Poetry - Marjorie Montenegro

Doodles and Dabblings with nothing substantial


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Whispering Angel
I had once heard a voice
calling to me.
Through the darkness
it shown me light.
It was you
or so I believed
but truth like beauty
is only in the eye.

I showered you with love
and promises.
In return, you gave your trust
your heart.
It tasted good served over rice.

You whispered and I listened
to the voices not in my heart
but in my head.
I must have silence.
Be Gone.

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

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.

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

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