Poetry By
Iryna Hall
Published on: 5/7/2015
Spring
Every spring I'm in love like in heat. I am brushing my hair in my dungeon. As I throw down my locks, I am plunging Mortal men in the dust of my feet. Every spring I inhale and conceive. I am found with a heavenly belly, And the round of my form must be telling That I've got the whole world up my sleeve. Every spring I am bursting with birth. In my screams I'm deciphering summer. And my nurse is a grumpy old farmer With his hands in the womb of the earth. Every spring I create, and begin With reflecting my beauty in puddles. I'm the owner, the queen, and the goddess Of the sown, and the fresh, and the green.
Published on: 5/5/2015
Truth
I've lived and died. I'm asking God Where's truth, but denser Than human mind is clear mud Inside his answer. But something whispers, weak and faint: In retrospect, if The truth can ever be obtained, It is subjective. We all are blind, or mute, or deaf, And whether bleak, or Hot and bright, the truth is left Up to the seeker.
Published on: 5/21/2015
Digger
When stars are tainted, When skies are shallow, When grass is yellow, I green it— paint it, I plow through Cosmos And make it bigger. I am a digger, A painter, almost An addict dreamer, A sower-reaper. My sky is deeper, My side is greener.
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