Tag: poetry

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War

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I consume people, one after the other.
I run my fingers through their long blond hair,
And dye it black after I have chopped it short.
I let my eyes dwell on their high brow,
And penetrate the Sacred with my gaze.
I dive into blue eyes,
And ripple their clear, still surface.
I outline straight noses,
And expose their striving pride.
I rest my heavy hands against the cheek bones,
And bruise the soft skin.
I kiss your lips,
And bite them bloody to match mine.
I caress your fingers, one by one,
And drain them of their delicate strength.
I draw dark lines in your tender balms,
And read no future.
I tie your long and well-shaped legs,
To stop the carefree gait.
I twist your white neck
Because I cannot bear its beauty.
And when your body opens to my touch
I absorb your essence, lead you out
And ensure your extinction,
Before I move on.

© jsmorgane (winter 2004)

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Wet Toes on Hallows’ Eve

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Where to go on a night such as this?

Damp is dripping rhythmically
To the thundering, threatening organ,
Infiltrating silent grounds.

Wind is drying wet stones standing
Round and round which leaves are twirling,
Rushing, crossing my way down.

Quick steps echo in the open,
Clinging to uncanny sound,
Falter, cease. Then hasten back

To take off my shoes and dry my wet toes.

© jsmorgane (Oct 2004)

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Autumn Walk or: Celan in the Vineyard

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I was walking through the vineyard,
The one outside your window,
The one with cheerful leaves
In hues of autumn colourful.

The air was cold and clear,
The ground was blind and dry.
You walked ahead, away from me,
I ambled far behind.

There was a shard of something
On which the sunlight fell.
I stooped to dig it out,
To dig it up, to take it up.

Glazed pottery, not blue but green
And brittle in my balm.
I saw a woman coming,
Walking through this realm.

She came towards me, she held an earthen jar
In both her hands, she brought some wine
For workers in the fields. I stood and
Greeted her before she disappeared.

And saw the jar break on the ground,
The water spilled, and in my dirty hand
The small, green shard telling me of
Someone’s good will to men.

I wondered then what she’d have said,
What words of comfort she had held
For weary workers’ parched throats,
And weary walkers passing by.

It seemed just then I knew the world
And all the wonders that it holds,
Collected right there in my hand,
And after you I quickly ran to show,
To share, to make you smile again.

© jsmorgane (Oct 2010)