unkissed kisses.
 
I don’t care what the people say, I don’t really care what the people say.

and “The Dixie Cups” (Jeff Berry & Ellie Greenwich, 1964)

Girl at the Beach

At water’s edge, arms outstretched
to catch the sound of surf tiptoeing to shore,
to hold the sea air in her glistening arms.

At her subtle direction
white birds wheel and dip and soar,
pale foam is shaped by her charms.

Oh, to be seven!
to believe in your magnetic motion
and to feel all the light of the ocean.


A Liberal’s Life in 4 Books
Photo credit: Dan Tappan (Wake Up & Smell the Poetry, 4-21-18 HCAM-TV)
So, what the hell good did it all do?

In high school, you read Catcher in the Rye
And you thought, “Man, I can do better than that kid.”

 In college, you read Anna Karenina
And you thought, “There but for the grace of God go I.”

At some point, you read Bonfire of the Vanities
And you thought, “Well, at least I’m not an asshole.”

Lately, you read Marley and Me,
And you thought, “Shit. I should have invested in dog biscuits.”


At the Family Picnic

No one likes the unkempt poet
Cigarette hanging from her lip,
Smoke curling past her snide eye
To her turban.
She stands up on a picnic bench to read
Dropping her pearls before uninterested relations.

A crew-cut cousin barks over his beer,
“Why don’t you get a job!”
                                                                                                                             
“Why don’t you get a cupcake?” she replies.                                                                        
Non sequitur is her forte.

So she takes the proletarian bus
To the square where she can be ignored by strangers.

Clutching her notebook,
She scans the used bookstore,
Trailing her bitten dirty fingers over the poetry section
Where she never expects to be found.
Sighs.

Emptied out, she takes the long walk home,
Hangs her hat,
Gets cleaned up
And puts a Tombstone pizza in the oven.


The Path Within This Path

This is the drug.
This is the medicine.
This is the silent cure for pain.
This is the treatment for the ache and noise and panic nobody sees.

Come here.
Put your foot gently on the sand that shifts under your shoes,
Yet promises to lead you through the curled, confused designs
That make your mind jump, dip and sway.

Take care.
Though the edge would drop you deeply into a darkened glade,
Keep straight and let the shivering and dappled light draw you
To signs of home along the way.

Renew.
Take hold of the silver slivers of hope within your grasp.
Use your hands to shape the fountain that waters the green world.
Drink in the art of the forest.

Land here.
Your weary wings can rest and find serenity and peace
Where whispering leaves sing of comfort and community
To embrace your cares and soothe you.

Walk back.
Did you spin all ‘round the lines of the faces you have been?
Return. Be healed as sweet air passes through sheer mandalas.
Possess the stillness with your mind.

You have found the path within this path.

[Appeared in Poetry on the Trail 2015 chapbook, ed. Polly Brown & Cheryl Perreault]


4 Walls
 
The new shed is 8 months old.
When my son was 8 months old, he started to give us trouble –
kicking back at diaper changing time.
But the shed still smells brand new,
Even though I know my son, now 21, has smoked dope out there.
In the deep of winter, he shoveled a path to it and found
a little sanctuary.
Four walls
Four windows
Two doors
Four bikes
Four shovels
Two rakes
We haven’t had time to clutter it up yet.
One fall
Once winter
No mold.
My husband put an 18-inch border of smooth stones                 
around all 4 sides
As if to say, “This is our tidy, peaceful place.”                                  

                                                                                                                          photos by Dan Tappan

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