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Archive for the ‘fantasy’ Category

KING

Left inside the mound, I accompanied him.

 

First it was silver, then sand.

There was a shape of a great melodrama

And clue by clue, I smelled the change in the air

 

“Grace is set in stages,” he said, “I won’t burden you with the list.”

“But what we love will be forgotten, if we don’t follow discovery.”

 

This is not the start of love. It is a dream in the long line of a horse,

The wide bow of a ship, or the ribcage of the biggest heart.

 

The silver chipped away and a thrill rose in a dark-light.

The doubt then was a fat flower blooming

 

 I said, “More.  More.  MORE!”

 

Only that deafening smell of the overripe

Could wake me from that blast.  That pomp.

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+ / This is a poured-truth dressed in memory / and cut down; this is a matter ruff; a gray middle

Source: The Ambassadors — Part 5 by Leah Umansky : Poetry Magazine

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so excited to have a new dystopian poem forthcoming in this issue of POETRY Magazine.

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Jon Snow Is Mine

and this is not about the line of duty,
but the bloodline within the heart.
In love, there is a bleeding over,
a letting out, or letting in.

Let me in on this, Snow, for six feet from the heart
is better than six feet below.

Below this un-handed world,
life is a myth: words are re-imagined
into a rigorous tease and a learned dark.

You know, there is more blast, here, in the heart.
My world is strange enough with its ifs and its elses

The eager Wild is what awards us.
The musted love that anews.

Don’t let the tender, doom.

(c)Umansky 2014

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http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/246972

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I will fight injustice with justice, she says.

and,  I bring you a choice.

But what if she said,  you will obey me?

 

That pride is a pit

and Khaleesi is no peach.

Brute. Burden Beast

She is Bullied, Brazen and Bare.

 

She has scrabbled with man, horse and spirit.

 

What is fire-born can be fire-ridden,

for, one hand has five fingers

One digit could lead the others astray

 

This hand is reaching up

as she is of the air.

 

She says, I will see each of their faces

When she says each, she means all.

What if,  in the moment that she leans in close

to the lens, there is a smear of sap

What then of womanhood?

 

A mother of dragons

is still a mother.

Her stare is blue:

a fire, not catching.  

a stunted sun

a contorted kiss

a vein left turned

 

this hand gives allegiance

and this hand,  the heart.

and this heart  beats

 

with the roar of a wingspan

so big it could cover us all

in darkness.

 

© Umansky 2014

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