DENMARK

THE WISH

Sunlight travels
ever so slowly
in the strand
of your hair
like forgotten
sparkle of fire
igniting my hope
extending
uncoiling
the dream
and in a flash
blurred picture
fast-frozen
in nonchalant pose
come to life
bursting like
lightning
into touch
of your lips
on my skin
and the taste
of your love
make me wish
that I was
the sun

To ---

your mental touch
permeates my frozen frame
and as I begin to thaw
around the edges
the puddle at my feet
turns crimson
mind on mind
skin on skin
the carbon copy
yinyangs
in utter puzzlement
I flex my fingers
reaching for words
collecting dust
on the abandoned shelf
and my restored soul
screams out
my resurrection

catch me
as I fall to my knees
when overwhelming passion
replaces tears
miraculously flowing
out of me
like a light
of renewed hope

THE LEAF

you cannot re-attach
a leaf to a tree
once fallen
it is destined
to fall pray
to vicious winds
and fly in elated
freedom and amazement
unable to take part
in its own destiny
wandering aimlessly
perhaps even puzzled
by its own frailty
finally it settles
in the inescapable
reality of decay
only to be reborn
as a particle
of a fertile soil

swept by transformation
it floats again
only to run
through the veins
of some other tree

GARAGE SALE

in the corner where I keep your shadow
amongst forgotten items of my past
light seems to stop at an invisible line
on a bumpy concrete floor
you don’t take up much space
as the imprint of you occupies merely a fracture
of the vast expanse of grey wall
almost like a faint trace of victims of atomic destruction of
Hiroshima
Nagasaki
askew shade of a broken lamp fills the space
where your head used to be
and your body is obscured by numerous boxes
some of them labeled neatly
others keep their contents jealousy obscured
old couch seems to be the destination
of your shadow-stride
but will never offer you comfortable sitting
with its springs reaching out through the padding
like arms of the doomed
in desperate expectation of tender redemption
stacks of newspapers still hold headlines of news
recorded there to further
collective memories of unwitnessed events
and broken toys piled in haphazard abandon
still smell of sticky fingers of my children
I sneeze inhaling thick dust of my past
and fling the door open
to let sun flow inside

I now declare this garage sale open…

the ebb of my emotions

retreated
and never came back
like gasping fish
exposed
in futile hope
that the next intake of air
will be water
black mud engulfs
my fading frame
until only my eyes
remain
on the surface
unblinkingly staring
at the vast expanse
of blue sky
wondering
if heaven
resurrects me
as bird

POETS

poets are the real junkies
they hang around
murky corners
of their souls
waiting restlessly
with blurry minds
for a pusher-muse
to deal a fix
of inspiration
soaring the heights
of starry skies
flashing
vague promise
of illusive fame
they open their veins
with sharp pens
to let out steady stream
of uncensored thoughts
left on paper
like a seal of madness

 

© All Copyright, Barbara Madsen.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.