blue turtle

blue turtle

Blue Turtle Crossing

A Poetry and Photography Showcase - Spring Edition, March 2007, Volume 4

Home Colleen Breuning Genevieve Borleis Joanne Olivieri Bryon D. Howell Photography News Contacts

Poetry by Genevieve Harten Borleis

Exhausting -ly

at first there were plenty of guides
tending to all my needs,
the mental and physical parts of me
battling regularly
the desire to fend for myself
while weakened at the knees
with pampering
learning to support myself
financially and emotionally
or so it seemed
at forty-six
I still want my mommy
she can no longer be
with me
or do things
for me
she is still so much
part of me
do you think she can hear me
forgive my stupidity
silly silly
Certainly !

Genevieve Harten Borleis (c) 2007

Visiting the Cemetery on a Rainy Day

Tennis shoes surrender grip
wet grass squeaking
impressions of skid marks
stray blades cling to laces
with expectations of escape
bright bright green
much more vibrant
than those that remain
still attached to earth
smashed under Nike tread.

Genevieve Harten Borleis (c) 2007

Mountain Milk

Exhilarating air
inhaled with olympian
breaths, again, and again
enough to fill the lungs
of Jupiter. Pale-stained
cheeks welcome the
sting of flesh slapped
without sound
ruddy trails boast
healthy marks
nature at its best
fresh and pure
Ah! - indeed
to be eternally

Genevieve Harten Borleis (c) 2007

genny borleis

Genevieve Harten Borleis is a gifted poet
from the Baltimore, Maryland area.
She has always loved writing and poetry
since she was young. She had left it
behind for many years, until her mother's
death in 2003. Everyone was so impressed
with the poem she wrote for her eulogy, that
their encouragement and support sparked her
creative fuse. She has been writing ever
since then. Genny has been published online
at e-zines such as Ya'Sou and Cracked Lenses.
She currently is the editor of Pink Mouse Pub.

You can visit her website at:

Pink Mouse Pub

French Broad

Vertical View of French Broad River, Marshall, NC
Colleen M. Breuning (c) 2007

The Steeplechase Picnic

Heading for the pristine fields
Just past the rustic bridge
Tears fill my eyes, excitement builds
To see how the other half lives.

Longaberger picnic basket, nestled in
beside me, complete with botanical fields liner,
is packed full with a feast fit for my king.
Today, I feel like a bona fide queen - never finer.

I practice mincing movements; nods, subtle and coy,
to be interspersed into conversation as I deem best.
Commanding attention (a rather deliberate ploy,
I confess - but well-deserved nonetheless).

My dainty clutch, from Lazanne's designer boutique,
matches, (precisely in fact), the made-to-distract,
main accessory. Utterly feminine, and distinctly unique;
the crown atop my head: a Mary Jane's Farm fancy hat.

Picture of poise, escorted by my kindly gent,
we stroll leisurely among the crowd and claim
an enchanting spot to place our banquet spread.
No red and white checkered cloth of shame.

Our cloth was linen. Virgin white. Our menu most divine.
Smoked salmon, lobster - champagne, to be sipped from
a distinctive pair of Waterford Love Flutes. To dine
alfresco would never be the same. Casually clad onlookers,
eating fried chicken with their fingers, ogled our affair.

It could have been my topping, or perhaps the sparking silver,
silverware. Most likely the entire sight was one to behold.
Exactly as I intended. And it thrilled me to no end.
As the sun was setting, back at home, eating chips straight

from the bag, comfortably changed into my favorite jeans;
I reveled in the day that was right out of my wildest dreams.
I didn't see one race that day, yet it will certainly remain
the most exciting horserace (was that me?) I ever did attend.

Genevieve Harten Borleis (c) 2007

Cicadas Are Playing Our Song

Seventeen years since the serenade
of the sizzling skillet. So long
ago, my soul was consumed, plagued,
squirming with such strong insatiable desires.
All of my senses stunned, succumb in succession.
Starved, salivating, anticipating. Succulent kisses inspire
slippery skin to surrender its moist, softness - so sensitive
to contagious caresses, sweltering in sweet suffocation
of masculine sweat. Whispering, stammering senselessly,
to the tune of the short-lived insect.

Ah, like the locust, you sucked all the sap from my roots.
I shouldn't have been surprised by your species. Commitment,
honesty, monogamy, were not evidences of your truths.
Consequently, as quickly as you corrupted me, you went.
Like the arthropods melody that played through the night
inconspicuously entering my brain, I allowed you to drain
all of the vital fluid that flowed through my veins -  until
I laid empty, weakened and wearily spent. How insanely
blind of me, absurd in fact. I shriveled to an infinitesimal
speck of dust to learn the delicacy on which you dined
was not mine alone. And even still, today, though my stature
is regained, I am not immune to the cicadas tune.

Genevieve Harten Borleis (c) 2007

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