Blessing in brisk November

Blessing in brisk November

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.⠀⠀

I Love you

I Love You

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.

Episode 6: Friend

In this episode, we listen to Ernesto Mora’s poem ” Friend”.

I’ve a friend I can’t explain, he is night and shade and pain,
gentle as he gnaws my bones, and his voice is as the rain.
His is the gloom, his berth and shroud, herald of lament, patron of the disavowed.
Moon so pale, stars collapsed, the baying wolves snarl and snap,
promenade in the fetid garden, hand in desecrated hand clasped.

Seated he on cathedra inverted, hassock skin and flesh perverted,
crown of darkest pumice stone, so reigns he, upon such indecorous throne.

His the voice of madness and woe, lyric that sets the sun, song of sorrow,
sonant of the midnight mass, perched on cloud of black, between the twilight and morrow.
Such derision for the soil, growth be burdened, wilt and spoil,
maiden dance with blade in hand, to the lord naught be loyal.

His the wine of supplication, vintner of the most foul lamentation,
bitter grapes with seed of ire, chalice filled with lies and liars.
His the feast of avarice, cuisinier of rapacious artifice,
On silver plate with silver-tongue,
you tie your noose, the hangman comes.

His the scent of fallen rain, petrichor, deluge of pain,
I’ve a friend I can’t explain, without face and without name,
folie and fatigue, his is ceaseless romp and play,
and the rain, it seems, never goes away…

“Untitled” a poem by Ernesto Mora⠀

In the somber, dying dusk, just beyond the pale, I saw you. In the atramentous midnight hour, I felt you. In the morning, by the dewy knoll, I kissed the stone of your sepulcher.


Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.

Loving Hands Cause Pain

Loving hands cause pain

Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.

Episode 4: Annabel Lee By Edgar Allan Poe


In this 4th episode of The Prose & Poesy Podcast, we listen to the reading of Annabel Lee By Edgar Allan, read by Ernesto Mora

Poetry of the Deprived

In unpleasant dreams, I’ve heard you weep
beneath the Umbrous willow trees
the creek does mourn your shade forlorn
you’ve laid your tired bones within the flow.

The sun has dreamt it’s final bow, among the sullen stage so dreary now,
midnight remains resolute upon your brow, the crepuscular vestige is your crown.

From the darkest eve, comes a fevered steed,
famished, wanton lust for the husk to feed.

To stare into the dismembered hours, the void of sorrow,
painful flesh devoured, I call your name unto the stars,
etched into the night once ours.

You come to me veiled in black, vested in the shroud of agony that scalds my flesh,
embrace my piteous alms, my derided and indecorous banquet,
from the black meadows a petulant fest.

Through the windows come cold whispers cavorting with anguished blasphemes,
you speak my name as if to maim,
my sanity canters away on mare which drinks from your streams.

Into my dream seeps vitriol, forsaken is the lamb at slaughter,
as you imbibe my tremulous life I slip downstream farther…

In the waters of your resolution, to drown me in the mire of confusion,
you and I litanize the poetry of the deprived.

Episode 3: Poetry Reading Sweet Magdaline


At night, when the fleeting dreams haunt my flesh and tear at my walls,
And the waking voices hold vigil on my fantasy, it is then, cloaked in the shroud of gloom that I see where you have gone.
Without regards to the fevered twilight, who bids no clemency to the maddening vision, into that damnation so willing I go.
A gait amid the scentless roses, a look into the blackest sky, and a cup of tea with the beast, bitter with the rotting leaves.
Gone is the smile, parting lips that once revered my flawed words.
Gone are the moments dipped in the cove of your eyes, that once beheld my fallible flesh.
Into that quixotic bog, shaded in the valley where my sleep offers ephemeral glimpses.

You sing to me with such disdain, I hear your wailing on the starry canvass.
Such misery it is to behold, the cries of famined hounds, and more the snapping bones within the maw, once sweet claret nectar has spilled from the ire.
My name parts the winds, and, as if upon winged desperation, rend my pleasant rest apart and drown my lungs with resentment.
Do I drink from this irony? Indulge in this font of putrescence?

From below, comes the bellowed breathing from parched throat agape, lusting for vengeful chalice of a sacrilegious vintner.
Oh what mournful crying!
Tear my weeping eyes from me!
What songbird comes from the depths with such a cadenza? Such pitiful an aria as to drive the flocks from port, and the milk to spoil.
Sweet Magdaline!

Afire is my skin that swells with my contrition, as surely the lakes of perdition rage on feasted bones and souls!
These hands that once traced your beauty, these that snuffed the candle from your eyes!
They break from within as your intonation beckons the darkness come!
The choir now at my bedroom door doth rattle my peace!
And the mighty sword from which I slip, slip deeper into that streaming brook, where folie and fancy bear no resentment, and where from the stony cliffs you sing into my dimming light.

Sweet Magdaline, such delicate features now rot away, agonizing your every note.
Sweet Magdaline, I now sing from the shade as well, where at your feet I plead with the unforgiving.

Despite the naivete of young love
Your tepid body you pledged to me, sweet Magdaline
So your body I took
Despite your callous apathy and misdeed
Your heart you swore to me, sweet Magdaline
So your heart I took…

Loving Mother

In time through the whispered years
no love greater has there been
the caress that wipes the tears
words softly soothe the sleeved heart pinned
upon the arm once so young
now wiser, warmer it has become
and though no longer I slumber upon your chest
its still as though I grasp onto every breath

The Feeding

This wretched skin, shedding among the dimly lit stars,
the sonata that harkens the storm, deluge of beastly origins,
akin to the gloom hours that prey on fear,
and among the ravenous maw, distasteful rhetoric,
cursed whispers that fall on dilapidated husks,
the hunger, the sinful hunger…

the intent is of abysmal inspiration, hades bears it’s teeth,
and frenzy unfurled into soft flesh,
satiate this hellish thirst and ataraxia upon my palpitating megrim,
the sorrow that pleads with it’s penance, vindictive among its sins,
the fury, the unsettling fury…

the hunt morbid, and calamity be damned,
to feed the vultures once in servitude to their cages,
these eyes! what visceral humanity they have witnessed!
and taste the flesh in offering to my essence,
pain me no more! plea to the stars!
pain me no more! and silence in response,
the tranquility, the vexing tranquility…

day breaks upon my senses and from black the cadence ceases,
what dance has partaken, strides upon cadavers,
and to weep among the remains, beauty in resentful mourning,
sing to me o’ ye remains! speak about the acts cast upon your flesh by mine ripping teeth!
and alas the silence, a song in of itself,
the lyric, the mournful lyric…

Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.