BEFORE I GO TO SLEEP
A POETIC CHAPBOOK BY CAROL LYNN STEVENSON GRELLAS
A POETIC CHAPBOOK BY CAROL LYNN STEVENSON GRELLAS
"Before I Go to Sleep is a rich and memorable collection of finely crafted contemporary verse. Carol Lynn’s distinct poetic voice is full of wry, wit, sweetness, and sensuality. Her words carry an uncanny undercurrent of longing mixed with authority ‘tell her to never visit me in dreams/ keep her hidden and veiled with clouds.’ This is one of those rare volumes filled with meaningful metaphor and charming minute-by-minute instances that delight the mind long after the last line is read."
--Karen Kelsay, Editor of White Violet Press, and Aldrich Publishing
"Carol Lynn Grellas is a fantastic poet and Splash of Red has had the honor of publishing three of her poems including "A Mall in California." Her poetry has the rare ability to truly engage and take the reader someplace that they never knew they wanted to go. Having read thousands of poems over the years, it's always refreshing to read something that unexpectedly takes me somewhere personal through someone else's words. Carol Lynn Grellas writes those words."
--Dylan Emerick-Brown, Editor-in-Chief, Splash of Red.net
"In Before I Go To Sleep, Carol Lynn Grellas has managed to produce a collection of poems that are not only accessible but absolutely meaningful to the human spirit. Her work is abundant, honest and unflinchingly real. As a fellow writer and editor, I tend to seek honesty and passion. I've found both in Grellas's work. She writes with unabashed purity. A collection to be treasured. A body of work that will stand the test of time and endure."
--Lisa Zaran, author of If It We and Editor of Contemporary American Voices
from Before I Go To Sleep
THOUGHTS WITH BEETHOVEN IN THE BACKGROUND
I could cry that sounds so beautiful−
Have you ever been underneath a plane?
Please don’t bury me alone, I hate the sound
of digging. Place an eyelash protection device
between me and the coffin lid. I want my eyes
to remain open however you can manage it.
Maybe poke a hole in the top and hand me
a periscope to peek through, but I hear the nights
are cold. All my relatives were buried in marble
walls, except my parents who weren’t allowed
to die. I believe they escaped before anyone knew
what happened. That lady stands naked all the time,
one arm raised above her head with a bee behind her,
sucking the life out of a chartreuse flower.
**First Published in Silenced Press, A Pushcart Nominee
A MALL IN CALIFORNIA
(after reading A Supermarket in California, by Allen Ginsberg)
What needs I have for you tonight, Victoria Secret
for I stroll past the naked mannequins, half-dressed
with funnel shaped breasts and hair of lacquered pearl.
A girl who prays for moonlit nights to angle light
just right and bombard my windowpane with galaxies
of unknown inventory. But you with your aisles full
of thong-back panties and lace-net bras of fleur-de-lis,
I can imagine the husbands’ hallelujahs. What plums
with hidden nectars, ripe as teats for nursing babes.
And you Johnny Depp, I am here a minute past
the dressing rooms.
I saw you Victoria Secret, I saw you placing your mirrors
akimbo to the walks, rose-toned halogens brightening
up the ambiance. Are you my savior? My wingless
goddess giving me hope? I danced in serpentine
steps between the cashier and the husbands needing
a centerfold; but I am old and my mind is hostage
to fantasy. I pass the girls with robust frames, standing
amidst the pendulum’s constant tick. The clock whisperer
is calling my name.
Where are you going, Victoria Secret? Security is closing
the double-chained door. Which heels are best for this nudity
show? You are the mother of bringing sexy back and arousing
desire from some pitiless sight. My plight, a nude desire
where ambition is fueled by fire and no man can say no
to an unhooked bra.
Ah, Victoria, sweet encourager of support and midnight
fallacies, what has become of the flower-child bohemian
mantra, the breathing heart of uninhibited passion, where
nothing proves as beautiful as bosom pressed to skin?
(after reading A Supermarket in California, by Allen Ginsberg)
What needs I have for you tonight, Victoria Secret
for I stroll past the naked mannequins, half-dressed
with funnel shaped breasts and hair of lacquered pearl.
A girl who prays for moonlit nights to angle light
just right and bombard my windowpane with galaxies
of unknown inventory. But you with your aisles full
of thong-back panties and lace-net bras of fleur-de-lis,
I can imagine the husbands’ hallelujahs. What plums
with hidden nectars, ripe as teats for nursing babes.
And you Johnny Depp, I am here a minute past
the dressing rooms.
I saw you Victoria Secret, I saw you placing your mirrors
akimbo to the walks, rose-toned halogens brightening
up the ambiance. Are you my savior? My wingless
goddess giving me hope? I danced in serpentine
steps between the cashier and the husbands needing
a centerfold; but I am old and my mind is hostage
to fantasy. I pass the girls with robust frames, standing
amidst the pendulum’s constant tick. The clock whisperer
is calling my name.
Where are you going, Victoria Secret? Security is closing
the double-chained door. Which heels are best for this nudity
show? You are the mother of bringing sexy back and arousing
desire from some pitiless sight. My plight, a nude desire
where ambition is fueled by fire and no man can say no
to an unhooked bra.
