Poems, Nenna Josakweker

The beginning
 
A gift Adam received;                                                                                                      
That which was half of him                                                                                                            
Although cleverly she was deceived,                                                                                                  
She bore a deadly hymn.                                                                                                          
From dust they rose; fearsome                  
Bare in the blue sky, they watched as it piled                                                                                                    
Its fingers sprawled out in each direction; a welcome.                                                                                                      
And to which bore a hollow soul of a lost child.
Blooming rose in the middle of spring,                                                                                                        
It caught her eye                                                                                                            
Clinging to it was a string,                                                                                                        
Alien, perhaps a guy.                                           
Thus their innocence vanished,                                                                                                      
their image had been tarnished.
 
 
Painter
 
What’s it like to be the painter?
And not the object?
To paint flowers black and some brown,
Because that’s how life is; imperfect.
 
Or a concrete figure, never any more or any less,
Who is ravishing in every way?
A shadow finding its way in the light;
Yes….that picture I would love to paint.
 
This figure sorts to find the key, but to what?
A treasure box? A door?
The never ending strokes…
But I ponder it on and painting proceeds.
 
Or maybe I should paint a peacock…
So in the daytime, its feathers shall unfold.
 
The mother in music
 
The key to another world,
your own preferably, where breathing comes second,and you first.                                                                                                         As the sun rises, sets, and disappears; she is there
whispering the words “I am here.”
 
Her tunes cause radiance bright like the sun but though intensely vibrant, her waves lack nuisance.
Warming the heart and tickling our ears,
as we take caution while fist pumping our knuckles,                                                                                                      to fanciful images visible to nothing but our hearts.
Sensing not seeing her face, but yet still,
we suck upon her nipple.
Drawing life into our souls, becoming one,
listening and hearing each other,
she engulfs me into her arms with each word
drawing me closer.
Tender and beautiful as she is, she knows
when to shut out the world
during the time we are together.
 
When all is lost, she bestows hope,
Calling in the dark, she answers with light.
And on every rainy day, when I take to weeping
She kneels by me and whispers these same words
“I am here.”
 
 

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