Death, love

In emerald fields the poppies grow

In emerald fields the poppies grow.

By the well in her arms she’ll know you
And love you in this brief armistice.
Arched in their hearts.

Until she’ll hold you down
And let you go.
Your last wish, you spoke.

In the watery channels below,
Furled cocoon existence.
How mournfully slow.

In emerald fields the poppies grow.

Death, Lunar Poems

Blue Bees will not sting

Roses in the park,
Shimmer as a string of red pearls slipping down her throat


In a steel room he held her midst of mercy
Autumn’s arrival at last, the violet petals collapse
He’ll pass through cosmic tunnels
And wear her voice as he nears the moon


What of it now?
The failure of nerve
We all stand a chance
To be a queen in his eyes
When the suntory claimed the roses as blue

Poem by: NaRa

Art: Blue Bee Image Pinterest, Mark Rothko & Freydoon Rassouli