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In the Shadow of Khayyam
by Bruce W Niedt
We are witnesses in the courtyard,
when the sky loosens with thunder.
We climb the cloistered steps;
wind whistles around our clothes.
My sheepskin bulges with red wine;
it pours like blood in the candlelight.
You hand me the green apple;
I hand you the soft white bread.
The night bobs, a cork in the storm;
we stay entwined until the lightening.
04/13/2003 Posted on 04/13/2003
Copyright © 2024 Bruce W Niedt
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Agnes Eva on 04/13/03 at 07:40 AM makes me feel as though i'm in a villa on the Mongolian steppes or something (must be the sheepskin canteen). this poem has atmosphere, and flavor, and memory-like imagery. refreshing |
| Posted by Mara Meade on 04/14/03 at 06:34 PM Beautiful... touches the senses.... |
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