Month: August 2016

Standing by Your Grave

Pierre Mhanna3 Comments

I wanted to stay by your grave
and watch over you
and guard you
and keep you company
and tell you that
inside in the darkness
you are not alone,
I wanted to stay
and wait for you,
for the day of your return,
of your rolling the stone
and coming back to life,
smiling, laughing
like you always used to,
as if you haven’t left at all,
as if we only separated for a moment
and in that tiny moment
you were just out with your friends,
or working on one of your paintings,
perhaps that one you painted for me
and you never got to finish.

I am staying by your grave,
and though I know in my heart
that you told me not to,
to go on on my way,
and that my waiting is just absurd,
I know, sister, I know, Sarah
and I can almost hear your voice,
but your voice, you see,
the wind has carried,
and the wind has lost it somewhere,
deep in the woods,
or high in the sky.

So I stand by your grave and wait
and sometimes your voice
dews on my face,
and I wake up to myself crying,
and I wake up to myself
telling you that I love you,
that every bone in my body
has missed you
with such an excruciating
and indescribable pain,
I wake up to myself crying
and holding out my heart
like a candle shivering
in the rain and in the dark
and waiting for you to come back,
to lift the darkness
and come back home.

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Free Verse # 369 (touching her isn’t enough)

Pierre Mhanna1 Comment

Preparing the day,
your fragrance
somehow
rubbed against my neck,
you whose face
from a secret window
always shined upon my life.

~

Deserting my eyes
the butterflies of sleep
are fluttering somewhere
following the scent
of the flowers in your skin.

~

Evening wind,
her dark breath
combing the tall trees,
taking desire by the hair
and dragging her down
into the caves
deep in the womb of the sea.

~

Her hips swayed feline
a lioness
wearing the ocean for a mane
and preying on the best
of love and sex,
drinking the finest
of wine and poetry.

~

Touching her isn’t enough; I have to live inside of her and she has to live inside of me.

~

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Photographer unknown

Joined still
when dawn breathed,
a single body
jasmine white
quivering on the breast
of sleep as it heaved.

~

On the altar
of her fragrance
worlds are crushed;
she is a wild flower.

Free Verse # 368 (checkmate, orgasm, poetry)

Pierre Mhanna1 Comment
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Photographer unknown

All day all night
in her skin
dancing with the muse,
each etched verse
a chess move;
the spiral culminates,
checkmate, orgasm,
poetry.

~

Your belly
the altar on which I place
petal by petal
all the poetry of the world;
set aflame
your skin drinks the ash
and you become
the world’s poetry.

~

If I could touch her I would choose to quiver her heart with poetry.

~

Of his breath
she constructed
a seashell
and therein she slept
cradled all night

~

He ached
to rage over her
and into her
like a wild storm,
pressing her into him,
a seed in his soil,
planting her spine
in the dirt of his being.

~

I could only touch her the way sunlight caresses the face of the earth in the early hour of dawn.

~

A small cabin
in the heart of the woods,
snow falling thick
erasing everything,
and you and I
hemmed in,
by the window
drinking tea or wine
and reading poetry.

Free Verse # 367 (firing his sun)

Pierre Mhanna1 Comment

My lips pressed
against her breast,
a sun sinking
into the bosom of the sea.

~

Wearing dawn’s thin mist
for a veil
she came to him,
her cascading hair
pooling into his lap,
her lips a match
firing his sun.

~

Possessive
to the point of ache
I want my poem
to well up inside of her
then spill,
inundating her skin
her eyes
her breath
becoming her soul.

~

Her violent shudder
as his words pin her,
rivers of ink
furrowing through her skin,
converging in her womb.

~

For an instant
our eyes met
and that gaze
still furrows into me
carving river after river
of desire and poetry

To R

~

In the hour before dawn
her skin glows,
becomes radiant,
and that is how you know
the sun will soon rise.

~

On the outskirts of dawn
she is the voice of silence

~

Le cendre de ses yeux
à jamais
brule dans mes veines

Free Verse # 366 (before you I am an unfree man)

Pierre MhannaLeave a comment

Dawn…
the fragrant skin
of the woman I love
a thin veil covering
the garden of the world

~

Poetry is my form of worship,
with it, through it
I consummate my being
and lay it open
at the doorway of your sky,
a yearning flame quivering
in the heart of your sea.

~

I wanted to touch you, so I wrote you poetry.

~

The living in me had resigned
to be the flame of a candle
shivering and lost
in the contemplation of her eyes,
and what burning tears I wept
I scribed – holy poetry.

~

With death
I inherit the rain,
the kiss of lovers,
the breath of the sea,
flowers sigh at dawn
and I am in their yearning,
a thread in their lust.

~

At dawn
he trembled inside of her
as his eyes lay
fixed into hers,
his hips
the slow motion of waves
pushing,
her body
his harbor,
his eternal shore.

~

Before you
I am an unfree man,
a lightning born
of a boundless womb
and wanting, for your sake,
to incinerate the earth,
merge it with your sky.

~

Enmeshed
our bodies burned
in lustful fires,
melted
to a foaming point
then emerged,
a full moon parting
rough waters,
seeding the belly
of the dark sea.

~

Night descends
and I swell into her,
the shiver of my flame
cradled against her spine,
a full moon from her navel
whispering pure white.

~

Against my neck
in the quiver of her lips
the wet voice of dawn

~

At dawn
through the window
her scent wafting in,
the woman I love,
the woman I always wanted
to touch with my heart.

~

A dark moon glowing
her skin where he confides
the secrets of his heart