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Blue Ceramic BowlBlue ceramic bowl
rests on our table
where the oak-salver
used to sit, piling
dust for ever.

Blue ceramic bowl
made of our lustful
sins, decorated by our
tears and smiles
of so many hours.

Blue ceramic bowl
is where we hide
the miscarried child
already named
our son, Oriel.

Blue ceramic bowl
filled with shame
and the trivial carving
of your name.

Rough denim linesRough denim lines
mask your skin
from my
hands

and
gently
hold the seams
to mutual life.

Sweet MomentsSweet moments, like this, remind me of whys.
Tiny bubble-bursts of confidence, laughter of joy,
as if things were meant to be just like this
for all eternity (or at least for one night).

Few words traded, few glances followed,
soft explorations against a bottle of rum;
a handmade carpet feels stable and wobbly
with each turn, each exchange of curious eyes.

The chime of an hour brings embarrassment,
silent blushings to the fall of curly stripes
pastel colored as the smiles, the touches,
the Armenian design of the plate on the wall.

Slow humming melodynes through ocean waves
of curtains so excited, ecstatic in their dance.
Some mo

JourneysBrown charred eyes strolling wistfully down
ancient roads embedded with Jerusalem stones.
Stale mildew-scent of young memories rests
against fresh baked bread on moss covered walls.
With slow stiltish steps, an aimless jaunt,
thoughts drift back to small precious things;
marble words rolling down flushed cheeks.

Blue-Cherries PieBlue-cherries pie
topped with eggey meringue
splashed with zest of sugar-dust
melts to the slightest tongue's touch.

His MemoryI was too young to remember;
maybe I still am.

But somewhere hidden,
under layers of wax,
it still burns.

EverythingSoft rustle of dead leaves
follows bristling breeze;
stillness frees necessities
in a melting blushing-sun.

Sweet bells slightly tinge
Colombian, freshly brewed,
set aside on an oak-made taboret.

Sweat, as real as love,
gently cool by giving-in.

Nothing, as it seems.

HaikuWrimo 20081.
Gray drops cover her eyes,
gently blurring
the proud delphiniums.

2.
Incarnadine leaves fall, brush
sanguineous trunks,
coloring gray sidewalks.

3.
Peach daiquiri walls
melting under
lazy mandarin sun.

4.
Four leaves,
fall down on your hair
blend in naïve ginger.

5.
Floating isles of white spots
rest by beige shores;
my numbing Dead Sea.

6.
Mahogany chairs stand
pressing against
bloody cherry wood table.

7.
Waves crash on her skin
white foam lingers,
tightly clenching my heart.

8.
Musk scented shirt and razor
on my toilet floor -
all that was left.

9.
Uncarressed blouse
helplessly hangs;

One Day NewsMrs. Shahar calls this a classroom but we all know it well enough to be a bomb shelter. Thirty small naïve eyes stare at a beautiful journalist on the old television, long brown hair and expensive suit. She reports that a terrorist blew himself up in Beit Lid junction, just a five minute drive from our school. It happened at the big bus station, gray and dirty for so many years, so close it’s amazing we didn’t hear the blast. Although it’s frightening I’m not afraid at all, just glad that there won’t be any more classes today.

The camera focuses on her make-up, curly black eye lashes and powdered cheeks. "Four p

When Autumn ComesTwo white arches rise
enclosing charred spirals,
a crumbling wall,
two gaped holes
windows darkened by sunset.

Underneath a crashing wave;
your tongue, your eyes.
Flowing to the rhythm,
some unforgiving DJ
and a shot or two.

A jazz bar by old theater,
three stories fly so fast;
this is where I go
when autumn comes this year
I just can't seem to wait.

The MonarchA black bird stepped into my tent today
its thin spall legs were as grim as Decay.
To its sight swirled the words in my mind to an eddy
filled with fear was my soul of its crude curiosity:
Its punctured ghast' eyes pried studiously
and perplexed it was staring, with such a dexterity,
as if power possessed, tremendous and unearthlingly;
Ruling it stood, at the gates of my tent, so impudently.

Inquestingly it tilted its gray crown to the right
then it twig-breaking spasmed back again to my sight.
Conversing it was, with not much of a word; an attempt
to commune with the servile lot. An acknowledgement
of fr

Citrus-BloomI’ve got this caprice
for inebriant
scent of citrus-bloom.

Inundate my lungs,
flush my cheeks with oaf-
-ishness and fain, for

I have a caprice,
childish and alive,
to breath-in with you.

