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All Poems Written by Stephanie Verni

© 2012, Stephanie Verni

Baseball Behind the Scenes

Published by Baseball Bard

Rapture

Published by Baseball Bard

Possibility Looms

Published by Baseball Bard

The Things He Cherished

Published by The Whistling Fire

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Leftover Love

The dripping, bleeding, oozing
remnants of leftover love—
Pain, an old wound
Still sour
Still aching
Still wanting to avenge
As if it would matter.

The path is unspoiled, fresh.
Thankful for the new beginning.
Happy to put an end
To what should have been an ending
Days, weeks, months, years before
The actual end.

Relieved and grateful that
Logic has returned—
No longer lost in an abyss
Of confusion and lies,
Lies upon lies,
Piled on high,
Until they tip over
And leave you drenched in misery.

***

Cracking, A Sonnet

Forlorn, the faltering heart has no reason
to fill you with false hope and pay mind to your sanity;
whether there is heat or cold, it disregards season,
and pays no attention to matters of formality.
It breaks nonetheless whether anyone can hear
the silent scream, the muted moan—
inside, aching, but on the outside appears
calm; the whisper of a desperate groan.
Why is it a breaking heart makes no noise?
Unfathomable, really, that the ear can’t detect
the sinking, shattering, cracking, crippling lack of joy;
it used to be intact and you’d never expect
that a breakage like this can’t repair with glue
and that the red of the sunset has lost its hue.

***

Walls

Keys in hand, I stand at the door,
one last glance at the nail holes
and dusty corners.
The outline on the light green wall,
faded from the sun,
where the French hutch graced the room.

The pitter-patter of feet
on the hickory wide-plank floors,
tapping they are home from school and work.
The beaded and flowered chandeliers,
illuminating the tables,
where we gathered with family and sat to study.

I can smell the pasta sauce simmering,
my husband dipping his Sarcone’s bread
in for a taste. Just one quick taste.

I can hear the echoes of my children’s voices
lingering in the hallway, laughter permeating the walls.
Contagious laughter.

The walls will always know the joys and the pains,
the pleasures and the struggles, the smiles we will take.
Ours to keep.

It’s no longer ours—it’s theirs.
I wonder how it will look a month from now.
Will they understand the charm
of the nick on the kitchen floor
or the way the porch door sticks?

Will they love it as we have,
these walls that were ours.

***

Ode to Catherine!

Ode to the Heel!

Sultry

stiletto saunters,

turns heads

in a dress from Vogue.

Platform

pump prances,

gets looks

in a suit, all legs.

Naughty

black boots

make entrance

at a meeting full of men.

Feminists

can have

their sexual politics.

Fashionistas

will hail

Queen Catherine de Medici,

Queen of the French Court,

Queen of the heel.

O! The heightened joy!

Pointy toe

Strappy sandal,

The young unto the old.

Remarkable.

Its confidence, independence,

sexiness. So long flats!

Slip the foot inside;

Begin to stride, create

some sex appeal.

The way heels make me feel.

Hail Catherine!

Hail the heel!

***