Category: Prosetry
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Lost in the mansion…by G. Mramor
There is a little boy of ten screaming and wailing at the doors of death
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It came to me sunday…by G. Mramor
It came to me sunday as I was climbing the stairs
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And she sits there…by G. Mramor
And she sits there and takes the bumps and the shakes as they come, part of the machine that drags the bus onward, part of the streets that make the bus bump and shake, part of the city that forgets its people.
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And to the brave girl…by G. Mramor
And to the brave girl who writes a wrinkle on a moist page: ‘where is eternity?’ She asks her mother, she asks her father, she asks her kin, she asks her teacher, she asks her rabbi, she asks her God, and nothing
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Can you move on, beyond doubt?…G. Mramor
Can you move on, beyond doubt? Askant of a shimmurring sky: is this me, is this my voice, is this my heart? You can say: this is my blood, thus this is my spirit, and with some comfort tread onwards, but there is a malaise that hides in the code of the blood, a malaise…
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She was born to know the water…by G. Mramor
She was born to know the water. Although she always knew, that she was below the surface of the skin, in the bloodstream going back to the secret heart, awaiting the vision after a heart’s darkness, this vision never came to her, so she searched it out.
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She has a pretty face…by G. Mramor
She has a pretty face, and she wears her hat backwards far back, soft brunette streams down the sides of her face, a pesky strand pushed back as she counts money, she smiles a good bye and says hello, an order and more money she counts and returns three dimes to a smiling man, she…