Ah, Victoria, sweet encourager of support and midnight
fallacies, what has become of the flower-child bohemian
mantra, the breathing heart of uninhibited passion, where
nothing proves as beautiful as bosom pressed to skin?
**First Published in Splash of Red
DOWN BY THE CREEK
Down by the creek where the tadpoles breed
I used to kneel bare kneed on the long green grass
with my brother catching red legged frogs.
We’d run our mischievous hands
through shallow swampy waters
using an upward sweeping motion,
swirling them around making a rolling current
and scooping cupfuls of murky liquid
between our palms,
we’d raise them towards the heavens
as though we were in morning chapel
waiting for the placement of a perfect wafer.
Sometimes they’d hide under
a downed tree or a cluster of moist leaves
in the marshy root tangles below
yet they were no match for our
Mark Twain hearts with their
slow swimming breast stroke
through a cattail thicket.
I dreamt someday we’d give
a tiny flourish at the Calaveras fair
with our own able leaping frog
named “Webster.”
How my brother would grin with delight
every time he caught another,
his bounty twice my paltry take
he’d glow as bright as the swollen sun,
for once again he’d topped my gain.
Oh dear brother, even now,
the best part is knowing
how I let you catch them all.
Down by the creek where the tadpoles breed
I used to kneel bare kneed on the long green grass
with my brother catching red legged frogs.
We’d run our mischievous hands
through shallow swampy waters
using an upward sweeping motion,
swirling them around making a rolling current
and scooping cupfuls of murky liquid
between our palms,
we’d raise them towards the heavens
as though we were in morning chapel
waiting for the placement of a perfect wafer.
Sometimes they’d hide under
a downed tree or a cluster of moist leaves
in the marshy root tangles below
yet they were no match for our
Mark Twain hearts with their
slow swimming breast stroke
through a cattail thicket.
I dreamt someday we’d give
a tiny flourish at the Calaveras fair
with our own able leaping frog
named “Webster.”
How my brother would grin with delight
every time he caught another,
his bounty twice my paltry take
he’d glow as bright as the swollen sun,
for once again he’d topped my gain.
Oh dear brother, even now,
the best part is knowing
how I let you catch them all.
BEFORE I GO TO SLEEP
What she doesn’t know
is how I’ve become my mother
when I brush her shoulder length locks,
and kiss her swooping lashes.
We go back and forth with
choosing her doll’s daily dress,
but she is my doll, and I marvel
at her without ever saying.
When she’s asleep I genuflect
beside her as if I’ve entered
a holy place, yet there’s no cathedral’s
dome, only a small ceiling light.
I place my head against the beveled
edge of her quilted comforter
and hold my breath to eavesdrop
as she breathes in a day of flowers
hopscotch and arithmetic.
There’s a taste of ginger in the room
a scent of honeysuckle in the air
and I want to wake her just to say
thank you.
**First Published in The Storyteller
WHY I KEEP YOUR LAST POSTCARD ON MY NIGHTSTAND
You might remember the scent of vanilla
or the way I never cried whenever you tried
to talk of leaving, how your death-filled song
was more than a sparrow’s mantra, how it
swelled up in your throat like a gloating thing
and I could almost see the beating wing
from outside in. Listen, I was aware
that nothing lasts forever, even then
your prophecy of heaven; an exquisite
proclamation more profound than any
story I’ve ever read. It’s hard to imagine
the weightlessness of dying, the unfamiliar
nothingness you always embraced. I am
a coward in your cathedral, Kathy
and yet I hear your voice louder than any
silence past this wayside place─
if I hold my ear to the skylight I almost feel
the slow tapping of fingers against glass,
like quick flicks my mother snapped across my
cheek for misbehaving, the way it might
sound if god was scolding me for not believing
in miracles.
You might remember the scent of vanilla
or the way I never cried whenever you tried
to talk of leaving, how your death-filled song
was more than a sparrow’s mantra, how it
swelled up in your throat like a gloating thing
and I could almost see the beating wing
from outside in. Listen, I was aware
that nothing lasts forever, even then
your prophecy of heaven; an exquisite
proclamation more profound than any
story I’ve ever read. It’s hard to imagine
the weightlessness of dying, the unfamiliar
nothingness you always embraced. I am
a coward in your cathedral, Kathy
and yet I hear your voice louder than any
silence past this wayside place─
if I hold my ear to the skylight I almost feel
the slow tapping of fingers against glass,
like quick flicks my mother snapped across my
cheek for misbehaving, the way it might
sound if god was scolding me for not believing
in miracles.
**First Published in Cartographer
Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas is a six-time Pushcart nominee and Best of the Net nominee. She has authored six chapbooks and two echaps along with her latest full-length collection of poems: Epistemology of an Odd Girl, newly released from March Street Press. Her work has appeared in a wide variety of online and print magazines including: The Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine, Able Muse, Poets and Artists, The Foliate Oak and many more. According to family lore she is a direct descendent of Robert Louis Stevenson. Visit her website: www.clgrellaspoetry.com.
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