IndieBlu(e) Poetry Anthology
We Will Not be Silenced ... contains three of my poems and hundreds of others by writers I admire. Now in print and Kindle on amazon.com.
Subtitled "The Lived Experience of Sexual Harassment and Sexual Assault Told Powerfully through Poetry, Prose, Essay and Art," this book is neither screed nor pity party. Rather, it’s a positive,
powerful platform to give voice to people who have been sexually
exploited, abused, treated as invisible.Listen
and believe them.
Photo: Dan Tappan
have also published one of my poems... Click to read Old Shirt and see the companion artwork the editors chose.
Some seasonal poems:
Here's something from my notebook:
Winter as a Bad Boyfriend
It’s the first week of November.
You’re at your locker. The outside door opens.In
comes a breeze that maybe smells of snow.
There he is, sudden, at the edge of your shoulder,
His cold breath on your neck.
His voice is gritty, not deep like last fall’s.
It’s sharp like rock salt and sandy.
He rubs you the right way.
He gets a little rough sometimes,
kisses you so hard your lips crack,
your voice, too.
“Enough! Too much!”
He’s slippery, and hard to hold onto.
He has bad, bad days.
Your eyes sting, your chest hurts.
But the next day, there he is.
He does not give up easily.
“I’m staying with you.”
When you take him home, your mother loves
the way he eats the barley soup and sausages.
His lips are full and shine with garlic and pork.
His padded suede jacket smells of fir and spruce
and wood smoke. He thrills you.
“Here. Take mine.”
All winter long it’s boots, mittens and longshoreman’s caps.
But Time marches on, doesn’t it?
You see Spring in someone.
Looks pretty appealing.
You’re warming to somebody new.
“Yes, yes, yes.”
But it’s only April, and your winter boy
won’t let you go. You say, “It’s over!”
But he comes back. He brings you a scarf from around his neck
and you can’t deny it.
The chill of his touch feels good, even in spring.
Dream rides of unusual shape and proportion
Colors from Wonderland or Oz
With ragtops for the days we didn’t care about our hair.
More muscular than the boys who drove them
With waterfall grills and
None of them could keep up with me.
I drove a Wildcat.
©Marilyn Rea Beyer
©Marilyn Rea Beyer