Crow

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Image by skalekar1992 from Pixabay

Tired mothers hover.
Long-legged boys scramble off,
decide to grow up.
Crow.

Copyright © Norma Martiri 2020

Ethereal Garden

This ethereal garden,
moss and lichen,
a cycle of
life,
death,
decay.

I stare in awe
at rays filtering
through the canopy,
emerald ferns,
and tangled undergrowth.

I listen to the murmur,
the chirrup of birds,
the bubbling stream —
the silence.

I smile.

Copyright © Norma Martiri 2020

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Fearless

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Image by f4me0 from Pixabay

Sometimes she talks
in a different way,
feels a kind of light.

A strange type
with such sights, such visions.
She looks at everything
with clear quiet eyes,
skirting the edge of abysses,
pushing through suspicions.

A fearless little figure.

Copyright © Norma Martiri 2020

White Whispers

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Summer Night, 1913 – Albert Bloch

Streams
of white whispers
swirl around.
Listen.
Listen to the night
as waves of pure light
bathe the shadows of the day.
She calls my name,
tempts me
with lazy days
and eternal warmth.
Look.
Look at her grace
as she roams around
in glorious garb,
extending her hand,
reaching out,
reaching out,
to a world lost in its mire.

This poem was inspired by the painting “Summer Nights” by Albert Bloch 1913

 

Speak

Hold onto those words.
Speak.

Once he answered
every question,
unwrapped the conversation.
It’s not possible.
Mean.
Dark moments form.
Family disappears –
again.
Speak.
Survive.
Go beyond.
Pass on precious memories
before they disappear –
deeper.
Speak.

He’s at the end.
All alone now.

Copyright (c) Norma Martiri 2019

Text: newspaper article.

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Reflections

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Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

He liked to walk
covering miles
with purpose –
to believe one’s mind capable.
He was changing.
He knew it.
He thought a little –
waited
and walked quietly back. 
There was no moon tonight.

Copyright (c) Norma Martiri 28/12/19

To Kill a Mocking Bird by Harper Lee, Page 152

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A Splendid Summer

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Image by David Mark from Pixabay

A splendid summer shone:
skies so pure;
suns so radiant.

A band of Italian days had come
like a flock of glorious passenger birds
and lighted to rest on the cliffs.
The fields were green and shorn;
hedge and wood, full-leafed.

Weary with gathering wild strawberries,
I sought the garden.

It was now the sweetest hour
and the sun had gone down
in simple state –
pure of pomp of clouds –
spread solemn purple,
burning red jewel
and furnace flame
extending high and wide,
over half heaven.

A rising solitary star
soon would boast the moon
yet beneath the horizon.

Taken from my favourite book Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, Chapter 23

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