M.Jasnorzewska - Krótkie wiersze.docx

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                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Krótkie wiersze                                                                                                                                                            Ptaszek                                                                                                                                                                              Ptaszek idiota,                                                                                                                                                         głupszy niż się zdaje,                                                                                                                                               strojny barwną krajką,                                                                                                                  z głową jak makówka,                                                                                                                                                                        nieprzyjaciel kota,                                                                                                                                                              ojciec pięciu jajek,                                                                                                                                     z których każe jajko                                                                                                                                                              pełne jest półgłówka,                                                                                                       przyparty do drzewa                                                                                                                                                         pierzem Rukosinem,                                                                                                        toczy głośne swary                                                                                                                  z innym znów kretynem                                                                                                                                            po czym śpiewa, śpiewa                                                                                                                                                                            głupstwa nie do wiary.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Starość                                                                                                                                               Leszczyna się stroi w fioletową morę,                                                                                                                        a lipa w atłas zielony najgładszy…                                                                                                         Ja się już nie przebiorę,                                                                                                                                   na mnie nikt nie popatrzy.                                                                                                                                                                              Bywają dziwacy,                                                                                                                            którzy z pokrzyw i mleczów składają bukiety,                                                                                                      lecz gdzież są tacy,                                                                                                                                                 którzy by całowali włosy starej kobiety?                                                                                                   Jestem sama,                                                                                                                                       Babcia mi na imię -                                                                                                                                   czuję się jako czarna plama…                                                                                                   na tęczowym świata kilimie…                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Wybrzeże                                                                                                                                                                                          Meduzy rozrzucone niedbale,                                                                                                                muszle, które piasek grzebie,                                                                                                                              i ryba opuszczona przez fale,                                                                                                                              jak serce moje przez ciebie.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Syreny                                                                                                                                                                        Ogród nad morzem pachnie słodkim groszkiem,                                                                                    na brzeg wpływają rozpienione treny.                                                                                                  W morzu płaczą syreny                                                                                                                              bo morze jest gorzkie.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Portret                                                                                                                                                          Usta twoje: ocean różowy.                                                                                                                              Spojrzenie : fala wzburzona                                                                                                                              A twoje szerokie ramiona:                                                                                                                              Pas ratunkowy.                                                                                    573                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Mewa                                                                                                                                                                        Tęsknota nade mną szeleszcze                                                                                                                Trąca mnie skrzydłem mewim.                                                                                                                Czy wciąż ta sama jeszcze?                                                                                                                              Nie wiem , nie wiem…                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Zmierzch na morzu                                                                               ...

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