A Walk Among the Black Brambles

Poem Entry : Page 2

Wingless Bird

Wingless bird of strife and sorrow,
whose cage now doorless bids farewell,
into the vast unknown venture intrepid, and
behind leave ye sleepless blanket.

Wingless bird of sullen eyes, such beauty in your
freedom, that cage now houses days on end, a
memory into memories of flight.

Wingless bird of regretful contempt,
how thine presence swiftly fled, into the
breadth of unending dreams, onto fields of
sweetened water…and dusk into your eyes
sets, the vessel enveloped into beginnings,
and weeping, the wind carries your scent once
and last.

Familiar euphoria of the Angel’s choir, the
perfume of innocence, the day mourns the
setting of the sun, night with eyes closed but a
slumber eternal, but never awaken unto that
yesterday, and grasp onto thine self the aromatic

The longing of the cage that once was, bid
loving parting from the maws of that cage,
and hold no disdain within your ephemeral
beauty, the modest moments chained to my
heart, and ache upon that muscle, the
reminiscent thorn to tear that flesh.

Wingless bird of transient songs, no longer
intone the brass wires of your cage,
Sweet melodious and brimful with contrition,
bending with penance, arching, destitute of

To read this poem and more available on kindle ebook  A Walk Among the Black Brambles.



The Mocked and Wingless

So radiant was the morning star
that from the mild eye came sorrow
and forked tongue whispered miasma
onto jovial hubris

Sweet nectar from the sanctified bloom
the earth was slaked by treason
and cast onto forlorn pastures
are the wingless quarry

Upon these hands sleep countless woes
and on rended back carry we eternal
the sins of our father and mother
mocked by the skies above


Episode 2: Poetry Reading ‘Hearts of Bitter Harvest’

In this 2nd episode of ThePOEMHOME podcast, we listen to the reading of Ernesto’s poetry “Hearts of Bitter Harvest”

In barren field, sitting upon marble black, painted upon a piteous facade, a farcity so contrived as to mock its own insipidity.
Along its flesh, torn are the moments as leaf from tomes, bidding the warmth that once kindled upon the very sun, a contemptuous parting.
From the roots, the soil so deprived and imbued with disdain, so to sow upon the mud would only serve to reap the loathing sentiment.
Arid is my earth, a thrall to your words so dulcet, and marred is the fruit, the hearts of bitter harvest.

Into the folding nights my vines extend, and caress upon its tendrils your pulsing breast.
What dormant secrets take abode within your countenance, that whittle away at elation and whet condemnation of my soul.
To gaze upon your truth would be divine, to satiate the withering leaf, and bring forth to this parched parcel, the deluge from your sorrows.
Arid is my earth, penitence to a wretched fluora, and plagued is the crop, the hearts of bitter harvest.

Tend to this meadow, so ashen with the ardent bellows, where dreams wither upon the brow and tomorrow is never veracious. Taunting, untruthful, vain and insidious are the pledges that are never consummated. So upon the sun I scribe in futility, a declaration of my devotion, an intimate portrayal versed in emotion, and whispers delicately spoken from the hearts of bitter harvest, inexorably broken.

The waters that flowed have long since dried, the drought that bends the stalk in agony.
And unrelenting is the howl of the acrid dust, imbued within the winds of profane idiom, that flay the skin with merciless battery.
So poignant is the deplorable rose, whose color is flush with unending misery, who blooms but only for a kiss so as to falsely absolve the hands that thrust the rooted love from the faded terra, the hands that bled once pricked by the dessicated thorn yet failed to acknowledge their own mortal paradox.

Among the vines the hands did bleed, and from that crimson wine so bittersweet, the dying morning glory did recede, against the dimming cries for clemency.
Arid is my earth, no songs sway discourse, the sweet aroma of dissonant bounty, the hearts of bitter harvest.