Poemgranates, poetry written by David Estringel at Spillwords.com
Nikola Markelov



written by: David Estringel



Lay me down just beyond the back porch,
where the pomegranates grow—
a stone for my pillow,
fragrant grass and pink evening primrose for a quilt—
beneath playful trickles of sunlight,
sieving through branches, verdant green,
that dance to the burden of those
fateful red globes.
How I could pass these languorous days
lost in the shadow plays
cast upon these eyelids too heavy with sleep—
quiet tumults
of mists and stars
that stretch and fade into nothing
to the familiar knells of horned larks
that ring from blush and yellow blooms
of lantana trees
just beyond the gate.
Or to roll, smooth,
pebbles and twigs,
caress the backs of shiny, black beetles,
between curious, cold fingertips dug deep
into wet earth,
conjuring up ambrosial moments,
like ghosts,
of the taste of that sweet, sweet, red nectar—
those wanton streams of warm
that dribbled down my tongue,
my throat,
my chin,
onto white t-shirts and
patched jeans,
leaving me forever wanting
(forever stained)
and feasting on shade.
…just maybe,
one day you’ll come along, take a bite and say,
“Hey, David’s tasting good this year.”

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