shondarayan jarhel Poems

their backs pressed down on scorpion grass.
resplendent hues of violet blues, its flowers so reflected in the low suns porcelain mask.
this quiet calm, he broke abrupt and snapped the deer bone pendant from his neck,
and as he placed it in her palm.
...

i do at times, in weakened states, just sit alone in looping thought with knees to chest and rock.
perhaps the sway of panics wave?
if fear was posed and sculpted, would this be what its maker marks or is this still but a lump of clay just waiting for its form? ..
its not a means to place of comfort as its never brought me there, as gallows rope or trusted hand around my neck may well, and has, and will in end no doubt,
...

when empty is abandoned it endures,
it does not rot or die or bleed or cry for warmth of tender touch
for emptiness is but one piece and has never known cut,
to fill is just to shift, from jar to to jar it jumps
...

...starving birds sing warning word of thinning winds of howling thrash to come to cull the beasts of low and those of high alike,
..the strong would last but one breath more,
but if to breath is just to breath of powdered glass
and suffer through as witness to this dying light
...

..and every eve come 6: 16 we meet and sip our cricket tea,
whilst hatching honey schemes a'foul to overthrow the bumble queen.
As cackle beaks cacaw in chatter,
atop this owling hollowed oak,
...

there is a place that if was searched for,
one could never find,
a place upon which only by
when lost and wayward wanderds trip
...