Tag: Diane Elayne Dees

Two Poems by Diane Elayne Dees

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

A Final Offering

(an ekphrastic interpretation of George Rodrigue’s The Last Novena for Gabriel)

She kneels before the grave,
her hair in braids, a bouquet
of roses in her hand, and recalls
her wedding day. Sometimes,
she can still feel the brute pressure
on her arms as the red-coated men
pulled her out of the little church.
There was no blessing, no vows
were said. She was forced to sail
to a place called New England;
Gabriel, she heard, was in a place
called Louisiana—a land of giant
oaks and majestic birds
that skimmed the calm waters.
Evangeline searched for him
for years, crossing rivers and bayous,
only to encounter endless strands
of moss hanging from the trees
like scarves of mourning.
And now she has found his final
resting place, a simple grave
under a massive oak. The moss
hangs low over dark, foreboding
branches, forming a sacred arch
to enclose the final prayer—
her last gift to Gabriel, her love.


Le Grand Dérangement

(an ekphrastic interpretation of George Rodrigue’s A Final Look at Acadie)

Four women in long black skirts
and white-brimmed bonnets
stand on a wooden pier,
just a few feet away from a boat
that will take them to Britain,
New York, Massachusetts—
somewhere foreign—somewhere
they have never seen or imagined.
Their husbands, parents, cousins,
are scattered throughout the world.
Some made it to a place called
Louisiana, some drowned, some
were lost at sea, some died
from the ravages of winter
before they ever saw land.

Four women stand resigned,
as the dark sky behind them
foretells a fate that will change
their lives forever. Banished
from Acadie, they have already
met a kind of death. They take
one last look at the only home
that they have ever known,
and prepare to face the whims
of the rolling waves, the terror
of the unknown, the shame
of banishment. Now they must
say farewell and board the boat,
though they do not know why.




Diane Elayne Dees is the author of the chapbooks, Coronary Truth (Kelsay Books), The Last Time I Saw You (Finishing Line Press), and The Wild Parrots of Marigny (Querencia Press). She is also the author of four Origami Poems Project microchaps, and her poetry, short fiction and creative nonfiction have been published in many journals and anthologies. Diane, who lives in Covington, Louisiana, also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women’s professional tennis throughout the world. Her author blog is Diane Elayne Dees: Poet and Writer-at-Large.

Two Poems by Diane Elayne Dees

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

I Saw You Today

You sat on the taupe armchair
in my living room and refused
my offer of coffee or tea,
just as you always do.
I told you some silly stories
and we laughed together,
talked about sports, validated
each other’s passionate opinions.
Maybe we’re just old, we said,
but—more likely—the world
really is crazy. You listened to me,
something you never did
when you lived here. You said
nothing that was sympathetic,
yet I felt as if you heard me.

Who are you? I wondered, for
the thousandth time. I thought
of that time, thirty years ago,
when I saw you—tall and blond,
arms crossed—leaning against
the restaurant wall, waiting for me,
and I felt, for a moment,
like we were in a movie.
Marriage is a fragile thing;
I will never finish picking up
the shattered pieces of ours—
I swallow them when I breathe,
they cling to my skin, they float
around the head of the ghost-like
woman I see when I look in the mirror.

I still do not know who you are
or who we were. But I know
that we, too, are fragile,
that we will never again be
who we once were. I know
that resolution is just a word,
and that we are somehow bound
forever. I know this because,
for just a little while,
I saw you today.


Sleeping in a New Bed

We hadn’t had the bed that long
when the marriage ended.
I’d had the legs cut down,
knowing that he wouldn’t notice.
When he moved out, I had them
cut down again because my body
craves intimacy with the vibrations
of the earth. It was solid ash,
stained mahogany—durable,
but highlighted by that red-brown
tint of blood. I changed
the wall color, the art, the lamp,
the nightstand, the bedding.
The room became an oasis
of serenity, but no amount
of mauve and gray could
calm the fires of my mind
or ease the stiffness of my limbs.

