Irresistible

Violet pearlescent eye shadow;
watermelon tinted chap stick;
cover stick to cover the blemishes and
give you that glow;
rose gold eye cream, only to be worn
at night at some posh function.
You can never wear too much blue eye shadow
someone once said in a movie and, by George, it's true!
A fresh tube of lipstick, a new shade...
oh, wait, it's the same as the one in my drawer.
Time in front of a mirror with a palette
to choose from, my face the blank canvas...
I have cousin who's never worn make-up.
Of course, she's very beautiful, but how can she resist
the irresistible? 

© Julianne Carlile

The Mukwonago River

I drive by the Mukwonago River,

where arrowheads were found for many years.

The river is a really big giver

of crappies; fishermen shed happy tears.

I’ve never walked there, though I’ve been here years;

it’s for other people, but not for me.

I smell it when I go by and my leers

rival those I have for a lake I see.

The deep, wet odor, earthy and salty,

and the mist, tickling and teasing my skin.

I resist the pull as it calls to me.

It calls: come to me please, and please come in.
And I wonder if I will ever go;
the years I have left do not go by slow.

© Julianne Carlile

The Dream Fish

My grandmother used to take us fishing.

Feet dangling from the pier,

she’d bait our hooks and

take the fish off.

Most too small to keep,

she’d throw them back.

Sometimes, we’d get one we could take home.

Once in a while we’d catch a crab.

They were tenacious and hard to shake off,

despite our best work,

and Grandma was often tasked there too.

Years later I had a dream of that shore:

I’d waded in, hands in the water,

reaching for a great big fish.

There were other ones swimming nearby

but they were dull, smaller, ordinary. I didn’t want them.

The fish I wanted was beautiful,

all the colors of the rainbow and more;

it seemed to shine with gold and silver; it had a

preternatural light.

No matter how hard I tried,

I could not grab that fish.

Long after I awoke, the dream stayed with me.

I couldn’t catch it,

and I couldn’t let it go.

© Julianne Carlile

The Voyage

Sometimes I wonder about others

when I am on a voyage,

thinking to myself in the silence.

Where do I have to go, how far away,

to lose this incredible burden:

my talent for doing so much harm.

It is not only that I do harm,

but through my neglect the others

shoulder my terrible burden

and go off on their own voyage.

They go their own way, they go my way,

and I am left alone in the silence.

What happens to them in the silence?

They pass ahead into time; is it harm?

Why do I think any way they go is my way?

They are complete minds—they are others.

Yet, we all make the same voyage,

and to be separate is a great burden.

Not to see you as me is a burden,

a painful wall of immense silence

that causes us to go alone on our voyage.

On the other hand, harm

can also be seen in seeing others

exactly as myself. I want my way.

This is why I run or walk away

with my sack, my mysterious burden

which I hide from all the others.

Do you think they know in the silence

that I almost wish to do them harm,

that I am jealous of their voyage?

Do we protect others on their voyage

by making them believe they own their way?

Or could it be that we’re doing harm,

causing them to carry their burdens

through an eternity of silence--

a silence that leads each of us to be an other.

On my voyage I’ll remember a burden

that took me away in the silence,

where my harm is equal to others’.

© Julianne Carlile 

1994

You Go On

You go on, not remembering,

or else don’t care, which is the same,

and I think on the lovely ring

you took back, worn by what’s her name.

Nature consoles me; it has heart,

a heart I did not find in you.

Nature will not leave me apart.

Nature, in fact, is just and true.

The shorn grass falls out in my wake,

the swallows follow on my way,

I resolve to make a mistake.

Before I see the boy, I say,

"I love you," and your voice or God’s,

on the summer wind answers, nods.

© Julianne Carlile

Star-Crossed

I would often ask you for the stories

of how I ended up here

and you would tell me:

I met your grandfather when

he came to work for my parents.

He was a really sharp dresser.

Then you would laugh.

I wondered if you knew what you were really

telling me:

That grandpa had been given used clothes

by your lover, a man you were enamored with

and at first, at the play,

you thought grandpa was him.

(His scent permeated the room;

you could feel him—his essence,

like a star beam covered in gold dust.

But then when you looked,

you saw it was grandpa.)

It must have been really funny,

but what’s really funny is that’s why

I’m here.

© Julianne Carlile