Category Archives: Poetry

Poetry, The Story Weaver Project

Published Poems by Mariel Masque

When I was 9, longing to reach my adored abuelo,
I tried to swim back to the island from Palma Sola Beach.

I got sucked by the riptide.
There was no lifeguard on duty.

With all my strength,
I swam to reach the surface.

My legs cramped.
As the asthma attack evolved,

the pull of the undertow dragged me to the depths.
I watched the last bubble of air float toward the sun.

Hours later, I woke eyes sculpted on sand
and coughed streams of salt.

Hair entangled with Caribbean seagrasses,
My scratched tongue wetted the cracks on my lips.

I rose from driftwood,
diatoms and beach wrack.

Wearing the cloak of a starlit night,
I walked home sobbing.

“Where have you been all day, muchachita?”
Mami screamed.

“Fishing.”

Published Source:

Masque, Mariel. “Genesis, Birth of a Poet, and Self Portrait,” 50 Over FiftyPoetryAnthology, edited by Ann Davenport, Quills Edge Press, 2018.

Poetry, The Story Weaver Project

Published Poems by Mariel Masque

Hot chili pepper body,
curvy torso,
plumb breasts,
bird of paradise head,
peacock-fancy hair dress,
and fish tail served over crisp lettuce bed.

A tempting sea nymph,
I dance on stone plate.
Roasted pimento scents the air.
Like in flies,
these compound eyes
watch multiple realities at once.

Go ahead,
try to eat this sabe-lo-todo
who grew up next to the asbestos plant,
breathing fine glass,
sweating pesticides,
head sprayed with DDT for the lice.

Published Source:

Masque, Mariel. “Genesis, Birth of a Poet, and Self Portrait,” 50 Over FiftyPoetryAnthology, edited by Ann Davenport, Quills Edge Press, 2018.

Poetry, The Story Weaver Project

Published Poems by Mariel Masque

And I thought,
let there be folds.

And there were dark-pink,
velvet‑soft, labia creases.

And I said,
let there be water.

And a river rushed from her base,
washing her rich terrain.

And I said, let there be a breadth
between her waters.

And the tip of my tongue
traveled the length of her hips

and I made her expanse open and stretch
for seven nights and seven days                                

And her pleasure I named heaven
and her moans warm summer rain.

Published Source:

Masque, Mariel. “Genesis, Birth of a Poet, and Self Portrait,” 50 Over Fifty Poetry Anthology, edited by Ann Davenport, Quills Edge Press, 2018.

Poetry

Dedicated to IBC and La Casita

 

They came from nowhere!
Yellow machines with sharp teeth

bit into the roof, the walls, the window sills
the sacred spaces in between.

Urban sharks shredded the work of generations,
spat out the young ones’ dreams

on piles of construction debris
dusting the calming breeze

They came from nowhere!
Metal and chain

covered the trail of lies,
deception their middle name

Their ruthless game
bulldozed away the institutional memory

the people’s sweat.
That’s how folks get erased.

They came from nowhere!
Sneaky and brave

with pompous overtones
they blazed the framers’ fence

their ignorance-fed rage
swallowed the Earth Mother’s children like a hurricane.

And I, the wood bench,
sat still under the oak tree,

tasting the bitter flavor
of gentrification and urban renewal.

I wanted to stand up,
run across the street.

Legs nailed to concrete,
I wept. The draping Spanish Moss

 spoke, “Don’t cry, dear bench.
Our Mama’s children are mighty strong.

Shooting roots on this brown soil
I’ve seen it all. The Dreamers will return.”

I watched them demolish two homes,
and I could not say a word.

They came from nowhere!

 

Mariel Masque
Copyright 2018 – All Rights Reserved

Poetry

The Art of Coexisting

Spring seeps in.
After pulling off weeds and
watering bell-shaped,
bright-yellow daffodils,
I walk to the sand bottom spring.
Turquoise waters gently swirl.
Suffused, I bathe, float, swim.
The afternoon sun crawls under moist skin.
In the curling of toes, a wasp appears.
“Hello, old friend,” I greet.
Fiber-thin, delicate hairy legs walk on water.
The sentient being patiently drinks
and gracefully hovers back to the tall Mesquite.
Moments later, it returns to the surface of the spring.
“What do you do with all that water?” I ask and offer half a grin.
“I spray the flowers grateful for being loved by the universe.”
Wasp returns to the highest tree branch.
Infinite beyond measure,
this tiny insect respects the pond of life.

 

Mariel Masque – Copyright 2014
All Rights Reserved

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