Poetry

Two Poems

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cain Scours The Moon

 

See? How pitted the face of the Moon!

That’s Cain’s fault and expiation. 

Exiled for murder he roams

with his bundle of thorns scratching

and scarring the Moon’s pink

unforgiving stone

 

When I die, unredeemed

send me to join him

with my minuscule, sharp

bundle of thorns to scratch

our names on the face

of the Moon

 

 

 

Listening to Bamboo Grow

 

You are the cat perched 

on my cradle

Patient cat

 

waiting waiting

measuring 

the beat of my breath

 

I can only sleep

when I can hear

the bamboo sprouting

 

Soon I will be safe

one hundred pointed shoots

to pierce your wanton paws

 

Each sword raised

to defend the sound

of the wind leaving

 

my lungs

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