Three Poems by Persephone Ezra

 

The Fools Ballad

If fools rush in where angels fear to tread
then angels know not love nor sacrifice.
I battle with this fool inside my head
and try to seek out words to be concise.
Yet heart cannot express through mere device
just how divine life is when you are there.
When you are there I tend to say things twice
     I am a leaf that flutters through your air

I wish to be like characters I've read
for they walk unafraid of flame and vice
they tend to act with very little said
yet here I am afraid to break the ice.
What could I dare to say that might entice
my dreams to not meander to nightmare.
I pray that what I say will sound suffice
     I am a leaf that flutters through your air

I parse through all the love notes that I've shred
my loose leaf journals have all paid the price.
I wish that I could voice the love you spread
yet there's no string of words that is precise.
and yet in dreams I see them throw the rice
and whisper how we make a lovely pair
I am the fool and so I say it thrice
     I am a leaf that flutters through your air

I know my role yet fear to roll the dice
and so I sink into my own despair
I am a fool that needs his own advice
     I am a leaf that flutters through your air

 

 

Sin Waves

I cradle her innocence in my palms
like a gypsy moth
for I do not wish to disrupt the powder on her wing
under the covers we undress and undulate
bending to the unending song we sing
sin waves
wash over the ashen passion of our burning paradise
choice has reduced voice to whisper
the birds and the bees fall to their knees
for the wasp and the asp
and a past
that we cannot return to
Sin waves
    "hello"
for now we owe hell

For now we know well
the price of our cyclical desires
too late we learn that frost can burn
and our hell is the ice we pick

 

 

Syntaxi Cabs

Syntaxi cabs drive on concrete
poetry. The road less raveled is barren
of figurative language
and the exits exist, so long as we adore
the pain that windows let us explore.
Widows are still beside the syll-
able-bodied...yet sedentary.
Cemetery meter
paid in quarters
no longer filled with laughter
or dreams of forever after.
Empty corridors.
Empty core adores the plot
that selfish writers wrought

Persephone Ezra - draws inspiration from the complex, the ineffable, the organic and the mechanical. Her lyrical, intricate word play, weaves itself through her poetic verse mixing classical form with contemporary style. Her works interrogate the relationship between the individual and the psychological, the sexual, and the religious through an exploration of phonics and etymology. Her poetry pushes the reader to constantly ask what it means to be human in the post-digital, postmodern world.