But once disassembled, the bed,
a neat pile of glossy boards,
lost its power. Now I sleep
on a new bed. The wood
is a lighter tone, the headboard is solid
and sturdy. I am still close to the earth,
but I no longer lie on layers of sorrow,
betrayal and regret. A new bed
has no magic power to heal my mind
and body, but its clean, minimal
design whispers a message
as each day ends: Keep it simple,
feel the earth beneath you,
realize your strength, and—
at long last—let your body rest.




Diane Elayne Dees is the author of three chapbooks, Coronary Truth (Kelsay Books), The Last Time I Saw You (Finishing Line Press), and The Wild Parrots of Marigny (Querencia Press), as well as four Origami Poems Project microchaps. Diane, who lives in Covington, Louisiana, also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women’s professional tennis throughout the world. Her author blog is Diane Elayne Dees: Poet and Writer-at-Large.

Two Poems by Diane Elayne Dees

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Two Women

I see two different women every day
in my mirror. One looks healthy, one looks weak;
one wants to run, the other wants to stay.

One’s put together, one’s in disarray;
one of them seems stable—one’s a freak.
I see two different women. Every day,

I wonder what their younger selves would say,
or would they be too terrified to speak?
One wants to run. The other wants to stay,

though she knows too well the price she’ll have to pay;
life has scarred her, left her landscape bleak.
I see two different women every day—

one’s very essence has begun to fray,
the other still looks vital, strong and chic.
One wants to run, the other wants to stay.

I wish that both of them would find a way
to come to terms with what it is they seek.
I see two different women every day;
one wants to run, the other wants to stay.


Life Cycle

There were storms, and there was Christmas.
The empty spruce, perfect in its bare elegance,
lies next to piles of cracked oak and pine limbs
shaken down by strong winds and relentless rains.
Their juxtaposition is startling. The empty tree—
still green—radiates some of the beauty denied it
by its recent burden of glittery cones, ornaments
and tiny white lights. Now it is just a tree,
tossed out to die and then be hauled away.

When I was a child, my father would chop down
a pine tree, dip pine cones and sweet gum balls
in bright red and green paint and attach them
to the tree to mingle with the glass ornaments.
Christmas was a violent, frightening affair,
but at least there was a tree—something
that represented life in the little house
near the woods where hope had already
relinquished its green potential and quietly died.

It would be decades before I would bring home
my own Christmas tree, an act that nudged me
out of the darkness of the past—
an organic testimony to the power of ritual,
a fragrant symbol of celebration,
my commitment to tribal comfort.
Now, years later, the cats who slept
under the Christmas tree are gone,
the husband who wanted nothing to do
with the Christmas tree is gone.

But I am still here, and my tree,
which may soon be mulch,
or protection for marshland,
gave me gifts of beauty and belonging,
and I honor its brief life.
All our lives are brief, as we struggle
to stay green, with or without decoration.
Like Christmas trees, we are cut down
again and again, exposed just as we are,
imperfect in our bare inelegance.




Diane Elayne Dees is the author of the chapbooks, Coronary Truth (Kelsay Books), The Last Time I Saw You (Finishing Line Press), and The Wild Parrots of Marigny (Querencia Press). She is also the author of three Origami Poems Project microchaps, and her poetry, short fiction and creative nonfiction have appeared in many journals and anthologies. Diane, who lives in Covington, Louisiana, also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women’s professional tennis throughout the world. Her author blog is Diane Elayne Dees: Poet and Writer-at-Large.

Two Poems by Diane Elayne Dees

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

The Grief of Trees

Joined at the root, two tall pines
form a “V” that reaches toward the sky.
Their marriage, an inosculation,
is forever. Each is allowed to grow,
yet they never leave each other,
for their foundation is strong.

They once had a child—
a gnarly vine with bark
that stayed close to the parents,
while—like all children—
it explored the environment,
swaying in the breeze.

But breezes became strong winds,
and—over time—the trees lost
their offspring. The mighty pines
continued to sway and grow,
though who can discern
when a tree is grieving?

