2/16/2016 0 Comments Three poems by Lana BellaNear The End By Lana Bella Near the end, before the mind leaves itself into a halfway poem, you clip bonsai stems and dry them beside the French window. Listen, that is all the universe have left for you in this ambulatory length of guts, even refuse rises above rust, and sunlight fails to polish your reflection in the glass. So you'll need to breathe out two strong slips of air, for at last you could feel the blues becoming your own, crawling then thrusting with the serpentine grooves of an adder, when heavens slumps you down on the rocking chair, as sleep should arrive then almost nostalgically. Snapshot To cross the trembling slate between the strange and the stoic, she tried to imagine her flowing curls scuffing past this wind, where the manic throb of Manhattan rushed back to leave autumn on her cold cheeks. Someone called her name, she turned, parting the streetlight and shadows for a celluloid snapshot of his grainy ghost, who was rallying the sorrow she wore beneath the pinched smile. The background about her sapped then behind the crisp leaves yellowing, muddying his sad eyes. Turning back, she held her pale limbs to the easel of her dormant universe, and emptied her soft words into a snow globe of his eastern sky. Wake, wake, little darling, he stalked her silence above the motion of time creeping through an inchoate circle, understanding that at last he has grown quietly dim as quickly as the watermarked streets in a downtrodden city. The Poet Who Gives Up His Ghosts all of the house is quiet, while the strain of a velvet metronome stretches along his narrow bed-- and rather than trifling in those sonnets penned, the blue arcs of nightsky haunt the mouth of the downhearted poet-- through the wide saloon of his chest, eyes of ghosts show off their red-flecked rage, pruning back the tedium traffic of unwritten words the texture of slate granite--out of luck and out of gin, he ruffles the remains of black robed metaphors as they spring invisibly from his mind to mouth—words, which can nurture his waking, can in turn sour him in their smarting cryptography, so he follows the salted path between them, still, the ghosts play the lost and found in his house of opus and stones-- About the author: A Pushcart nominee, Lana has had her poetry and fiction featured or forthcoming with over 180 journals, including a chapbook with Crisis Chronicles Press (Winter 2016), Abyss & Apex, Chiron Review, Coe Review, Columbia Journal, Elohi Gadugi, Foundling Review, Fourth & Sycamore, Galway Review, Harbinger Asylum, Literary Orphans, Lost Coast Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, Poetry Quarterly, Roanoke Review, William Jessup University, and elsewhere, among others. She divides her time between the US and the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam, where she is a mom of two far-too-clever-frolicsome imps. https://www.facebook.com/niaallanpoe
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