Poetry - Marjorie Montenegro

Doodles and Dabblings with nothing substantial

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Mourning Sky

The silver hay which lies atop her head
is caught among the bows which time does fade.
The chalk which has replaced her cheeks of red
like dust which cloaks the bed where once he laid.

The TV sounds blare out in every room
much easier for her to hear than naught,
and shattered crystal lies beside her broom,
her heel still stuck within the step where caught.

The doorbell rings, and yet she does not rise.
A sudden breeze blows softly by her brow.
A glimmer of a couplet once thought wise,
she strangely had forgotten until now.

"The Son will shine anew in mourning skies,
but first the sun sets softly on her eyes."


As I stand upon the precipice of my life
Looking back at all of those people I longed to love
Looking back at all of those people who claimed they loved me
I realize
Love is a Lie

Forever ended abrubptly
Leaving me shaken and quite alone

True retains the bitter
Flavor of a lie

As I stand upon the precipice of my life
I have matured, grown and understand
Love is Truly Forever
Like Death

Ode to Frederick Churchs Heart of the Andes

As far as the eye can see and beyond,
Where all things exist than fade softly from view
And mountains majesty melt into clouds of gray
As dark foreboding takes on a pasty hue.

All of the world captured in a blink of the eye
From light to dark; from birth to death.
From the foregoing shines the sun
Casting blackened shadows beneath bark of white.

She kneels beside the wooden cross
Which overlooks nothing and everything all in a glance.
Having followed the crooked well worn path.
God shines brilliantly upon her.

She visits him wherever he may lie;
In a little clearing overlooking the world;
Overlooking everything and nothing.
With pastures green with lush visions of life.

Across the life giving effervescence of the falls
Is a tree which having seen its prime
Sits precariously perched upon scant blades of grass.
It waits to make its descent into the never ending stream of life.

The white, clean water thrusts forth to unseen lakes.
And far downstream there is laughter and love.
But here in this clearing it is just he and she
And the bright light of God.

Work In Progress

There's an edge to the right
which fades to colors without definition
And the lines, limbs of a tree
will they lie bare or be cloaked in leaves

What does the spot of bright crimson
hope to become when it grows up
Like the deep, reflective, mournful black
which is the sea, no the night sky

Do blades of grass grow thick and lush
or will weeds occupy that patch
and there, see there, just to the left
a cloud floating free, or smoke looking for escape?

Is that a bright protective beacon
No, wait, it is a ray of sunshine
Please, do not touch for it is wet
good paint, strong paint, dries slowly

Many will try to own, posses
and many will try to tame this wild piece
but there is no signature, nobody can claim
This lovely work in progress

We The Critics

We the critics how we scorn;
then retreat to leave them mourn.
For we make them lose their way
"til it is us they must obey.
Should we speak of human plight
which hath cast shadows in the night.
The sins created in a single play,
have we the audacity to say
what is to become obsolete,
taken from those we defeat.
We know that they have many men,
but can they overcome our pen?
We have the power by and by
to drink their lives and watch them die.
We garishly sit upon our thrones
to drink their blood and eat their bones.
In just one breath we debate
what takes them years to create.
We the critics how we scorn
then retreat to leave them mourn.

Rainy Day on Maple Street

The light had flashed upon the glass like fire,
while cymbals clapped above in skies of gray.
The swoosh of rhythmic singing of the choir
forced little Jenny to her knees to pray.

The dog was heard to howl throughout the house,
and mother yelled at dad for all her worth,
"Go close the kitchen window, you dumb louse,
or you'll regret the day your Mom gave birth."

And suddenly things reached a fevered pitch.
When dad who had just way too much to drink
yelled back to mom, "shut up you dirty bitch."
So mom hit him with dishes from the sink.

Fear not for things turned out O.K., my friend:
When dad passed out, the rain came to an end.

To My Brothers and Sister

The chirping in the nest of late
has taken on a weakened tone.
As mother swallow follows mate,
Alas, the babies left alone

Yet as the weakened song sounds dire
the air feels heavy on their breast
and heat has risen from the fire.
Alas, a cool breaze gives them rest

But all too soon a perilous pitch.
A squeeking -- no a purring sound
comes closer to their resting place.
Alas, the nest soon hits the ground

But fledgling sparrows with spirits high
with haste scramble for cover.
I know the sound when sparrows cry.
Alas, where is their mother

A hawk just passing 'round this way
swoops down to take a look.
Then talons steal cat's prey away.
Alas, where were they took

Put into cages separated
from the comfort of one another.
"I want my sister" one had stated.
"Alas, I want my brother"

One day they had outgrown their cage
to soar high as the eye can see
to a place above this earthly stage.
Alas, they now were free.

A cool breeze brushed across my face
as the flames finally died.
The day we all were back in place,
Alas, another sparrow cried

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