Three poems
by KJ Hannah Greenberg




I Gave You Me


What a wonderful dream!

But I awoke to find the scene a fantasy,

A crystal bubble, crafted shell,

Fabricated delight, fantastic dell, failed

Design of a sketch wrought so carefully;

I gave you me.


We rolled our bodies often, in tune

With no harp music or promises’ song.

My heart, better than skipping stones,

Counting pages, wrinkles, mornings,

I’d wish you health, I’d wish you love.

Fancied, together, to sail away.


Your sweat and hair, mosaic-like

Swayed in mortise and tendon

On our sky-covered bed, while the sun

Chilled me, blurred your face,

Then all I had gifted was gone,

Such wonder sucked from my every part.




a black line



Some Boats


Some boats, sailing seas,

Encircle others’ points of view,

Until drawn against.



a black line


Juliet Capulet, Her Nurse, and the Moon


“Lunar Lady of the night,

What evil you yet play,

On darlings’ simple, drifting hearts.

By desires that you sway.


Lesser sun, you cursed fiend,

Now lift your blight from me,

This fair child’s unfussy love’s

Not meant as victory.”


“What is it dear, that strong unrest,

I hear beneath your sill?

Strange words you seem bold to confess,

Your face gleams stranger still.”


“Granny Dear, it hurts me here,

Such nasty, sharp, bright pain.

Perhaps it’s from the evening air,

I won’t complain, again.


(I’m not too new to know or guess

What sighs, what lurks beyond.

By what odd means secrets unfold,

Or lovers carry on.)”


“Hush, Dear One, quiet now,

Rest your head, be calm.

Morning’s just a little while

‘fore shelter from the storm.”


“But Nursie Sweet, it stays as true

The moon’s warriors, her knaves,

Work fairy tales, nothing more;

Only maidens count as brave.


I’ve fallen from my ledge, out there,

I’ve tripped into a cote,

Where beasts rip up the chaste, they tear.

There is no way to get out.”


“Little Dove, don’t speak of such.

You’ll continue good plus pure.

No winning comes from darkened thoughts,

From reaching past your door.”


“Almost Mother, it’s too late

To call back horses fled,

I cry with night, will know the day.

I die upon my bed.


I pledged my troth, I gave my word.

I’m broken through and through

I have no breath, no honor left,

Without Sir Montague.”



a black line


More poetry from Winamop

Copyright reserved. Please do not reproduce without consent.