Ashen grey, love
that was
white snow
left to melt
upon the
frozen meadow
faded photographs —
old diaries
secrets
carved wood
that once
had meaning
lines as fine as Madame’s
greying hair
shed upon
a pillowcase
rouge smeared
onto the cold pool
the looking glass
shafts of light
soak through
decaying skin —
falling in mottled sheets
silver–encrusted lips
kissing soft bark
a child’s boots tread
feather-light
beds of rotten leaves
hours vanish
mind. empty
sturdy beams
clean
pale sky
windows
open doubt
growing
moss
ivy garden
touching
eaves dripping
white oak and
rain singing
names
across the wood’s
fine grain
This is the second poem by Eva García-mayers in this blog. Twice a month, her writing group has given me the energy to continue walking. And writing.
Romantik
Romantisch
RomanTisch RomanFisch
Zisch
Roh Mann Tisch und
Bett
Roh man mische
Masche
Roman frisch vom Tisch
Buch zu.
RomanTick
This, I wrote some years ago. Yes, I know it’s in German; it doesn’t make any sense. Well as GoogleTranslate shows, it does not make any sense in German either. Or does it?
Romance || Romantic || NovelTable NovelFish || Shish || Raw man table and || bed || Raw one mix || mesh || novel fresh from the table || Book shut. || NovelTic
Sit back or lie down slowly. Make yourself comfortable. Relax your forehead. The little muscles between your eyebrows. Read slowly. There is time. I have only just arrived. Here. On planet Malinaru. The air is good. They have palm trees here, too. Let’s sit down with the children in the date orchard. Now listen to the song the children are singing.
There is still time for a bedtime story. The children are listening to you read.
Mr. Fox is taking his sweaters and scarfs and his pyjamas out of the dryer. Crossed beetle and crossed beak, he mutters, looking at his pyjama pants. Somebody glued shut the leg of the pants. Darned. That’s when the door to his burrow swings wide open, the bells are ringing loudly. But not as loud as Ms. Magpie. Good evening, Mr. Fox. You won’t believe what just happened to me. No, I won’t, was what Ms. Magpie did not hear. Mr. Fox looked angrily from his pyjamas to Ms. Magpie. You won’t believe it. I saw Mrs. Hedgehog and she wore the same pearls I have. Here. How can she do that, wearing my pearls? Ach, said Mr. Fox. You have yours around your neck. And they suit you very nicely, if I may say so. Oh, Mr. Fox, you are a gentleman. I am indeed, said Mr. Fox more to himself. You could not tell me who glued my pyjama leg shut, could you? Oh, it wasn’t me. I have only just walked in. Let me see. That is not glue, said Ms. Magpie, picking at the leg. It is dried soap, you put too much in the washer. Och, crossed beetle and crossed beak, said Mr. Fox – a little bit too loud for Ms. Magpie, so she said: I can put them in my laundry load tomorrow. She yawned. Mr. Fox always had to smile when a yawn came out of her beak. Thank you. Yes, it is time to go to bed. Good bye and good night, Ms. Magpie. Good night Mr. Fox. And the bells on the burrow door were ringing again.
Now, it is time. Close your eyes, or leave them open. I am spreading my sleepy sand in everybody’s eyes. You can wash it out in the morning.
Om shanti om. Om shanti om. Have a peaceful night.
Texterium 