Blog Archives

Wine into Water


Water heals her wound
the evidence comes
as a scar blossoms in her flesh
like smoke rising
from burning leaves
it has been a long struggle
sometimes she dreams
of lying in her casket
when this nightmare is over
but for now her thoughts are clearing
maybe Jesus is turning her wine
into water

 
  

Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #243
 
More Pantry of Poetry and Prose #7 at Poets United

 

The Probability

 photo adebbc66-c58e-4611-b077-01c8790dc30c_zpssxezpptm.jpg

 

the probability
 
that she will be sleeping
 
when he comes
 
to bring her coffee
 
bleached white with powder
 
instead of cream
 
is great
 
he sees her lying there
 
in an impossible heap
 
of bones
 
her skin
 
stretched tight over her skull
 
and he wonders
 
if even as she sleeps
 
she can hear the birds singing
 
just outside the window
 
or the sound the bricks make
 
as they shift uneasily
 
in their bed of mortar
 
causing a startled raven
 
to slam against the house

 

Poem © 2016 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Poetry Pantry #297
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #54

A Poet Is Born

 photo 20d39e18-c21d-4a4b-90f3-5a397535385d_zpsmlvlexer.jpg
 
The first line of each breath-of-a-poem is taken from The Poet Slave of Cuba: A Biography of Juan Francisco Manzano by Margarita Engle.
 


~~ 1 ~~
 
In some hut of mud
with a floor of dry, tamped dung,
a poet is born.
 
~~ 2 ~~
 
inventing verses
that rise and fall with seasons—
the farming poet
 
~~ 3 ~~
 
on flimsy paper
writing words that reach thousands
with pathos and light
 
~~ 4 ~~
 
A fragrance of words
flows from the child poet’s mouth—
honey on his tongue.
 
~~ 5 ~~
 
the whispered daydreams
of corn pushing toward the sun
during tassel time
 
~~ 6 ~~
 
a woman running
from the seed about to split
into lightning songs
 
~~ 7 ~~
 
The fragrant garden—
she comes each day at twilight
to sip with the bees.
 
~~ 8 ~~
 
No one is looking
as she enters the courtyard
to steal a mango.
 
~~ 9 ~~
 
after the harvest
every vine stripped of its fruit—
season of waiting
 
~~ 10 ~~
 
Count the songs growing
in the tunnel of the mole—
ten thousand or more.
 
~~ 11 ~~
 
Even a free bird
cannot sprout another wing
when one is broken.

 
Poems © 2015 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Poetry Pantry #266
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #21