Featured Poem
There is a God atop the Mountain.
The God atop the mountain
Owes me a favor.
I climb day in-
Day out, past the rivers and streams
Past the boulders
Past the old huts, weather torn: cold
I walk, then I crawl, then I climb
Past green pastures where tea is harvested
Past old military posts where empty cups fill with snow;
A leaf lands there, daintily posed, tempting me to drink
Only I climb for what I am owed. Only my
Feet weep for my bleeding hands
A branch catches the skin; I
Peel it away leaving a trail to follow
I move past the last of the trees
Up the sunny steep:
I am owed.
I climb all the way until I pull myself over the precipice
A favor; I am owed
By a God
Held in place by swords; arms limp,
Eyes gouged. Light flows like a beacon slowly oozing
Down thin cheeks. The wind whips around
Holding prayers: their answers received far down the mountain
I add my prayer, whistling it to the wind. I am still owed.
Poems by N. Adeline
 O'Beloved, O'ChildAll alone I am Waiting for you to join me, My heart it does despair I look around, I search for you I ask myself, why did the devil fall? ... | At the end of the day, I take a detour.I can’t think straight. Not like this. If I close my eyes it all moves. I cannot rest: Warmth can only do so much. I want but Am too tired to sleep. Just a bit too tired. ... | I keep my silence close to me.I need to go Lay deep in the earth. Gain back all the lost time, Please just- Come back to me. ... |
|---|---|---|
I want to be remembered.In the way the wind moves the treetops In the way rouge stains fingertips In that fleeting sort of way, I want to be remembered. ... | Our world filled with water.The beavers float Their homes swept away As it rains, As it rains, I swim through a lake As it rains, I build myself a boat Made of beaver homes ... | There is a God atop the mountain.The God atop the mountain Owes me a favor. I climb day in- Day out, past the rivers and streams Past the boulders Past the old huts, weather torn: cold I walk, then I crawl, then I climb ... |
Coins for a garden of hands.People pay to smell like me A distilled divinity they flaunt around. They step on calloused hands On their way to barren fields They cannot buy living water. I make fragrant, bitter liquor A sip I swirl around, Spitting out golden heresy ... |
Coins for a garden of hands.
Originally a poem called “Perfume”, many of the original key elements of this poem were removed. Below I present part of the first draft of the poem as I wrote it from journal to Word.
"I take these hands
To pluck a rose,
Peeling each petal off before morning comes.
The water from the spring carries nothing,
It is I who carry it along
The mountainside over and over until my vases fill"