Pablo Neruda – Quotes

“Love is so short, forgetting is so long.”

― Pablo Neruda, Love: Ten Poems

Little hands

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.

The Night We Met

When the evening would speak, in its tones so silent,
into my listening heart
the melody was so bitter, it made me close my eyes, such a
sweet caress that lifted my head
onto the altar where you’d wait so sullen, with those tears on
your prayers, that pain on your bones

the moon would paint its carcass across the dismal black,
pulling at the strings on our backs,
what a beautiful eulogy will be written into the stars, and how
the sky will mourn, to catch those tears I’d pass upon the
thorny tapestry, and bleed into that evening again

Your fingers forever engraved so enrapturing, onto my flawed
skin your farewell, those moments onto which my days are
enthralled, those lips on my flesh, they flayed my innocence
now woe has besieged our obstreperous night, where amid the
tempest we dance

awaiting the dying morning that we know won’t come, await
those breaths that we will not take
speak to me though my stars have fallen silent, my last vision
should be of you, and never more beauty into my eyes should
fall, the windows shattered against the raging conscience

So long has it been, lost among the gray, the midnight draped
on my veil
drifting amid the blackened sun, pitiful silhouette in the night
Long ago, your smile was with me, and the evening would
speak to me
So long has it been silent, your voice has faded from memory


The music that inspired this piece

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…

Good And Evil

The golden hue kiss on the horizon on the wings dulcet intonation below the dark hungered maw.


Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.

For without you

For without you
forsaken among the roots
but a glimpse at your foliage
in awe of vivid palette
in contrast I, in shaded anguish

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…

Weeping Stone Garden

Within void-like black of the night

I hear the hollow stones cry

their stories of the dream within dreams

of those that have slipped into Lethe’s stream

Be ware not to wake the dead,

They know the secrets in your head

The anguish, the symphony of screams

This melody that permeates into the dream within the dreams