Close I see
curling tides of crimson hue
not in my name, though
bereft of what to do.
Petits Poems
Alina Baraz
for Alina Baraz
Transient through the Urban Flora of London’s south,
I Drift atop rolling waves,
their depths rising, enveloping all
in each passing rock of the Bakerloo.
Deluged in Pretty Thoughts, serene
I Unfold words with each bars heartbeat,
poetry within each ear’s bud -caressed in my carriage,
I blossom your Jasmine words.
Half / Cast
Half-hearted, I half-listen,
to your half-stories,
feeling half-dead,
for the whole time you’re here.
At half-one, you half-know,
I half-care, what you say,
it’s halflife, too long life,
for me to wish to stay.
This day half-cast, brings half light,
sat half lotus, thinking half-baked,
about half-truths, I half-know,
that I still repeat to myself today
Will I be half-arsed, or half-keen
today’s halftime ‘s, but daydreams
as whole-hearted, I half pray
since I’m half man, half the day…
The University of
Read wide and vast,
adventure and explore,
speaking slow
though thoughts move fast.
Drink red wine
and tequila too,
sitting with minds intertwined,
allowing peace’s pass.
Debate the world flaws
shimmer in ideal’s gleam,
reconstructing this world
as if in an idealist’s dream.
Fail
and succeed,
recieve an education,
not a degree.
Begum
Her visage a familiar face.
-a granite façade etched content.
Eyes lacquered in tears,
her trembling bust
a vacuum tomb
-clasping at her chest’s air.
She inhales the pain of others,
stealing breaths of distraction,
scavenging peace through neglectful altruism.
In search of an opiate
to soothe her inner hurt
– a moment’s suicide
in another’s vein.
We Say Goodbye
We say goodbye,
our eyes rosed and tender,
our hands falling apart.
as I part -whispering a kiss
on your tear laced cheek.
This Friday -As The Last
My eyes flee to all corners of my four walled hold,
liberation grasped through windows, stolen back.
Back to the luminescent glare of my old HP;
as I acquiesce to my paid servitude.
The week’s edge nears as time retreats,
the seconds absconding -drawing You ever closer.
Closer still, the embracing thoughts of Sunday’s sheets,
enveloping me –warm, contented, in your arms.
I Speak Of You
How may I speak of you?
With words removed from cliché.
Into my breath you pass through,
breathing words of virgin amouré.
Distant you’re a glow in a sombre air,
your clarity breaking night.
I approach to see what’s there,
and my soul flutters to flight.
J.C. FitzDerick 