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 Jun 2016
irinia
"my heart, all of me, this tree
turning its leaves
one by one in the wind

fluttering rustling with the call
of your closed lips

mere light can move it
a touch of light
can make it sing

the shell of our lives capturing
the tatters of a song
: a torn veil, the unraveled loincloth
of a wandering god

these sharp caressing tatters
tongues
of a song"

Ioana Ieromin, from *The Lens of a Flame
No matinee today
from my blackbird,
the robin too, is off sick
and the rain is so insistent,
that the shoosh of the wind
in the birch tree is just a whisper.

On days like this,
lonely people in lonely lives
give over and give up;
here in this gun free country
the gas oven, the dressing gown cord
and stored up sleeping pills,
are enough and enable the tired
to leave without saying goodbye.

The dead do not read obituaries,
are not here to unravel confusions,
to answer the question. Why?
to answer the question. Why?
to answer the question. Why?

Now there is one less setting at table
a bedroom door stays shut and
in the bathroom
the toothbrush goes dry in the mug.
The clean shirts at the dry cleaners
are picked up and  on their hangers
with the new heeled shoes in their bag
are fresh goods for the charity shop.

And in this big city village
no one cares
no one really cares
The music is "Le Pas de Chat Noir" by Anouer Brehen  It is truly depressing!
Much adored is the dead poet

Within the glass case
Away from dirt
Amongst the books pressed
Rests his heart


Such was the silence he dreamed
When words streamed
Like riverine flow
In all might arose
Seeking the order in chaos

Orderly bound now his name
In peace standing behind wooden frame
Yet with the ceaseless commotion of wait...

Much adored rests the dead poet.
The monsoon cloud swooped low
to **** her
and the night seemed to wear
the darkest cloak

Three miles down south
she had gone to the weekly haat
for half a litre of earth oil
thru mud as thick as her desire
for a small glow in her thatched hut

When she reached the stream
she paused on the brink
and then like an added note
to the music of rain
her swan little frame
glided to the other bank

The wind was shivering
but she was warm in the dream of
one small light in her home
to **** the demon of dark
 Jun 2016
Sjr1000
There is a cold wind
blowing outside,
into the graying,
an apocalyptic sky

The lamps are lit
The night descends
it comes as it always does
My table is cluttered
with wadded paper
scribblings saying nothing

The hanging question you asked
remains
"What is your heart's desire?"

The light it flickers
Throwing shadows on the wall
So eerie at first,
So familiar after all

Fantasies
Phantasims
Hypnogogic imagery
A trance like state of mind

Many lifetimes pass
None of them mine

What is your heart's desire
It strangles the mind with possibilities
Waiting for the tell,
the tell that might never come.

You asked me
as we left the foggy meadow
"You who speak so highly of the little synchronicites,
But what is your heart's desire? "

I rise with the sun each day
My path laid out before me
I do this and that in order

Each night as the dark descends
The day's vivid light has vanished
I stare into this lamp light
and wonder
what is my heart's desire.
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