Saturday, March 18, 2017

Weeping Girl

Weeping Girl
© Surazeus
2017 03 18

When the brown moth with lightning on its wing
flutters from the tongue of the blue-eyed girl
her single tear that glitters silver moonlight
sparks orange and yellow flowers to bloom bright
from the desert hills where rain never falls.

Her pale face appears in odd slant of sunlight
wherever I go in country or town,
blue eyes piercing my hard heart with despair
as she calls me to find her in the world
hidden somewhere behind numberless door.

I push through the black door of frozen night
and walk the road of shards from shattered skulls
to find the weeping girl in long black dress
who stands beneath the broken tree of bees
and hands me rotten apple of my heart.

Shriek of her lost voice on cold blasting wind
tears across dark sky as bleak raven cry
and whispers in red fluttering maple leaves
that splatter raindrops on my upturned face
long after her name is erased by snow.

She looks back at me, face white behind glass,
blue eyes expanding to enclose the sky,
as the black car grinds away down dirt road
to vanish in wild flash of sunset sorrow
that gashes ragged wound within my heart.

Candle light glitters through bottle of wine
as I stare in deep vacuum of regret,
wondering why I was so sure that sun-flared hour
sending my daughter to the orphanage
would give her a better life than I could.

I glide my motorcycle down long road
winding through southern California hills
and walk to the pond where young hippies dance,
long hair flowing in the cool ocean breeze,
and gaze at the face of every young girl.

I wonder if the slender blue-eyed girl
who strums guitar on stage and dances wild
while she sings about star-swift Pegasus
who flies her over desert to the house
where Father Bear waits for her to return.

I wake among flowers by the blue pond
alone with bright stars that pierce my numb heart
long after the fairies vanished in moonlight,
and draw her face with long hair in brown sand
then position blueberries for her eyes.

The brown moth with white lightning on its wing
flutters from the tongue of the blue-eyed girl
who stands before me in the silver moonlight
so I lie down on soft breast of the Earth
for new apple tree to sprout from my head.


  1. This is an ekphrastic poem inspired by this painting:

    Эапрос принят
    Accepted Question
    Ana Bagayan

    Painting on this page: