Sirens sailors sink

Sirens sailors sink

21-22 September 2017

siren
Courtesy pinterest.com

 

Mossy waves

Floating petals shades

Everglades

Wonder’s point

The colours observed disjoint

Hues of red and blue

 

Colour rule

Teachings of old school

Pupil mild

Like a child

Outer quiet inner wild

Rocking the boat two

 

Ship at sea

The mind keeping low at bay

Thunderous

Waves that bring

Ship wreck to my toe nail pink

Sirens sailors sink

 

Reading of the poem: 

Sirens snow tarakini deviantart com 3
Courtesy deviantart.com

Sirens’ song

The bitter taste of Orange

The bitter taste of Orange

21 February 2017

 

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They lived in a small house by the sea and when the weather was not harsh he would go out with their small boat to get some fish for their meal., else they would have to rely on the barley porridge that Estelle made. The barley was bought thanks to the latest catch Bart had made and that he had sold at the village earning him some sacks of barley. Estelle, his wife, always thought that the barley was better because wheat tented to get musty in their small house by the seashore.

 

When Bart was not fishing either because the weather was bad or because the catch would not be good, Estelle stayed at home knitting. All of Bart’s sweaters had been made by her and she had even started making him full jumpers.

 

In the twenty years that they had been married they had never quarreled once. It was not that they got on well about everything but simply that Estelle had quietly said “Well of course dear Bart you are right. I am so sorry that I did not understand it right the first time over”. In the early years of their marriage Bart had thought her to be giving in out of love for him and then slowly started suspecting that he may be simply superior to her mentally. While this thought tickled his ego and made him sometimes want to stray away and find a girl who would be more his intellectual equal, the long time passed with Estelle made it impossible for him to even draft such a plan.

 

Estelle made an excellent marmalade of the oranges that grew in the orchard around the house. It was really strange to see oranges growing so close to the sea but Estelle had her way with nature and from the fist orange tree that she had succeeded in planting during their first wedding year, there were now more than 40 orange trees growing around the little house.

 

The best days were when Bart could get the fish and Estelle could make one of her special “Coulis” with the same oranges except that the taste was not at all like the marmalade she made but rather like some delicious soup-like sauce she used as dressing with some herbs to go together with the fish.

 

In all the years they had lived together, Estelle had expressed only one desire and that was to float in the sea as she did not know how to swim and he was not sure whether he could help her swim at the coast as that is where the waves were the roughest. He kept thinking to himself that he could surely do it one day when he did not have to attend to the catch as she would have taken up the space useful for the catch and made them lose money if he had given in to her desire.

 

One day, coming back from his usual fishing trip he found Estelle her face resting on one palm and her other on the table. In front of her there were oranges that she had seemed to be cutting when she had died all of a sudden. He carried her in his arms overcome with grief and lay her on the bed. He was thirsty from the day’s toil so thought he should drink something before dealing with the situation. He seized some of the oranges and swallowed them but their taste was extremely bitter and had nothing to do with either the coulis nor the marmalade that Estelle had made for them.

 

Bart went back to Estelle and wondered what to do. He knew he could not just bury her like anyone else. He cried with anguish at the thought that he had never fulfilled her desire of floating in the sea. His mind then made, he called for the local priest to bless Estelle. When that was done, he rowed to the farthest point of their coast where the sea met the delta and put her body in the water. He thought that she looked too beautiful to die. He wept in grief at the way the orange strands of her hair spread out in the water.

 

They say he must have got lost in the tempest that ensued because he never came back after her sea burial. Some say, he chose to go with her because living without her was meaningless for him.

The oranges in the orchard still grow and the women from the village come and pick them freely and somehow, they always have a unique taste for each marmalade made. The oranges which are strangely extremely bitter when eaten naturally make a heavenly marmalade when the right quantity of sugar is added. The orchard lives on….