Not far from where the bereft gemels
stand, I, too, had a partner,
and hoped to grow while rooted
at our base. But the wild wind
of betrayal weakened our structure,
and an ice storm blew through
and detached us. No child was lost
in our storm, for there was never a child
to lose—an unseeded forest is also a loss.

Who can discern when a tree is grieving?
I grieve for them, and I observe them,
as they continue to thrive, joined securely
at their base, able to withstand the winds
that tear down the framework of those
whose roots do not reach deep into the earth.


Storm Debris

We have seen it before:
the downed trees, the piles of limbs,
shingles flung to the street,
dozens of overflowing trash cans
reeking of rotted vegetables.
We know the drill—
the power will come back on
some day. There will be cable TV
and Internet some day,
and when we least expect it,
our phones will work again.

We are tough, we are resilient,
but we are powerless to escape
the sounds—the roar of generators,
the constant buzz of saws—the sounds
of Katrina. They blow through
the deepest recesses of our psyches,
they flow like restless bayous
through our waking dreams.

We knew then that we would never
be the same. Our hair stopped growing,
or it fell out, or turned suddenly gray.
The displaced, with their glazed-over eyes,
were easy to recognize. The rest of us
shuddered every time we saw the images.
Our bodies tightened like vises
every time the talking heads told a story
that had nothing to do with what happened.

We hear the droning symphony of saws
and motors—the sounds that remind us
that our DNA has been altered,
and that future generations will bear these genes.
The never-ending soundtrack of Katrina
is background music for the movie
that will never stop running—people
crammed onto the floor of the Superdome,
beloved pets tossed into the street to drown,
the sound of bullets on the Danziger Bridge,
deputies entering houses and shooting dogs,
the caskets of long-dead relatives
floating down the street, the deadly effects
of black mold and lead poisoning,
the remains of looted stores,
the search for missing corpses,
the leader eating cake in the desert.

Suddenly, there are birds
and dragonflies again,
and one morning, the sun shines.
At some point, generators will shut down,
and the saws will be put away.
But their sounds remain,
vibrating through our cells,
a deadly signature unique to us—
the eternal hum of trauma.




Diane Elayne Dees is the author of the chapbook, Coronary Truth (Kelsay Books), and two forthcoming chapbooks, I Can’t Recall Exactly When I Died, and The Last Time I Saw You. She also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women’s professional tennis throughout the world. Diane lives in Covington, Louisiana, just across Lake Pontchartrain from New Orleans. Her author blog is Diane Elayne Dees: Poet and Writer-at-Large.

“Vera’s Butterflies” by Diane Elayne Dees

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

For the final day of my career, I dress
in black, save a splash of white in a classic
Vera Neumann scarf. It is a kind of death,
complete with flowers from my final client.
For decades, I listened to stories that broke
my heart, triggered my rage, and made me
wonder how any of us has survived—
stories of cruelty, betrayal, loneliness,
and trauma. The very walls of my office
are sealed with the tears of the abandoned,
the abused, the hopeless, the overwhelmed.
They can never be washed away or painted
over. Grief oozes from the cracks in the door,
where—occasionally—hope creeps in,
reminding me that grief and hope
must blend or there can be no alchemy,
no repair of the torn fabric of our frail lives.
I look down at my scarf, which is covered
with Vera’s abstract butterflies. She sewed
her first scarves from the abandoned
parachutes of war, turning violence into art,
and transmuting hopelessness into beauty.
I am no Vera, but I have done my best.
I close my office door for the last time,
drive home, remove my scarf, and hang it
in my closet, allowing Vera’s butterflies—
elegant, fragile symbols of transformation—
to float freely around my own broken soul.


first appeared in Nine Cloud




Diane Elayne Dees is the author of the chapbook, Coronary Truth (Kelsay Books) and the forthcoming chapbook, I Can’t Recall Exactly When I Died. Her latest microchap, Pandemic Times, is available for downloading and folding at the Origami Poems Project website. Diane, who lives in Covington, Louisiana–just across Lake Pontchartrain from New Orleans–also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women’s professional tennis throughout the world. Her author blog is Diane Elayne Dees: Poet and Writer-at-Large.