Dead End Beneath the Sheenless Leaves

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

The nighttime darkness of the orange tree

Is blackness in one branch.  The shine of green

Is shaded to the grove’s anomaly.

It metes out lack of color in a scene

That should be shine of orange in the sun.

The shine of daytime’s gloss of green turns

Mantilla bleakness.  Church and mothers shun.

The hope of light from spheres above now burns

To char of wood before its time.  The orange spheres

Long lost, forgotten long ago, are gone

Where white of orange blossoms went.  Black tears

Of Satan come to mind, forgotten dawn.

  The woman wanted passion and the man.

     He surged her unveiled soul without love’s plan.

© Phillip Whidden

Phillip Whidden and Federico Garcia Lorca