Minerva Bloom
44 years old
Mother, Woman, Poet. Author of 5 poetry books and several anthologies.
Sing, Said the Songbird
I woke up at 3am
with the sounds of a caroling Robin
announcing its territory outside my window
in the still slumbering morning.
Sadly, I'm faced with the reality
that meadows and woodlots
are replaced by suburbia, and soon too,
the abundance of this little bird
in a fading medley of songs.
So many little dramas
are enacted amongst the oaks
and whatever is left
of the jacaranda trees.
Crossing The Rubicon
To conquer or to perish?
Agonizing torture of love
Hypnotized by the ruby
......................Gateway of wrists.
Blood. Cleansing. Obsession
Grave robber of hearts
Blackness of bats
Rise and loom
To meet our dawn
......................Truth was never found.
Courage lands in hands
Guts land in minds
......................Salmagundi of souls.
Conquer or perish!
Irrevocable footing
Crossing. Boundaries
Commitments
......................Judgment of Scribes.
Bemoan the mirthless sky:
Dishonest of Omens
Dishonest of Heralds
Curiosity gallops
In gambles
......................Throw the dice!
"Conquer! Not perish!
Self-love truly shines"
-Voices of Spirits-
......................Ravish the heels of Achilles!!
In The Remains, We Nurture
It is you I wake to--mornings
as if you were conducting yourself on the radio
carousing in the clouds
of slumber-angelic-symphony
stirring the smoke
of some recent burning dream.
I fervently bled from the rhapsodies
entranced, in the way you assembled
all the instruments together
laying them at my feet,
by the city's torn sidewalk.
I can see you understood of wanting
to make my seas brimful with sustaining life.
I feel you. Growing tall and human
amidst the laughter of your child. I see you,
within crimsoned glass. Thick with dreams,
in this world's gray dawn.
[Dedicated to all the soldiers, firefighters and caring people who have perished, and who continue to perish]
The Texture of Rich Tapestry
Their sound carries over the reeds
over wild cotton blossoms
and jacaranda trees: the silent
tiny boots of cutter ants parading
in military formation across my path.
They march towards their mounds
freighting their goods
in a network of stone faces
and perfect Synchronicity.
Time moves 'profundo' for them
and I follow along.
I suddenly feel as if I begin to tear,
like a rug trod by too many people.
These ants carry tiny bundles
of splintered wood
and leafy containers with water.
A single bougainvillea flower
with vivid hues of electric violet
drifts away in the warm breeze.
(It was simply too big for their bodies)
They let go with no anxiety
and they do it in accordance
to their enduring version of an Empire.
...I wonder
if ants understand the word
RELAX
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