Three Poems by Esther Louise


show time


there are ways to walk
this chalk line without
losing balance, smearing,
or the need to hold
a hand that is always
ready and waiting.
how could i ever
believe in more than the
prophecy made before
rebirth? yet, i came anyway,
without that hat, once green,
now faded. just can’t seem
to get back into this seat
of everyday living. it’s too
much, this waiting for not
knowing and knowing is
never what i desire, even if
i knew exactly what to expect.
the beginning always says,
abraham had no vision of
land flowing with milk
and honey, yet he and
wife were willing to
travel far to what
would be shown
after arrival. what trust
in not knowing! just a
hunch led them on.
how many times do
i walk this road, never
knowing what is around
next corner until last
corner is no more?
this never makes small
awe of expecting beyond
any ability to ask or hope.
one blessing coming out
this way is my being ready
for anyhow. life has no
script that can’t be changed
just before curtain time.
i see ropes pulling and
characters in place.
one could almost hear
applause.


the road to me


how would i have known
when the wind speaks
unless someone translated?
who would have known
that going on meant becoming.
to speak of you still chills
the soul, making goosebumps
counter productive.
who would have known
that one score years, less one,
seems like more, seems like more.
who would have known
those first conversations
were so spiral, so circular in nature,
always returning to the point,
so self lost and god delusive.
who would have known
that today would come answering
all questions, making yesterday
so necessary, so more the prerequisite
of a need to must travel through
samaria to reach jerusalem
in time for crucifixion,
on time for resurrection.
who would have known
that night makes light possible
or that moon is always mirror,
or that there is never here.
who would have known
that without you, i would not be me.


a mother’s tale


it was not a mirror
showing me to me.
nor was it water
with a ripple of my face.
not the name they call me,
nor the ring of a phone.
in the valley,
along the curb,
inside this tear
that washes my face,
that’s where i saw me.
a journey’s day away,
a yesteryear, not recognizable
in this moment. it was so clear
to me then. there were five,
running and playing,
making noise inside these
memories of their childhood,
calling me the first word
they learned before
the world taught them
how to shape new words.
now i listen for the remaining
four who still remember
the first word
they spoke and call
me when it comes to mind.
i recall each and
every birth, and
the one that left this way:
twenty years after
spanning a boom,
a twelve-year babymaking,
giving me more than
a dozen plus a score
of living along this highway
before death took my wind,
making my sail limp,
my smiles capsized
and laid below the floor
where dust caught
my image to broadcast
it along the centuries
of mothers, losing
one of their own.
i am not the first
nor last to see
one come out of me,
calling me ma
and never to hear
that voice again.
i am not alone.
there is a hood of us,
a club of sorts,
we come all sizes,
color is no descriptor
nor tongue a division.
we recognize one another.
we go out to meet the
newly inducted.
we wait for others to leave
and approach with our
tale of woe.
some shun us and avoid us
because we make long
shadows in cities of stones.
we wear missing faces.
we hug empty clothes
and swallow the hardest lump.
we are the mothers of the slain,
the laid to rest. the survivors
in a land, recalling when
their voices rang out
in joyful play.




Esther Louise

Born: Brooklyn, NY
Family: Divorced, mother of five, grandmother of three.
Occupation: Retired School Librarian.
Anthologies:Bum Rush the Page, A Def Poetry Jam (Random House, 2001),Confirmations (Quill Books, 1983)
Journals:American Rag, Bopp, City, Essence, Freshtones, Obsidian