Written for Acrostic Poetry Only
Black Like Me Copyright © 2009 Ofira Sephiroth
Blind eyes
Laugh behind
Archaic
Curtains - Ignorance
Kills.
Liquid dreams escape
Ice-capped
Kindness -
Embracing intolerance.
My color overshadows an
Educated soul.
Written for Three Word Wednesday.
Brighter Days Copyright © 2009 Ofira Sephiroth
I collapse, six feet below
where children play in fields
of damnation. Sweet laughter
recalls the morning sun,
burning flesh, eyes -
how I yearn for brighter days.
Crawling Copyright © 2009 Ofira Sephiroth
I still see him crawling:
four feet - two supplanted.
I can't believe it's snowing -
summer heat through window
pane melts transgression.
His breath on my shoulder,
foggy window - blizzard,
icy road. I feel his lips on my
neck. Through the meadow,
holding hands, embracing -
shifting gears, long road -
painful journey, loves' disguise,
my hearts' disgrace. I still
remember, two on breaks -
skidding - four feet, it's snowing:
I still see him crawling.
The Atoner Copyright © 2009 Ofira Sephiroth
Harlots dehumanize passion -
decapitated lust falls short.
Beauty's overshadowed by what
the night offers. My dagger
brings light to iniquity - still
my crime burdens a blind society.
They walk - I watch, in darkness
two eyes stalk tattered flesh
screaming for redemption.
Each glance teases mutilation,
welcoming evisceration.
How I long to free her nightmare.
Two shadows embrace silence.
Fear penetrates, crimson awakens
holiness - I drink from Gods' chalice,
embarking on disembarrassment.
One cut atones, replenishing innocence,
pains surrenders to the streets.
Your pattern marks a wall once
copulated upon. Life slowly fades -
stimulating vengeance. My sign
across your abdomen - your body
renders due payment, a small price
for the morally reprehensible.
Your kidney, uterus - a prize perhaps.
One embellishes my soul, the other -
my ego. I take what's offered freely -
no different than the rest. Blamed
for many, only a few - still nameless,
they call me Jack The Ripper.
Two Copyright © 2009 Ofira Sephiroth
Two, still separate,
portraits exist - framed
meditations, hearts trapped
believing unity is possible.
Impossible - still reaching
for hands, caressing glass -
glancing back to a time,
hours pass - minutes surrender.
Surrendering love, two united -
still separate. Pictures dance -
awakening, sleeping are lives -
wandering, speechless.
Speaking of wonder, does Mary
remember daddy? Has loves' clock
reunited? Two eyes seek forgiveness,
two ears await an answer.
Written for Acrostic Poetry Only
Ecstasy Copyright © 2009 Ofira Sephiroth
Eleven tongues
Credit my
Seduction with
Taking
Anonymity for granted.
Somehow, I make strong men
Yammer.
Yesterday Copyright © 2009 Ofira Sephiroth
Every penny
Counts -
Old sayings
Never account for
Obliterated dreams,
Mismanaged fortunes -
Yesterday, I had a job.
The Summit Copyright © 2009 Ofira Sephiroth
Mantle plumes elevate, nature
Orates,
Venting times' frustration.
Isles of madness
Nominate riotous souls -
Generous, our reign of terror.
Muncibeddu, Vesuvio -
Open windows of fire.
Under molten flesh we
Negate atrocities. Cinder cones
Taunt memories,
Ash obviates repentance.
Ignorant, our cries
Narrate your
Summits awakening.
Written for Tell A Tale: Contest #1: My Childhood Dream
I travel to the gallery everyday at 2:30 pm. Each visit takes me back to my one true passion. My desire lies in the exquisite tastes of others. Masterpieces line the walls. Treasures hidden from our daily existence synchronize with heartbeats longing for a voice. Galleries, museums and libraries hold the beat of time - refreshing our souls, feeding our minds and telling stories we've never heard.
Marbled floors welcome willing footprints. Written words evaporate. Images and patterns form voiceless expressions of torment, heraldry and temptation. Art is the ultimate religious experience. Standing in front of a Picasso, a smile forms on my face. "The Visit (Two Sisters)" mesmerizes hazel eyes. Shadows dancing within a frame tell of longing while welcoming the closeness of family.
Making my way down dim lit halls, I embrace the silence that harmonizes with fascination. Every glance takes me on a journey through life's heartache while welcoming the tranquility we never reach for. Hustling hands point in glory's direction, cursed tongues no longer speak of life's foul odor that lingers, tainting our senses and hindering growth. One building in the center of town becomes immaculate, erasing every sin.
