The abandoned woman by Ioana Geier (good books to read for 12 year olds .txt) 📕

The abandoned woman

The abandoned woman
always polishes a tear
to another man's heart.

it's spring
the peonies are blooming
why would I
be afraid to cry?


The prayer of separation

I don't know how to take off a man's shirt
down to his soul
my fingers start trembling
as if upon an untouched poem
eyes happened in the same night
I see myself lived
by the loneliness

I hastily throw away
the prayer of separation
on the visage
letting the blood hum
towards a maimed wall


I'm a savage virgin

I'm a savage virgin
thrown on the footsteps of a man seemingly blind.
While taking nowhere
his heels sound
like a final hour.
The night is getting uncertain
on all of the street lamp's sides,
contemplating the heart's
burst of monologues.

Anyway, nobody sees it
no, nobody hears it;
have you got the suited pair of eyes
for a new love?


Flamenco

To the limit of the hazy silence
I try to lucidly glance at ourselves
though too far the white sail
too hopeless the seagull
above the soul's bitter waters

flamenco!
But the ankle from within the gong is twisted

of!the dream robe
moving once again
the wild lemons
from the suffering garden.



Free on the erotic rhythm street

Free on the erotic rhythm street
I memorize
the hidings of the continued man
as a separation
trying to resist
rigorously
into the contour of patience.



The rebelled magnolia's dance

Gently sounds the dusk fallen
over the music of the glance
your hand will uncover the rustle
of the body descending from silk

the distance of the gathered horizons

the night will cast
on the sounds
the poem stolen from the rebelled magnolia's dance.


Seedy poem in the tango footsteps

Seedy poem in the tango footsteps
you dishonoured me!
the last street crossed backwards
the last spear
and the utopian password of the traitor butterfly

paradoxes?! morals?!
the hand drowsing in sin
will confess striking

cry if you are still withstanding
someday you will be wearing my ashes
on your nerve.


Into the primordial garden

Into the primordial garden
the peonies are exploding
oh, the logic proves the opposite!

as bitten
as torn by my own angel
I'm running
into the suburbs of the horologe
chasing for the old song
my own maternal virtue
camouflaged
by terrifying metaphors
stress, hell, hyenas...

God, which of us has
the most uneven senses?


It's a different kind of autumn, you angel.

It's a different kind of autumn, you angel.
I'll remain with only a yellow shade
of echo
in an abstract painting
on Flur 38

I would need a quote
to tie up my body on my thought
but the blue of the sky stops wrapped
as for the last gong

Take from the flesh of the vines
with me
and open the horizon!


Yellow bright jazz of autumn

What does this angel needs
yellow bright jazz of autumn
when I call a truce
in the womb of my thoughts?

A secret bell is piercing
the dim face of the world
straining the arrhythmias
of the bodies escaped from their own territories.


October

October...dissipating
from the gong tongue
my body inside a shiver
inside a bitten sound
the chrysanthemums smelling like poem lines
fresh beside
beheaded
a quiver of palm it's all that is left
on to your breast bone
reducing the philosophy of the world
it can be entered inside
my being
without order

the moan of the dusk on the
opening window
the zephyr fallen on the kiss
on the shadow with it's interiour flame
what an order in this world
God
what an order


I search for my sky

Yellow leaves inside
I'll be left from the autumn
and the dusk staggering
on the chrysanthemum crouched inside the palm
your eyes invading other depths
throw me in the breach of the thoughts
I lean against a clarinet life-wasted
I search for my sky
the shadow with youth shades
and the light-gliding shoes
between translucent magnolias
as the fugitive dress.


We crush into the sky's mirror dancing

We crush into the sky's mirror dancing
our lives of thirsty butterflies
on a colour

I would get you changed
in these moments suited for betrayal
but first I would beat with my fists into
the other straying, throwing
the sand of return
in the eyes anyway shut I would beat
into that old thing crumbled between
parables and arms that cannot
continue their passing when
the buds on the twig are shouting
withdrawing into the troubled sap
as if a new burgeoning.

Publication Date: 01-13-2010

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