 

Reading of the story: 

ophelia-dorota-gorecka-photography-28205

Pink Orange by Instinct Primitif/ Intidhar Kammarti

 

 

 

Contrived contraption

Contrived contraption

27 December 2016

contrived-orki-design-deviantart-com
Courtesy orki on deviantart.com

 

Synapses

Diverging units

Time through space

Lovers knits

Illusions appearances

Unbends distances

 

Collapses

Of my nerve’s systems

Bleak anthems

Face disgrace

The ship sinks with all it boards

Waters welcome hoards

 

Digresses

The mind that invents

Circumvents

The intents

Recreating reaction

Contrived contraption

 

Reading of the poem: 

contrived-pinterest-com
Courtesy pinterest.com

Passage into Midnight – Omar Akram

Inside there is a soft glow

Inside there is a soft glow

15 December 2016

glow-about-com
Courtesy chemistry-about.com

 

The ship sails

The fallen sea wails

Burnt willows

My pillows

Embers flushing on my cheek

Glistening tears of meek

 

Resurrect

The Enchanted Times

Through my rhymes

Stand erect

Shaking off dust of neglect

Under the new moon

 

Silver trails

Hovering within

Of stardust

Of falling light

Of remnants of the lost might

Earthen reckonings

 

Wing that sings

Over the rooftops

Night kissed flight

Day dream bright

The feathers a path of clues

Withered chains to lose

 

Twirl me slow

Through the waking tides

Peace blossoms

Horseman rides

Multiply where he divides

Our bosoms anchors

 

Feet strike three

The Dawn strikes at six

We sing low

Humming birds

Inside there is a soft glow

Expanding in bricks

 

Reading of the poem: 

glow-pinterest-com-3
Courtesy pinterest.com

Pequeña – La Milonga del Treno

Desde el Alma – La Milonga del Treno

Tu pálida voz – La Milonga del Treno

 

In the ship directions sail

In the ship directions sail

30 September 2016

foghorn pinterest com 3
Courtesy pinterest.com

 

Stilted featherlight

Wandering through inner skies

Blooming waterfalls

 

Days of glory set

Inside the boats of childhood

Dreamland distant fog

 

The ship seeks lighthouse

My flanks a mountainous plain

Blinding sight for mind

 

In between a pair

A single spark in gardens

Dotted lines redraw

 

Eternity’s map

Flowing from my icicles

Seeking waters tip

 

Retrospect a mast

In the ship directions sail

Hindsight foresight trail

 

Reading of the poem: 

sailboatbig-pinterest-com-2
Courtesy pinterest.com

 

Sjöjungfrun och konungadottern – Gjallarhorn

Angel Tears

Angel Tears

30 July 2016

Angels tears carlos queyedo raphael
Courtesy Carlos Quevedo on deviantart.com

 

Falling rain

Covers my meadows

Black prairies

Grass withers

Scorching sunlight seeps within

Land of the fairies

 

The woods speak

Their voices wooden

Like ship mast

Now downcast

We carry our crew like rock

Flags of soul breach seas

 

Feeble mock

Their hearts set in stone

Marble walls

Angels’ Tears

Within the dark veins strewn thin

In loss of the Love

 

Reading of the poem: 

angelstears carlos quevedo
Courtesy Carlos Quevedo on deviantart.com

Troth – Thomas Feiner

Frozen chants curdling

Frozen chants curdling

24 July 2016

chantscurdling voolas com.gif

 

Sinking ships

Into oblivion

They seep slow

Like white ink

Inverted Chinese painting

Drawing my heart’s lines

 

The winter

Crawled up in my spring

In Ending

Beginning

Unreachable changeling

Historical rhymes

 

Church bell chimes

My viscosity

Seeping through

Praying knees

The hands sunken thunderbolts

In altars’ steep wells

 

Woodcutter

My proud branches fells

I am tree

High in skies

The clouds whisper to me sighs

Of forgotten times

 

Withered leaves

Count pages’ rustle

As the ground

Gathers bunch

Avid jaws of Time now crunch

Remnants of my bark

 

They will me

Frozen chants curdling

Upon lips

Lost in pleas

The chest heaving with the wheeze

Renewed consumption

 

Reading of the poem: 

chantscurdling on yatabaza com redhawk8.gif

You are my Winter – Dillon

The Unknown – Dillon

Texture of my Blood – Dillon