First star on the velvet canvass⠀
morning glory⠀
greet the brightest dawn⠀
the initial chapter, lovely story⠀
pale warmth ⠀
ebbs from the angels’ choir⠀
blessing in brisk November⠀
mandated from on higher…⠀
.
.
—Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.⠀⠀
My heart has split upon the altar⠀
to no pain that took my breath away⠀
and the flow of time has spoken into my being⠀
words of silken water upon my crown⠀
split into three⠀
my light my joy and me…⠀
⠀
—Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.⠀
“Beneath your hooves, trampled roses cry the song of discontent and the fragile silk now bleeds onto your heartless cavort.” -E.Mora #Apathy
Fingers that trace the morning mists
and in their wake imprint sonnets
and words that sweeten the gardens nectar,
are nails across my heart
—Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.
I love you as the morning ⠀
warmth kisses my cold prayers, ⠀
love like the night that faded ⠀
has left the sky bare ⠀
from the dark corners of my dreams, ⠀
I wake and you’re there ⠀
into the fields of your kisses, ⠀
petals sweet-scented ⠀
into the forever of your ⠀
wonderful stare.⠀
For you my love, ⠀
for even if I die today, ⠀
I’ve lived within every moment of your love for me⠀
Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.
⠀
The emergency broadcast alarm sounds off. I am disturbed, out of my sleep. But what’s more disturbing is what I now see on the screen. Could this be real? Is this some sort of hoax? I don’t know, but there’s something to the tone of the man’s voice, that is leaving me unsettled. I think I better take this seriously.
Podcast: Play in new window
In this episode, we listen to Ernesto Mora’s reading of “I Will not Mourn You”
***
I will not cry for you at all,
there is within me a resolve so cold and dressed in apathy,
so uncaring with the meager,
such a black and forlorn room that I dwell in from moment to moment.
This room has become my progenitor,
my mentor, the study of anger without remorse,
I am this room, its walls draped in the torn flesh of that which I’ve chewed upon,
and spit with delighted disgust as the pleas echoed in the darkest corridors beyond this doorless room.
It is this room that I weep for if in fact I do weep,
but as I weep I continue to tear apart countless heart.
I will not cry for other than this void,
for in this void I have been shown the evil without and beyond those tattered walls.
so uncaring with the meager, such a black and forlorn room that I dwell in from moment to moment.
This room has become my progenitor, my mentor, the study of anger without remorse,
I am this room, its walls draped in the torn flesh of that which I’ve chewed upon,
and spit with delighted disgust as the pleas echoed in the darkest corridors beyond this doorless room.
It is this room that I weep for if in fact I do weep, but as I weep I continue to tear apart countless heart.
I will not cry for other than this void, for in this void I have been shown the evil without and beyond those tattered walls.
“Love is so short, forgetting is so long.”
― Pablo Neruda, Love: Ten Poems
I hold onto your little hand
and feel the stories untold
a bond ancient
and your eyes take hold
be it into the night
or into the vivid day
I will always hold your little hand
onto the blackest of frays.
Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.
Podcast: Play in new window
In this episode, we listen to Ernesto Mora’s reading of “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe.
