Poems by Lorraine E. Leslie

Timelessness of Being

If only people were trees,
with oblong cross-shaped bodies of jet black,
limbs spread out against a sunset sky,
that will soon turn the color of onyx.

Waiting for the day to become night,
with a splash, from the great calligrapher’s giant brush, black ink,
a streak like a raven’s wing,
making an indelible mark across the sky,
the void of the universe,
an infinite large cast iron kettle.

In a sky of obsidian,
the stars will guide ships to distant ports,
the waves of the ocean thrash, the wind whips wildly
like vampire’s capes.

The night has danced in wearing shoes of black patent leather,
and jet black trees
still stand like sentinels,
on lonely hills
the color of slate.

Written by
Lorraine E. Leslie
October 15, 2013
At The Georgia O’Keeffe Museum



I see the spade-shaped leaf the color of eggplant
growing brittle on the ground.
The first snow of winter fell last night.

I see in its center lying on top,
a tiny pink leaf shaped like a hand,
like a embryo beating within its core, clinging,
not wanting to give up and let go too soon,
not ready for winter’s blanket
to descend and smother it forever.

I feel the dark leaf was
a temporary haven for the pink leaf child.
It was just resting inside, like within of a mother’s womb.

I feel it was waiting to be born,
but the winter has come early, cutting short its time
severing both of them from the tree of life.
They both had their brief moment to dance in the wind,
now they rest on the starkness of the cold wet snow,
waiting to crumble and disappear into the cauldron of the inky void.

I believe impermanence is the only constant.
Cycles of life and death,
a chance to dance in the wind until,
we fall down.
I believe that like these two leaves on the ground,
we will all be overcome by the shadows creeping along the edges

I see the eggplant leaf and its tiny
pink guest which clings desperately to its center, where a heart would lie.
I see them dancing away, entering the void
not alone, but together,
to be consumed by the white.
And like the ace of spades, in a deck of cards,
their time has played out.

Written by
Lorraine E. Leslie
October 15, 2013
At The Georgia O’Keeffe Museum

This entry was posted in Uncategorized by Miriam Sagan. Bookmark the permalink.

About Miriam Sagan

I'm blogging about poetry, land art, haiku, women artists, road trips, and Baba Yaga at Miriam's Well (https://miriamswell.wordpress.com). The well is ALWAYS looking to publish poetry on our themes, sudden fiction, and guest bloggers and musers.

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