In the psychiatric hospital, angels have fever blisters because of too much powdered milk, swollen still hot from soft plastic cups as pink as their fingernails lacking calcium,
Their wings hidden under dressing gowns made of felt, they grow beyond measure when the night shift nurses knit in their room. If you look carefully into those neon-like eyes white and hot like milk of lime, you can see a window opening and closing from time to time or the door locking the rooms for agitated patients
They are always on the door sill, they’re the only angels resembling gingerbread men. Adorned with sugar pearls they have long weak legs, they grow day and night like ivy on the ground where it cannot find, neither walls nor trees to climb up
Sometimes I wonder how long has it been, since they did not fall asleep.
I am from Romania, I write poems and haiku and sometimes I translate them into English. My poems and haiku were published in various e-zines or poetry journals and magazines in print in Romania or abroad. Poetry is for me like champagne poured in a mug. I discovered this site and I can say that I found many good poems here.
Behind your face was cleaver releasing past poem. The sensual milk flows from the palm into your lake. Grieving for the torn wings of pink light. Cruising on thighs with eyes closed death utters a shriek. The eternal flame closes
…So, I asked: what is beauty? He said: it is the impossible becoming real; or It is the kohl of a string on the forefingers of a guitar player; It is the explosion of astonishment on a beautiful lady’s waist;