ANN WEIL - POEMS

Ann Weil is a retired teacher and professor from Ann Arbor, Michigan. Her work can be read or is forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, Poetry Quarterly, American Writer’s Review, The Voices Project, and other publications. To learn more, visit www.annweilpoetry.com.

She
​

​She dreams of greatness
But is the embodiment of mediocrity.
 
Aspires to fame and high esteem
Yet habitually falls short of the mark.
 
Wonders if she will ever be content
With the smallness of her life,
With her inconsequential contribution.
 
Envies the sandhill crane who lives
Unfettered by existential inquiry.
 
Admires the Black-eyed Susans
For their total disregard of anything
Other than exuberant sun-worship.
 
Searches for grace and acceptance
Of who, what, and how she is.
 
Finds a sunbeam. Sits.
 

​Things Left Untended

​Lawn gone to seed
Latchkey children
Nose hair.
 
Ancestral graves
Stray cats
Loose ends.
 
Fading friendships
Overdue bills
Dust bunnies.
 
Broken spirits
Socks with holes
Earth.
 

Fallen Face

​

​Old Friend.
Is it really you?
The mind paints pictures
But the glass doesn’t lie.

I’ll be truthful,
It’s a bit shocking to glimpse you
Unexpectedly.

Image and narrative clash jarringly,
If caught unawares.
Choosing to look is a different matter.
One can prepare oneself.

Fallen face, as if melting.
Who left the cake out in the rain, anyway?
Between the lines, under the folds,
Despite splatters of umber dotting the landscape,
I claim this­­--
Beauty remains.

Not conventional Beauty, mind you.
Rather, the essence of strength, resilience, and grace
That can be regarded as comely in women of a certain age.
I’ll give myself that much.

And I’m fond of the streaks of silver, too,
That frame the fallen face.
I look like my grandmothers.

Acceptance comes and goes.
What does it mean to age gracefully?
Am I doing it right? 

Homecoming
​

​The letter is taped to the bannister 
Not to be missed. 
The salutation is non-existent--
Just “Mom”. 
 
Not good, says the pit in my stomach. 
 
I read. 
The pit is sadly correct. 
Not good. 
 
A Dear John missive
Blame and accusation thinly veiled.
Jilted parent, not lover.
My son is gone.
 
Now I carry Anger in one arm 
And Hurt in the other. 
As soon as I get one calm
The other rails. 
No sleep tonight. 
Eyes ache from crying. 
Chest heavy and tight. 
 
Let go. 
Let be. 
Do not refire the synapses. 
Obsession is fruitless. 
Let go. 
Let be. 
Let time. 
Let heal. 
Find grace. 
 
 

I Woke Up Old Again
​

​I woke up old again today.
Achy joints stiff and creaky.
Face in the mirror
A disappointing jumble of
Crags, crevices and jowly bits.
Jesus.
 
In my mind
I am young still.
Lithe and lean
Smooth and tight.
Nary a pain nor ailment.
 
I’m not ready for death
But this downward slide is challenging.
I dream as though I am twenty
Yet every morning it’s Goundhog Day
And my grandmother stares back at me.