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Literature Text
A moonbeam man came to my door.
His face was blue; his feet were sore.
His eyes were crescent shapes of light.
He turned the dusk into delight.
His wares he bore upon a tray,
an esoteric light display:
comets with and without tails;
misty, hazy moonlit trails;
sequinned stars, pointing sharp;
angels’ wings; an angel’s harp;
soft gold-speckled nimbus clouds;
mares’ tails streaming long and proud;
memories from distant stars
presented in white crystal jars
and moons all boxed with magic sealed –
this man he offered me the world.
What should I choose from jostled choices,
that spoke with awed and yearning voices?
The moonbeam man with patience waited
until the dusk sky had vacated.
He smiled so kindly – sensed my plight.
Then slowly slipped into the night...
His face was blue; his feet were sore.
His eyes were crescent shapes of light.
He turned the dusk into delight.
His wares he bore upon a tray,
an esoteric light display:
comets with and without tails;
misty, hazy moonlit trails;
sequinned stars, pointing sharp;
angels’ wings; an angel’s harp;
soft gold-speckled nimbus clouds;
mares’ tails streaming long and proud;
memories from distant stars
presented in white crystal jars
and moons all boxed with magic sealed –
this man he offered me the world.
What should I choose from jostled choices,
that spoke with awed and yearning voices?
The moonbeam man with patience waited
until the dusk sky had vacated.
He smiled so kindly – sensed my plight.
Then slowly slipped into the night...
Literature
Decision of Birth
We as people cannot choose the pond in which we are birthed.
Some have clear water and bright skies filled with hope.
Others come from mud where the air is so thick that you choke.
You cannot choose the place in which are you born
But you can choose the flower into which you will bloom.
Will you be as the lotus, blooming proudly even in a fetid pond.
Or you will be the corpse flower, smelling of death long before you are gone.
Your choice
- 'Decision of Birth'
Literature
Shattered Dreams of Flight
I find her clutching the ashes
Of shattered dreams of flight
Benumbed and desolate
It is shockingly inhuman
To torment a soul in anguish
With the promise of freedom
Only to strip it from her
Laughing as she was left
Trapped in hateful chains
This was the wicked pleasure
Of a cruel, demented child god
Methodically plucking feathers
Out of a captured angel's wings
One by one, viciously precise
Relishing the ecstatic thought
Of each pure dream crushed
This is the horrible aftermath
And I cannot bear the sight
Of her bloody, denuded wings
The hideous burning stench
Of feathers reduced to ash
My heart breaks to see her
Stumbling, numb and listle
Literature
dark sheets
she was tired
and always seemed to be
with her mind moving slower than her hands
her hands still trailing behind others
she was beautiful
even with bags under her eyes,
there was so much warmth to her face,
you’d want to make your bed within her cheekbones
she was smart
but managed to forget to turn off the stove
and burn her hands on curling irons
she was tired
because she refused to sleep
refused to succumb to the strength
of the dark sheets you ruined her under
she was not weak
and will say so, everyday,
until you can hear her
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Comments15
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Your writing never ceases to be a joy; bringing back all the will and whimsy of childish imagination that feels so long gone in adult years. Normally I fancy the dark and dramatic/tragic, but your work has a way of making me nostalgic for the wonders of childhood. Yet another beautiful piece. 