Details |
Monica Bartsch Poem
the sun is in the fair east
my sorrows are not yet at my back
i look up at the joyous heavens
i have no grief nor lack
my wonderland is here
trinkets made from silver and gold
time is of the essence you see
for I only have a day to mold
my garden is my own
made from the petals of the sky
it grows in the chambers of the mind
spilling into life with endless supply
i build castles of ice and frost
only to melt them at repeat
with many battles and throngs
and mind games that shout no defeat
i am soft to the touch but wild in play
tomorrow I know will come soon
and i will have to harden with
the tide of the changeling moon
Copyright © Monica Bartsch | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Monica Bartsch Poem
I met him along a winding road,
Where the golden honey flowed.
The road had not ebb or rough bend,
nor was there a journey’s end.
But he was the captain.
In the middle of the lane he stood,
Tall as the elm wood.
He had no ship nor crew,
And his friends were few.
But he was the captain.
Tales echoed across the town,
Filled with fair folk all around.
Tales of this young and spry lad.
Dark and handsomely clad.
He was the captain.
He was strong as a wild ox,
Yet wise as an old fox.
Fair was his golden hair,
And bright his eyes of care.
He was the captain.
His voice was soft and gentle,
His posture monumental.
His limbs as thick as wood
Yet his spirit misunderstood.
For he was the captain.
Now he stands on the fair green hill,
His body shinning and still.
He beckons to me with his hand.
And I meet him upon the sand.
He was the captain.
I tiptoe with silken girdle,
My heart sighing at the hurdle.
With lace at my throat, I weep.
As his velvet kiss I keep.
He was the captain.
“I wait for the dawn,” says he,
“Where with her I may be.”
I look on with salty tears.
As to me, his love he declares.
He was the captain.
He leaves the golden shore.
And embraces the sea’s door.
I reach the thimble’s top to spend,
The fleeting days till the end.
He is my captain.
Copyright © Monica Bartsch | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Monica Bartsch Poem
I was only a boy when it happened
when they came for me
my family all cried like kittens
I was only a boy when the door opened
they came in like snakes
their coats casting strange shadows
I was only a boy when they fetched me
when my life changed forever
and the colours in my mind turned black
I was only a boy when they struck me
a blow that took away my youth
and my song died in my throat
I was only a boy when I became a man
not knowing the souls I would suck
nor the blood I would drain dry
I was only a boy when I saw them
falling as snow in the east wind
like moths when you rub off their skins
I was only a boy when death came
when I realized the time had come
and I stood there, hollow and empty
I was only a boy when I understood
when the darkness was pierced
And I felt regret beyond my years
I was only a boy when I finally earned my title
When I could no longer distinguish
And I wept
I was a Nazi
Copyright © Monica Bartsch | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Monica Bartsch Poem
I remember seeing you that night,
Your eyes were glazed over, and your soul shook.
You were fighting. Desperately.
And I could do nothing.
I remember seeing you that night,
The blood of your long thorn filling up,
Crimson, it flowed down in your body, yet you did not cry.
And I could do nothing.
I remember seeing you that night,
You were drunk on the games of your mind.
You ran, crawled, sometimes you danced.
And I could do nothing.
I remember seeing you that night,
You were at the tipped point of the blade.
I could only hold you tight in my heart as I watched.
And I could do nothing.
I remember seeing you that night,
You fought with the darkness, the depression,
And you won, standing victorious and strong.
Then you did something.
I remember you that night,
You wept, filling all the empty years.
Crying out that the real you had come back.
Then I did something.
I remember me that night,
Seeing you as though for the first time.
I knew that this was all a part of you.
And I loved you for it.
Copyright © Monica Bartsch | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Monica Bartsch Poem
When winter comes, the sun sleeps,
Darkening the world in an icy chill.
The frozen rain drops resting on the tongue,
The red noses and warm cheeks in the air.
The frosted carpet of diamonds.
The fresh winter daises in bloom.
When spring comes, the sun stirs,
Watching the rain fall on dead bones.
The silver clouds holding age old dreams,
The ground hibernating life anew.
The dawn of color springs,
Red, purple, pink, and orange.
When summer comes, the sun arises,
Sprung to life by the kiss of the prince.
The wine-rich soil alive and ready,
The creamy fairies sending kisses.
The light of the leprechauns.
Salty dreams to the savor of lips.
When fall comes, the sun gets weary,
Waiting for her star strewn bed.
The trees go to the ball,
And the flowers, to the harvest party.
Golden grain, wine flowing on the road.
White puppies resting on the knee.
Copyright © Monica Bartsch | Year Posted 2025
|