“Firefly”

If there was a firefly to linger
as the sparks fade into stars
perhaps I would not

think of hope as a flighty
and iridescent stranger.
But I lie,

for that is my curse — to hope
despite the fading vistas of
my dreams, and the rain

which erases the directions
that I drew on the sidewalk.
The pep-talk’s in poetry —

and the blue of the forget-me-not
still hopes — though forgotten.
And I, if God himself lost sight of me,

perhaps I would yet believe
in miracles, whatever they are,
and that sparks are fireflies — are stars.

Written April 2013, Emma Dumitra.
Image from science.howstuffworks.com.

Photo Meme: “Pompeii”

Another good prompt photo from Shawn L. Bird, “Pompeii, 79 AD”.
These were my instructions:
1. Create a poem, story, or article based on this photo.
2. Post it on your blog.
3. Cut and paste the photo onto your post (leaving the Monday
Meme text).
4. Put a link to your post in the comments to this post below so
we can visit your blog.

I am white
in mourning.
Not white like a dawn
or a wedding,
but white.

Grey in ash,
but white.
Cornered with
folded hands that
could be
praying.

I am old,
molded by
history,
yet no older than
the day I died.

Ageless.
Ash.
I am.
Dead.
Alive.
Because.
You read.
These words.

Emma Dumitra.

“Cold Lies the World We Know”

Cold lies the world we know?
“Nonsense — don’t fret about your idleness,
and where you stand, the roses soon will grow
to swallow the sky
with leaves.”

Leaves come as winter leaves.
“Does cold lie the world you know?
Don’t fret — for the falling trees
leave room for new ones to grow.”

We are — or are we? —
and words we speak are not sentences —
or are they?
Guilt.
In our own guilt we condemn,
make our words — sentences
and then,

Cold lies the world we know,
and the rut of time squeaks so
and bends the thinking thoughts,
the leggèd things that go somewhere,
while people breathe thoughts
and think air.

Written February 2013, Emma Dumitra.
Image from skiplaruephotography.com. 

Guest Poem: “Sucking Lemons”

Today’s poem was written by my sister Miriam. I’ll be sharing some
of her talent here every now and then because it’s lovely stuff. If you thought I was good at poetry — well, think again.

Beautiful day
Turned into night
That froze us and gathered us
A bit further down
But remember warmth
And so we all sat
Sat together in rows

Sucking lemons
Bittersweet sighs
And water in my eyes
When I try to talk
But when do they hear
The rage in my voice
And hope subdued

Acid tongue
Based on the fact
That conversation lies
A little to the left
But forget the right
It’s wronged too fast
And moves too slow

Beautiful night
Turn into day
And wake and embrace me
With white-hot fingers
But forget frost
That words are stinging
And move the lonely

Counting space
Slithering time
The beat in the talk
Isn’t quite right again
But why don’t they change
The air that they breathe
And harmful words

Seen by sorrow
And I trusted
To hold my right hand
Without gripping tight
But then there’s the word
I always forget
And won’t remember
Again

Written by Miriam Dumitra.
Image from http://www.thisiscolossal.com by Christopher Jobson.