by Carlos Mijares Poyer
A pebble rippled a pond’s immensity
and angered the moon
as the child walked away
dealing a summer cricket tone,
silent palms to his side,
glass-eyed in this illusion of moon.
Then in a silent vestibule
looking into a clay bowl
seeming it to disappear
as numbers in the mind
alienate so many souls.
The child walked about the pastels
and averted the tumid smell
of polished furniture;
how each hair had grown
to be what seemed – a loom…
and reminisce immobility,
as a necessity in the open act
of maturity.
The child was only ten,
in the summer vane.
The moon evaporated leaves and
the flight of crows, smiling
the darkness around the stars
perished blue.
Lately, the illusion moves.
The herd of water roams.
Carlos Mijares Poyer is a Venezuelan-American writer, journalist and marketer. He is published in print in Venezuela extensively with awards in different genres, and also published in English in the Galway Review, Ireland, The Yellow Chair Review, Silver Birch Press, The Piper Magazine, Guilford College and Morphos Digital Mag., Mexico. He studied all of my education in the U.S., an English Major from Guilford College, Greensboro, North Carolina and alumni Pine Crest School, Ft. Lauderdale, Fla. He is a trilingual author in English, Spanish and French.
