The blue sky has acquiesced to cold grey arches.
There is little tending to severed leaves detached
by laws of seasons past.
What remains is a collection of treasures stacked
behind a dozing spider, clay pots, a rusty kiln, worn brushes.
Warm breath on sculptor’s bones ease her aching hands
until she is malleable once more.
Bent and shaped into her own likeness
if she is diligent in the Spring she will bloom again.
Translation by Bernd Hutschenreuther
Im Frühling werden wir wieder blühen
Der blaue Himmel hat die
kalten grauen Bögen angenommen.
Wenig nur neigt er, sich
trauernder Düsternis zu ergeben,
Wir fallen von den Bäumen,
getrieben vom Gesetz der Jahreszeiten,
der Vergangenheit entfliehend, getrennt von
Unser Schicksal ist die harte Erde,
Wir sind der Sonne verloren.
Eine düstere Sammlung vergessener Schätze.
Sie greift nach den Tontöpfen
und der dösenden schwarzen Witwe
Auf der Suche nach einer…
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Browsing my journals
I am reminded of the past.
The door swings open
releasing sleek eels of memories
where I am nothing or at best
a trembling leaf caught in a spring breeze.
Do you ever think of me
find me in constellations pressed against the sky
or hear me in the sigh of an incoming tide?
I would seek comfort in the moon but I am
so trivial and he is taken by the stars.
In dreams my tongue is a crimson snake that
flicks hungrily along the length of your thigh
curling around the catch in my throat.
You are god and have named me regret.
I close our door with pried fingers.
I’ve given up on prayer hands.
Art by Rita Hardy
I shower and dress, apply makeup as though I am going to work. I barely recognize my own reflection in the mirror but I am wearing my favorite dress and my hair is the color of rusty nails. I ignore your perplexed expression and questions.
Downtown I meld into the chaotic masses, eyes that are infused with the pain of survival. As the morning wears on relentless chatter becomes an undercurrent of whispers that fade with the crowd. Sweat and strong coffee stings my nostrils, clings to skin. Alien faces are etched behind my eyes.
The familiar girl is propped against the graffiti covered wall that turns golden in the sunset. Her head rests against skeletal arms that wrap around her knees. Jarred by a boot she glances upward from her induced euphoria, fumbles in the pocket of torn jeans fishing out a handful of dollars. Glancing around the…
View original post 187 more words
Little exists in record regarding Telémaco Augusto Santana. From some spotted newspaper publications regarding his work, to some handful of poultry donations made to the parish he inhabited, his name seems almost like a dent in an ancient structure; part of a gestalt of ages, another function of the uniformity of time. A texture, almost, […]
I went into her life when
She was numb,
People took her for granted
But she was not dumb.
She had her choice of things
And everything’s proper time,
She is marvelously wonderful
That she does wonder with rhymes.
Fake, double-faced, irresponsible
People she hates the most,
She is so much flexible
That she’s changed the timing of her posts.
I wish, I could write more about the care,
Affection, and your innocence,
Your heart is as pure as gold
That we’re always open for discussion.
This is nothing but an appreciation
Poetry to tell I’m grateful for the rhyme,
I know there’s nothing new I’m going to
Hear from you, as you want me to shine.
Out of all the chaos in the world
Your voice has the most beautiful sound,
I’ll meet you in my next poem
till then ‘See you around’.
Copyright © 2015-2020 by SumitOfficial
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oh how my love, i always wished for a love that oh was handcrafted; and oh how it all seemed to came true, as ohi met you; for the moments with you, the letters to you, the surprises for you; were not something that oh i had planned but oh how they all still seem to fit well, within our story that oh we were nurturing together, as if this was my love, that we were destined to create all along.
The heart has reasons that the mind cannot understand. The heart has its own dimension of being, which is completely hidden for the mind. It is higher and deeper than the mind, is beyond their reach. Seems silly. Love always seems foolish because it is not utility. The mind is utilitarian. For it, all things have a purpose, and that is the point of being utilitarian. The mind turns everything into means to achieve goals and objectives, this is its orientation. Love, however, cannot be transformed into a medium, which is a problem. Love itself is a goal.
oh no women should be left alone in the process of giving birth or raising a part of her.
oh the pain to their stories; i feel it even when they never express it to you
oh how she feels just not the pain to her but also of the child
why is dad not home, ma?
ma, will dad come this time for my birthday?
ma, am I bad child? then why doesn’t dad call me or meet us?
ma, i came first in my class. will dad come now, ma?
ma, can we ask dad if he could come this time at our picnic?
if only someone could take me to the hospital. she has been moving a lot within me and oh i just don’t seem to have the strength to do it on my own
i wish i could dress my…
View original post 407 more words