P o e t r y . . .
Poetry
The Nightmare
In nights moist blackness I open the words like a door to the hazy bedroom of childhood and through the clouds of dreams I hear his moans and cries sick with the flu afraid of a dream a memory The sweat from his terror strikes maternal moving closer moans become clear like whale songs the language of anguish... & I understand.
In nights moist blackness
I open the words like a
door to the hazy bedroom
of childhood
and through the clouds
of dreams I hear
his moans and cries
sick with the flu
afraid of a dream
a memory
The sweat from his terror
strikes maternal
moving closer
moans become
clear like whale songs
the language of anguish...
& I understand.
by Kari Sodeman
edited by Justin Olmanson
P r o g r e s s i o n
read at your own risk...
discovered, lost and squandered
death
various people
prayers, hymns and questions
W H o m e
...