dear heart

ask me

why don't you
ask me
who are you
who are you
open your mouth
move your lips
air in air out
drop your voice
or make it shout
ask me where
ask me why
ask me anything
i can deny
ask who i am
and who i'm not
i used to be
i changed a lot
i'm someone else
from somewhere new
the reason why
i don't remember you

Copyright © 2011 by Eryll Oellermann

the weed

the boy was gobsmacked
well hardly a boy
looked older than my doctor
my dentist
the policeman down the road
he was probably near forty
tall and lanky
with long curly hair
portraying a wildness
disavowed by body language
which hinted more at
shyness and withdrawal

"i have never met...
a woman of your age...
who wasn't a nun...
who has never tried pot"

i am out of africa
we call the weed dagga
it grows everywhere
true...
i was a child of the sixties
grew up with hippies vietnam
manfred mann and
the beatles
perhaps i was too well trained
my mother a fearsome woman
found alchohol an abomination
if i felt the need to rebel
i would skip the passionfruit
and lemonade
with temporary sophistication
order port and lemon
most daring
until another informed me
that prostitutes drank
port and lemon

i smoked and hoped
that teeth brushed
with a liberal dash
of colgate
before saying goodnight
would conceal my nicotine habit
forever

dancing and late nights
cigarettes and baby cham
i considered myself a wild
somewhat wicked woman
no need for drug enduced extras
at fifty six i made a friend
who smoked pot
i was amazed and truth to tell
somewhat shocked
not the sort of pastime i would expect
in a grandmother
somewhat innocent you might think
not for long
determined to make up for my former
lack of drug experience
i requested a drag

"forget it...
no way am i ...
corrupting you"

unlikely story more like
no wish to waste good weed
on a novice who will probably
feel nothing but nausea
and ruin
an otherwise excellent evening
i was left to smoke my cigarettes
in a room heavyladen
with the smell of burning dope
watch my friend disappear
down the yellow brick road
of harshly inhaled pot

Copyright © 2011 by Eryll Oellermann

in the poet

in the poet lies a passion
which knows not how to die
love nurtures it forever
although she said goodbye

the rising of the full moon
against a star filled sky
bring memories of love, long lost
which make the poet cry

so would you be a poet
would you desire such pain
if in the heart of misery
you found your voice again

would you cherish now the words
as they tumbled in your brain
or would you curse the poet gods
"release me from my pain"


Copyright © 2011 by Eryll Oellermann