It’s Raining Again

IMG_3797 2.jpg

The rain hums a tune melancholy,
as I remain with nothing save
for memory to wrap lonely bones
that shiver in spite of heavy sighs
meant to warm cold vacant sheets

Visions stretched thin,
lacing webs of confusion
around fragile ribs
Longing again, for the deep breath
that filled empty spaces in my chest,
making heart a home

He spoke whispers
into the emptiness,
soothed the ache under my breasts
and returned from which he came
This cage where love once born,
all the same is meant to parish

©Sabrina Escorcio
August 2018

Painting by Chris Peters, “Between two Points”

Advertisements

Preyed

Whispers penetrate flesh walls,
secrets resound like a melody
within the temple of mind.

A church choir of boys
sing Latin,
a tongue they never understood,
yet made beautiful in spite.

An angelic host of innocence,
perched in perfect rows;
perverse men licking dry lips
conduct harmony, as
chorus echoes in rounds
confined by marble stone
laid by hypocritical hands.

In time holy walls stand,
coffers full and overflowing
while souls remain empty.

Yet pride crumbles the benevolent,
corrupt tongues stumble awkwardly
over the dulled ivory teeth of time.

Stained glass fragments let in truth,
rays of light stream through darkness
reflecting a shattered faith sanctuary
built upon broken bones of man.

©Sabrina Escorcio
September 2017

Photo Credit, Sam Webber illustration for “the Priest That Preyed” – New York Times

Whisper and the Roar

Whispers penetrate flesh walls,
secrets resound like a melody
within the temple of mind.

A church choir of boys
sing Latin,
a tongue they never understood,
yet made beautiful in spite.

An angelic host of innocence,
perched in perfect rows;
perverse men licking dry lips
conduct harmony, as
chorus echoes in rounds
confined by marble stone
laid by hypocritical hands.

In time holy walls stand,
coffers full and overflowing
while souls remain empty.

Yet pride crumbles the benevolent,
corrupt tongues stumble awkwardly
over the dulled ivory teeth of time.

Stained glass fragments let in truth,
rays of light stream through darkness
reflecting a shattered faith sanctuary
built upon broken bones of man.

Sabrina Escorcio
September 2017

Photo Credit, Sam Webber illustration for “the Priest That Preyed” – New York Times

View original post

Eve

The sound of silence
rings loudly in my ears.
Mute muscle memory
paralyzed between
clenched teeth
and tongue tied truth.

Clouds drifting above
whisper sustenance
droplets through
saturated mist.
Truth resides here
seeking release,
only to fade with each
lingering thought
that ceases to exist.

Vocal cord vibrations
chaotically spasm
anticipating a storm
upon distant horizons.
Where inaudible screams
line each intention
spilling upon
the crest of reality.

Knowledge eclipsed

creeping

uninvited

uttering confessions

from subconscious depths.

Born to conversation
unfurling like sin
upon furtive soil
seeking rebirth.
Redemption unearthed
through budding branches.
The forbidden fruit of truth
waiting to be plucked
by curiosities’ Eve.

I long to know her,
taste and see
harvest honesty
as it seeps from her lips.
Will you join me
indulge and learn
righteous forbearance.
Sink teeth into the freedom
of temptations’ ruby skin.

Only in death of self
will truth remain.

©Sabrina Escorcio
August 2017

The Quiet Truth…

With finite mind we sew together mismatched patterns of behavioural responses that succumb thought volatility; victim to emotions residing within our dimly lit cavern of self. Bound together, they create a false blanket of reality. All the while God quietly whispers His truth into our hearts, that we might listen with our souls rather then our minds.

Sabrina Escorcio

2018

-work in progress

Wooden Spoon

IMG_1774

We didn’t have to ask
The memories told themselves
Over tiramisu and espresso
While the smoke lingered
Off Nonna’s birthday candles
And Zia’s stale cigarette
That sat perched on her lips
Appearing glued in place
Their story rolled out like fog
Clouding vision
Just enough
To disguise their tears
As they reminisced
And we listened to bay city rollers
Huddled beneath a tiny radio
That balanced on the windowsill
The metronomic hum and thud
of the clothing dryer in the kitchen
Set the pulse of their conversation.

They kissed loved ones goodbye
Wearing clothes made of fabric
They could not afford
It was the sixties
Where damp cheek kisses
Replaced words of apprehension
Fear wrapped delicately
Within fantasy once fed forcefully
By the wooden spoon of heritage
Consumed
Whole
Heartedly
Then regurgitated over Atlantic waves
Their stomachs emptied
That no dream could fill
Lost somewhere between
The warm Genoa sky
And a cold rocky
Dartmouth crest
A two week hollowing of sorts
This pilgrimage set forth
Within the belly of their dream
That roared and ached until satisfied
Left to carve faith from their bones
Then use it as a buoyant reverie
Preserving life
Securing hope
Refining their dream

©Sabrina Escorcio
April 2018

Heritage series

Photo credit to Alfred Eisenstaedt

We are of the Women

IMG_3734

We are of the women
that came before us
whose bare soles bled like hell
that our souls might fair well,
gave birth to our freedom
mourning the death of their own.

Delivered us
from the womb of poverty
unto fertile soil of a new country,
Terra Firma waiting to be tilled
hydrated by immortal tears
swallowed over one thousand years.

They spoke in whispers,
when spoken to by men,
as screams decayed to sighs
tucked well out of sight
mortal sins not owned, sheltered
left to repent to envious men
behind a veil of hypocrisy.

The only evidence of sacrifice;
marks stretched in brail across skin
an unwritten story, so ours begins.

©Sabrina Escorcio
May 18, 2018

Heritage Series 2018

Silhouette

She came into the earth
between pillars of freedom
and oppression.
Her incompatible hosts,
were stubborn bones
softened only by fate.

Claiming her burden
head first amidst thighs
damp with promise,
and blush stained bed sheets
that swaddled an imperfect future.
Mother, delivering wisdom,
and purging past,
with each painful groan.

Their silent heritage broken
as the meek battle cry
left fluid filled lungs,
breathing life into a stale room.
A frightened young woman,
now matriarch, cradles hope
between trembling hands
for the first time.

What is the shape of bravery?
A strong chiseled jaw gifted at birth.
A mothers distended belly
at nine months.
The curve of a woman’s
engorged breasts desperate to feed.

Or is it simply,
the silhouette of new mother
embracing her infant.

© Sabrina Escorcio
July 2018

Heritage Series

Dedicated to my mother and daughter.

Freedom Chains

IMG_0488

How do I let go
of what once was deliverance
from this prison of self.
The perfect remedy,
I willfully ingested
with reckless abandon,
now malignant.
Coiled about my ribs,
wrapping me in
sedentary sadness.
I am anchored here
in place,
bound
by my very own
chains of freedom.

Sabrina Escorcio
©2017

Embers

IMG_1234

As memories burn,
smoke lingers thick
and I am left here
with blurred vision
from a mind’s eye
that stings with regret.

Just enough,
to impair vision.

Just enough,
to weaken judgement.

So, with an open mouth
I make another attempt
to gasp for a swill of air,
eager to receive relief;
the breath of reconciliation,
to fill hopeless lungs.

Yet, I inhale instead
i
n unforgiving gulps,
from charred embers
that smoulder among reality,
these singed bittersweet
remnants of our past.

Just enough,
to stifle promise.

Just enough,
to choke on consequence.

Memories continue to singe
in truth’s refining fire.
it is our story that burns,
of a love that turned,
into the tragedy that is us.

 

©Sabrina Escorcio
2017

 Photo credit to Kiara Rose – Via Flickr.com

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