Postern DoorIn a split of a second
his black eyes shift
to the color of the sun
right before it bursts,
tearing into million
glistening freckles.

His genuine look (the one
that makes him godlike,
cherubic, a shy smiling boy
with bright pearly tears
on the blades of his soul)

smashes across the floor
titan oak boards, crudely cut
into straight lines,
hammered, nailed,
flattened. Now estranged,
a foreign,

Meaningful Sol
ascends past me, and I
am but thin air;
hardly containable,
hardly a gust,
just an old feel.

Tel Avivs EsplanadeTel Aviv's Esplanade

I drove by the esplanade
    all through Tel Aviv
       up ‘till Jaffa’s docs,
       right near the ancient clocktower,
    thinking to myself
    (not without hesitating first)
this is a beautiful day to be alive.

Come One O'clockFew moments ago you were in my arms, a rare thing to see -
a beautiful dream in which I woke tens of times wishing
to see you there, one more time, one more time, one more time. And still
the remnants of dinner pass cold on our shared plate, glacial
coves of burnt onions, splashed soy sauce dried black over dead words,
mussed memories and interspersed looks; even your shirt is low
past the waistline, a tessitura of all which I can't touch.

Pillow deep you rest the curls, the pinched blush,
the Slavic accent; the hum of late-night movies still lingers
between the ancient punctured couch and the heavy fat blanket.
Shyly your hand res

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mumbled words slipping softly – “Yes, dear. I’m here.”
“Papa! Come fast! It’s there!”

My feet shuffle automatically as I enter her room. Looking around,
the corner is empty; so is her closet and under the bed.
“Honey, there’s nothing here.” “Yes there is! It called my name!”
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One Day NewsMrs. Shahar calls this a classroom but we all know it well enough to be a bomb shelter. Thirty small naïve eyes stare at a beautiful journalist on the old television, long brown hair and expensive suit. She reports that a terrorist blew himself up in Beit Lid junction, just a five minute drive from our school. It happened at the big bus station, gray and dirty for so many years, so close it’s amazing we didn’t hear the blast. Although it’s frightening I’m not afraid at all, just glad that there won’t be any more classes today.

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The Addiction: First MeetingIt was a wintery day, Christmas stood at the door with its white coat and long beard. Trevor was insecure, the uncertainty was eating at him. He was told by his friend Christine, of the DailyDeviants team, that this would be the best place; since she had had to deal with her polls issue and they actually saved her life. But still, as sure as he was about solving his problem, it seemed like taking the step through the door was one hell of a leap.

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Two Shy Eyes

by `leoraigarath, Apr 30, 2009, 8:57:18 AM
Literature / Poetry / Romantic / Post-Teen (Mature) / Free Verse

Two shy eyes hide behind the blanket
in a manner that makes you think
of how small everything really is.

As if entranced they follow your every move
begging you to know, to feel, to look back
and blink at how small everything is.

A rhythmical swift motion, rapid movement,
sweeping dance; enchanting your puerile heart
and learning your every move

to a one-two-three beat, a sweet melody
of two shy blinking eyes, curious
of how small everything really is.

Two Shy Eyesby `leoraigarath

Literature / Poetry / Romantic / Post-Teen (Mature) / Free Verse

©2009-2013 `leoraigarath

NaPoWrimo 2009 - #28

Just a sweet little poem that I wrote on a whim.

16.8.09 - Edit:
I reread it and suddenly I realized, like a gong in the back of my head, what this poem is really all about. Sometimes you write something and you can't see what it says, what it means, only after a long while, after you let it really soak into you, grow on you, feed on your heart.

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~Away-From-Me Aug 18, 2009

beautiful

the repetition did it for me, such a lovely piece.

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`leoraigarath Aug 20, 2009 Professional Writer

I was really confused about this piece for a long while until I looked at it the other day, and things made sense. The repetition suddenly made sense. I'm really glad that you liked it, for me it means that I got it right this time. I really appreciate that you told me that. Thank you.

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~forWinds Apr 30, 2009 Student Writer

Teehee. Makes me curious.

Great stuff!

Reply

`leoraigarath May 3, 2009 Professional Writer

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~TheBloodWriter Apr 30, 2009

Very sweet.

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`leoraigarath May 6, 2009 Professional Writer

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`LadyLincoln Apr 30, 2009 Hobbyist Writer

Indeed, a very sweet poem.

A lovely, lovely piece.

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`leoraigarath May 4, 2009 Professional Writer

Thank you...

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