Monday, May 21, 2018

Three Poems By Levi Mericle

Levi J. Mericle is a poet/spoken-word artist, lyricist and fiction writer from Tucumcari, New Mexico. His work has appeared in multiple anthologies and can be seen in many lit magazines and journals from over half a dozen countries such as Black Heart Magazine, Mused, Flash Fiction Magazine, eFiction India, Awakenings Review, University of Madrid's literary magazine, Painters and Poets, Apricity Magazine and more. He is an advocate for the anti bullying movement as well as an advocate for the LGBTQ community.

The Desert Teddy

I grew up in the country
by the highway,
on route 66.
And I stared day to day into the deserted pastures
of prickly teddy bears.
No grizzly, polar, or little brown
The kind that eat herring off a brook.
Yet I see charisma characterized
in these paws of shapened nature
These grizzly’s of the desert,
these polar’s of the sand,
these little brown’s colored green

roar to the sound of existence.

Saying Goodbye

(Previously published in JACLR, Journal of Artistic Creation and Literary Research, The University of Madrid, Spain)

Older men declare war. But it is youth that must fight and die.
-Herbert Hoover
Cast Iron tears are easy.

When you’re young
when you’re broken
when your heart is heavy.

When death licks your ambitions like a lollipop—
And you throw away your desire
like the wrapper of life.

What is the taste of grief?
Iron, confliction?
Cheap attention or compassion?

When you died—
I cradled the thought of your mini corpse.
I disregarded the stiff, firm look of your eyelids.
And tried to remember your smile.

Forever hates you.
The ending embraces your bones.

I’ll wonder why
roses cry the way they do

like pails of petals poured

over concrete.

Porcelain Rose

Have you ever seen a desert rose die?
Have you held the remnants in your hands
as the warm breeze carries the dust like ashes in the wind?

Can you just for a second easily pretend that I am that rose?  
A deserted desert lifeline that is cut off from the rest of the world.
Left to shrivel without a solitary drop of care.

Some days I replicate the feeling of being a desert rose.
I understand her pain.
Her interpretation of her dehydrated corpse.
Lying lifeless, rigid and dried up in the desert sun.

Then I pretend to be a cactus.
Sharp edged, arid humility,
integrity so hardened for the sake of survival.

An unsightly living organism.
Untouchable by the human hand.
Yet so fully alive.

Striving in a world where beauty is not allowed.
Rendered deceased at birth.

How could something so ugly,
so course in appearance, so unmistakably dead to the human eye
live for so long?

Is it some symbolical punch line to a bad joke
that I’m simply not getting?

Or is the ugly satirical point of the cactus,
merely a door that opens in death for death
to a place where life is pushed away.  

So I live in the desert but I choose to be the rose.
Beauty, so predictably destined to die
yet is a death worthy of the life perceived.

Because I choose to be the rose,
Because I accept what ails me,
Because I am beauty,

I will prevail not just in this life but in the next.

Remembered in time as a porcelain teardrop

in a sea of fire.  

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