by Hajo Isa
I sit on a silent page
Blank lines run on empty.
Inspiration is a marvel for the dull,
A clowning scorn,
These words mark themselves for you to see
They slither along lines of doubtful meaning, far from
Wedged to a block, I cannot read.
I am as brittle as a chipped nail
A roughened hue of scraped red paint
A flowering vase of feeling
Fragile as a wound,
Swollen, sore – faced
Full of whine and lush.
Shedding the waste of an empty womb.
I grind my thoughts against the thread
My head beneath a stone pillow
Weighted by a passing caress.
Soft hunger, constrained fury
A biting memory looms above my barren bed
Awake in sleep, drifting lonely through the night.
I hate the grind of every day,
The forged reasons to remain,
The wildness of your ways
The slow living wonder you bring.
I hate the weightless anxiety
The motioned wait, elementary tick-tock
The sweaty drip drop on your brow,
The trapping vice of practicality.
I hate being strung out, feeding
On wretched verses.
Today, I hold your hand
Sipping on shadows past
You say you miss me. I waiver
Thoughts turn pulp, drenched by cheap wine.
I am fifty now, I dream you touch my hand again
Soon I’ll be hollow and still,
A lost feather in your hat.
She knows the field,
Lightly, she springs from blade to blade
Her wings stung with light,
As a fragile dawn
Come in to flower.
Hajo Isa is a poet, photographer, writer and the author of, a collection of poems titled Shadow Fall. Hajo isa she is lawyer and she is currently working on her next collection of poems titled, “Dancing Tongues”.