Bernadette

An artist and a lover of literature yet very much a beginner with writing. Just trying to enjoy and get more used to it.

Writings

Followers

Following

Bernadette

An artist and a lover of literature yet very much a beginner with writing. Just trying to enjoy and get more used to it.

Writings

Followers

Following

Curtain Call

Bernadette

1 min read

A sea of dark faces,

each like smudges of ink hovering around,

coming toward me with quickening paces-

I retreat to my corner like a kicked hound.

I feel naked, stripped bare, open to the eye;

they do nothing but give their visards' stare.

Their greedy gaze you cannot pacify.

I move my lips in a murmured prayer,

Hoping for severance with a sigh.

They are still there,

their wound conscience I a...

Poetry

The Confessional

Bernadette

1 min read

The priest in his stately robes,

I am before him - looking into those murky globes.

I shake like a newborn, from the womb like Job-

I must make my confession.

Pure white fabric struck with red wine,

The blood of my God; thou art divine-

My mortal contract he will sign,

Continue with the procession.

Knees creaking, lowering at the pew,

Devout numerous, yet genuine few;

Their hearts are false -mu...

Poetry

Falsche Stadt

Bernadette

1 min read

When I walk through fog filled streets,

bumping into shadowed figures, tripping over feet,

their faces like smudged ink make me want to retreat,

but the forest knows my name.

Gravel grinds like grit,

intensifying as shoes shuffle in virtue of profit.

Their restlessness is enough to send me into a fit;

but the trees always share the pain.

Blundering, buzzing, small masses,

engrossed in spite an...

Poetry

'Peace' Is My Childhood Blanket.

Bernadette

1 min read

I always thought I never had peace.

Not when soldiers marched the streets,

nor when winter came harsh and their greed grew obese,

never when I met the stone grey faces of police,

and not when gunshots echoed in smog filled air.

But perhaps I’ve had too much of it.

I’ve always noticed how small things hold their own charm;

I remember the messy, undoubting pattern of Papa’s toolkit,

the worn-down ...

Poetry

Visage Of A Grey Youth

Bernadette

1 min read

There is always that incessant noise.

The sound of dirtied water from the tap leaking,escaping.The brownish suds plopping onto porcelain,fleshing themselves out before slinking into the drain again and again and again, like children down plastic slides.

I watched the recurrent motion with a world's worth of fascination before adding to the steady rhythm with my own unbalanced harmony-pressing t...