Rochelle Hope Mehr
Country : United States of America

Rochele returns with new and stirring  works. Rochelle's poetry has appeared in ken*again, Offerings, Map of Austin Poetry, The Sidewalk's End, Poems Niederngasse and other publications. - Editors BMP



Gender Confusion

They got me so confused, those therapists.
The one in Greenwich Village advising
Me to act like Marilyn Monroe.  I
Should have been flattered he thought I could pull
It off but instead was highly offended.
And what about the psychiatrist who
Told me that I was, "A good little actress?"
She thought I was already acting a part.
I did realize that I imitated her clanking about
In her stiletto heels but she was supposed to be
A role model, wasn't she?

I never could figure out their vision of
Femininity:  Red smooching lips?
Curvaceous hips?  Honey-tongued siren
Baiting Odysseus?  To this day
I wonder if I am too aggressive, a gamma ray.
I never could properly act the part of a tart.
Does this make me gay?


The Grog (on the first anniversary of 9/11)

We were floating on the ether
Of infinite expansion, oblivious to
The dust gathering at our feet.
Until the bubble burst
The fortress collapsed
And we were strewn across a grid
Of infinite complexity, a new grid,
One not of our own making.

And one year later, we are still laid waste
In this morass of confusion.
Not clearly discerning
The way out.
Still dazed from the planes' impact
As well as from the grog
We swill to palliate the pain.


After a Long Illness

Blessed Solitude where have you gone?
Thrust into the world I am newly undone.

Too much to remember.
Too much left undone.

Thrust into the world.
Privy to nothing.
Flesh to be eaten
By a devouring world.
Heart exposed.

Flesh to be spat upon.
Heart to be shat upon.


Dear Poet

Your work is worthless.
Your rant is not worth a grant.

Why do you care?
Starving artists exhibit the most flair.
They cater to no constituency

Save the solitary soul.
Unfettered by the skeins of expediency
They rise

To universality



It's not a happy way to live.
It's not a joyous way to live.
But it keeps me alive.
It feeds me as it feeds upon me.
We have a symbiotic relationship.
We two.
Anger and me.

Every time I forget.
Every time I let down my guard
And am singed by ignorance, prejudice
Or malice
Its hungry tongue laps
Hard against my breast
And I am galvanized
Into pure ire.

I won't melt a heart
But I will resonate through
The canyons of insensate resistance.