Christala Rosina’s poetry . . .
Sometimes I save it moonbeams that it nibbles
from my hand; sometimes a string of stars
to place around its throat (on days
when childhood’s just too far to go
to find the daisy-chains I foolishly left back there) . . .
From The Unicorn
and through the crystal windows of the sky
the peeping, polished stars adorn the night . . .
From Sonnet to the Night
the shifts in distance nothing more
than rhythms in the breath of love . . .
From Two Pennies
The round, soft black glistens at the edge of juice
and waxen reds swell the tip of summer’s fallen rose.
From I Met the Year . . .
Hope hangs frozen and the voice of nature’s
wakening heart is lost behind some silent
door . . .
. . . Your song’s composed of ghosts -
why take one more? Because a poet’s soul
lives on in yours? One voice to ever roll,
and sigh of dreams for future ages . . . lost?
From To the Sea
And here and there, a gold- and black-flecked cry
slipped translucently into the quiet.
From In Exsilium . . .
So this is where it ends.
The crimson fades; the satin petal
shrivels into dust, its fragrance
gone or just a memory . . . of hope,
forever unfulfilled, echoed in the chambers
of a life still seeking . . . or sometimes
whispered on a breeze, turning
empty days like leaves
of trees and books, autumn-yellowed,
to winter’s final frost.
And all that’s left are thorns.
Thoughts are merely shadows of a tree
which, in some other sphere, already lives . . .
What bliss the softness of this lovers’ tryst.
Were you that sky and I, the morning’s kiss.
From Prince of the Rose
You who sit near the fires of eternal spring, come warm
this frost-numbed mind. Spare a flame of that pure
light to melt the grip of this audacious
darkness . . .
From But Where Do I Go From Here?
For your light will illumine your way
and the rhythm of your steps will awaken
the sleeping song in your heart
whose forgotten melody
yearns to be heard . . .
From The Absent Hearts