Details |
Irene Rozenberg Poem
There once was a dinosaur who lived on the moon.
He met a cute alien and started to swoon.
The dinosaur blew her a kiss
And asked "what's your name, miss?"
But little miss alien had to leave soon.
She turned around and fell into a crater,
So the dinosaur went to save her
But when he peeked into the hole,
He himself started to roll.
In here, his chances of love were greater.
Although it was dark,
He felt a romantic spark,
But alas, little miss alien was gone,
which left the dinosaur withdrawn.
"I'll never find love on the moon," he liked to remark.
Copyright © Irene Rozenberg | Year Posted 2020
|
Details |
Irene Rozenberg Poem
She wears a pure, pink dress.
Nature is her sanctuary.
Curiosity is her comfort.
She sits among the fallen, pink petals
Of the magnolia tree
And wonders:
Why must the petals plummet,
Leaving the trunk blackened and bare?
The once soft, smooth petals
Have become withered, wilted,
Their distant trunk exhausted, parched.
Why must nature be so cruel?
Why must the young mind never rest?
Juvenile questions satiate her curiosity
While existential ones suffocate.
Unexplainable phenomena maintain a habitat,
Not in the magnolia, but in her head.
The puzzle of existence overpowers
The instincts and adaptations of nature.
Science can explain the latter.
The petals must plummet
So the tree can survive
The wicked conditions of winter.
But how must the young girl grip with
The flood of unanswered reflections?
Inquiries into nature quickly become futile
For an adolescent.
Dreadful, empty pits of interrogation
Into inward contemplation creep into the mind
Creating conditions inhospitable to innocence.
If only I could tell her
To bear these ambiguities for just a little longer
before they leave her bare.
She must conquer these queries
Before they conquer her.
Copyright © Irene Rozenberg | Year Posted 2021
|
Details |
Irene Rozenberg Poem
Hope
Bright, resilient
Dreaming, wanting, wishing
Desire, aspiration, logic, reality
Wondering, waiting, doubting
Unrealistic, fleeting
despair
Copyright © Irene Rozenberg | Year Posted 2020
|
Details |
Irene Rozenberg Poem
The sun's rays hold tight
To the bodies that remain
In a thunderstorm.
Copyright © Irene Rozenberg | Year Posted 2020
|
Details |
Irene Rozenberg Poem
When will the stars align?
In a logical, beautiful constellation,
In a harmonious formation
That only we can recognize?
I see the stars in your eyes.
Can you see them in mine?
Sometimes I gaze into the night sky
And I see glimmering signs of you.
Do you see them too?
Maybe the stars are fooling me.
Maybe our constellation doesn't exist.
Maybe our stars will never find harmony.
But I've always hoped that they would tell me
If these aching feelings should be dismissed.
Copyright © Irene Rozenberg | Year Posted 2020
|
Details |
Irene Rozenberg Poem
I think the universe is punishing me.
The gods must be amused.
I could have loved you,
But now I am alone,
And you are not.
I am always alone,
And you are not.
My independence intimidates people,
But it breaks me.
I am happy for you, really,
But when will I be?
I never told you how I felt,
And then I watched you slip away
In an act of cosmic irony.
I think the universe is punishing me
With emptiness
With loneliness
With jealousy.
I do not know how much longer I can keep up this act.
At least the gods must be amused.
Copyright © Irene Rozenberg | Year Posted 2020
|
Details |
Irene Rozenberg Poem
I want to write some words
About him, his hair, his heart,
But my mind may not
Permit poetry or prose pertaining
To this secret soul
Because i am smarter than that.
Forgetting feelings is frustrating
But difficult duties must be done.
Conundrums can create clarity.
I realized that reminiscing does not reassure.
My heart has yet to heal,
But it will start soon
So these words were written for me.
Copyright © Irene Rozenberg | Year Posted 2020
|
Details |
Irene Rozenberg Poem
Raindrops kiss our skin.
Or are those just our own tears,
produced not by skies?
Copyright © Irene Rozenberg | Year Posted 2020
|
Details |
Irene Rozenberg Poem
There's looting.
There's shooting.
Rubber bullets flying through the air
like fighter planes whirling in combat.
The bullets are harmless, they say
Because the raw metal is not exposed,
But the wounds are real.
The pain is real.
The violence is real.
Rubber bullets are just naked little weapons
Covered in a shield of rough rubber
Meant to protect rather than to harm.
Just like those blanketed missiles,
Deep-rooted wounds that harm
Our compatriots are dismissed.
The wounds are not real.
Only silence will heal them, they say,
But silence leaves scars.
Copyright © Irene Rozenberg | Year Posted 2020
|