Elegance becomes the design of time, art the foundation of truth we drink from. Parched lips thirst for emotion - rage, hope, love, hate - we destroy ourselves with coldness becoming bitter and numb. Beauty is found everywhere, even in pain. Some say Constantinovich's "Moonlit Seascape With Shipwreck" welcomes nature's fury while others embrace the hidden message of unity, comradery and the power found in leaning on others for help. Torrential downpours open the youngest of eyes but wisdom and hope form lasting bonds and a way through life's storms.
Hidden messages within each painting, I often wonder if some artists are tormented. The depths of one's soul can always be measured with visual guidance. A disguise, masked martyrs - geniuses before their time - a true artist reaches inside the minds' struggle, pulling out what others dare not see. Their pain echoes throughout our lives, bringing us back to that one moment in time when agony existed, love blossomed and hope prevailed.
Murrillo's "The Young Beggar" leaves me in awe, awakening an imagination that has lied dormant for many years. Art, an escape - perhaps, but even a wandering mind stands still long enough to welcome the splendor of true craftsmanship.
Heading home, I welcome the suns' rays. Summer was always the best time for creation. There's something romantic about Heavens' warmth and the stroke of a paintbrush. Life awakens with the suns' call and sleeps when the eye of night whispers its promise of peace. Natures' breath envelopes the trees that line frightened streets. There are moments when fear closes its' eyes and welcomes earth's innocence and revelation.
Entering the house, I drop my purse on the white Park Place velvet sofa and kick off my dark brown sandals before heading upstairs. Framed passions line the walls and the soft touch of Saxony is all that's felt between my toes.
One door separates dreams from reality. Touching the handle, memories of childhood flood an open mind. I started drawing at the age of five and painting at the age of six. By the time I was 14, I had caused so much damage to my parents' house, I was beginning to think I would be banned from painting ever again.
My parents' bought my first easel when I was 16. It was one of the happiest moments in my life. I guess the bathroom wall and kitchen table weren't the perfect canvases but when the muse awakens, it can't be stopped. I've had many easels throughout the years, but the first was always the most special.
Entering the attic, white walls and flowing curtains surround a perfectly placed Halley Easel holding a cotton duck canvas. I haven't painted in years. The desire has always been there. Unfortunately, time no longer permits my inner demons to be released. Demons may be too strong of a word but I have no doubt that one must be moved by another force in order to piece together what the mind and heart separate.
Taking a seat on the stool, I stare at a blank canvas begging for a little red, green and black. Landscapes enter my mind as my soul pleads for the right to speak. Picking up the paintbrush, I begin my journey, allowing what's separate to once again unite and awakening a childhood dream that has lied dormant but has never died.
The Souls' Plea Copyright © 2009 Pia Zellini
I'm in the process of changing internet service providers so I'll be offline for a few days. I'm hoping to be online by at least next weekend.
Written for Tell A Tale | Week 7: Silence
A blinding mist sweeps across the night. Nothing can be seen for miles. Stillness surrounds one lone pier. I stand on the edge, tears streaming. As each one falls, I can sense its connection with the still waters below - no sound is heard. How could this have happened?
Glancing at my feet, I realize how far I've come in my life. A wild child by nature, maturity didn't take hold until I hit my late twenties. It was then that I started to get serious, concentrating on where my life is going instead of on past failures.
Paul and I met three years ago. I wouldn't say it was love at first sight, but we had a connection that we both felt. We met at the church. My first time there, I was a little nervous. Even though I've always been an outgoing person, a blanket of shyness always came upon me when entering any place of holiness. I never went to church much as a child. It wasn't required by my parents. I'm not even sure what religion they were seeing that we never had that conversation.
Most of the Christians I've come across in my life were judgmental. Some, I would even label as being fake. Paul was different though. He had a kind spirit. I used to always tell him that he was the last true believer left on earth. He would just laugh. He made me feel comfortable with myself. I've never had that in my life before. Maybe that's where our connection came into play.
I became a member of the church about a month after my first visit. Growing stronger in every facet of my life, I sometimes felt like that still wasn't enough. Paul used to always tell me 'Just believe, all you need is a little faith'. That's what I've strived for these past few years, strengthening my relationship with God. I began to feel His closeness with me always and my faith grew stronger everyday. Apparently, that wasn't enough.
Paul and many others were taken today, but not me. Standing here alone, contemplating in silence, I question why I was left behind.
A Little Faith Copyright © 2009 Pia Zellini
Written for Poetic Asides | April PAD Challenge: Day 30 | Prompt: Farewell
Words fail,
each glance shatters
any chance of escape.
How do you say
goodbye to the one
you love?
Goodbye Love Copyright © 2009 Ofira Sephiroth
