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False Love
Why is it that the more we have, the more we want to protect and retain? How many television sets protect our needs? How many shoes protect our desire? How many plates stand between arrows that want to break our hearts? Things make people happy. How many things have hugged you in the night? © Iris M Mora 2018 |
Photo credit dreamstime.com
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Photo credit dreamstime.com
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First Trimester Winter- mothers’ milk for spring. © Iris M Mora 2018 |
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Jedi Master Before Rey met Luke Skywalker, there was another young girl who met a Jedi master. Long ago, when lightsabers were made of hide, and moons turned red at the direction of princess Leia as she restrained the Sith from taking a hold of the young girl's soul. The Jedi master taught this girl the force. Eat your food, he would say, for there are children who go hungry. Go take a shower. Eliminate harmful bacteria from your body. Behave, or I will call the storm troopers. Clean your room. An orderly life keeps you from behaving badly. Do your homework so you get good grades, that way you can succeed. Wash the dishes. Help your mother. It’s your obligation, your duty. Respect your elders. You might just learn something. Don’t fight with your brothers and sisters. They have the same blood, and are in Jedi training too. Say please and thank you. Educate yourself. Learn. The young girl turned into woman. Now, Jedi herself, she waits for her trainee. One evening, as she practiced with her glow-in-the-dark lightsaber, Obi-Wan Kenobi appeared to her. Long ago, he said, I taught your Jedi Master the most important lesson a Jedi will ever learn. What’s that? she asked, wondering when it will be her turn. One must live with patience. Everything comes in time to a Jedi, even teaching the ways of the force. © Iris M Mora 2017 |
Photo credit dreamstime.com
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"AI Guide To Your Human"
Experimental Sci-Fi piece published in Dodging The Rain online literary magazine June 30, 2017 |
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"Death as a Woman"
Poem published in Into The Void Arts and Literary magazine April 15, 2017 |
Death as a Woman If death was a woman her hair would be the gush of gunpowder discharged from leaded bullets left inside the bodies of men who mocked her. Her sight would radiate the genetic code of pestilence released by coagulating tears from eyes as black as a child’s fear. Her arms would stretch as long as swords doubled edged flesh, molded by raw bones and instead of fingers, appendages of sculpted stones would clank like castanets as she sliced souls. Her body would be a cascade of deep-blue water spewing salted vomit, drowning anyone who neared her rotating heart impaling them on untruths. Her legs would be isotopes and hydrogen, producing bombs that would go off from her toes and thrust into her womb animals, plants, and humans who once lived at the mercy of intellectuals that were wrong. © Iris M Mora 2017 |
Three Poems
"Green," "Bowl to Bowl" and "War" Published in The Galway Review November 28, 2015 |
"Afraid"
Poem published in ROPES 2016 24th Edition April 20, 2016 |
"Mayan Slave"
Poem published in SIN Student Newspaper Vol 17, Issue 08 January 26, 2016 |
"The Universe Bakes A Cake"
Poem published in The Cypress Dome Literary Magazine, Spring 2015/Issue #26 April 21, 2015 |
The Universe Bakes a Cake
Stirring clockwise, she whisks white clouds that cling to the edges of a mature galaxy: a mixture of gas, dust and oils. In thought, she walks with time; wearing light years, flaunting seconds, minutes, and estimating hours. A quilted shield protects her wrinkled hands from a star filled oven, where liquids transform yellows, and browns, into sculpted atmospheric layers. Enclosed in a sphere of degrees, the moist deposits swell, as their cores evaporate, releasing a blend of burned caramel, and Heaven’s sweet spice. While the planet bakes, encrusted mountains erupt as proteins are molded, into a living creation. When the earth cools, she rests. Before a new light glimmers, buttercream is sprayed on the molded sphere, wrapping its crust of golden sand with flakes of packed snow. Fruits are dispersed over the land with speckles of dirt, mint leafs, and nectar in between. As the light of the sun begins to slowly melt its wax, she hears singing voices fill the air-more than one can count. When the singing voices multiply, thoughts of her approaching death looms near, challenging in her mind. In time, the flickering sun is taunted, obscured by the breath of her carbon dioxide shadows- it’s no longer able to sustain a pure, developed land. When she dies, a hot breath will blow the red, white, and blue candle, extinguishing the singing voices, and its piercing rays of light. © Iris M Mora 2015 |
Copyright © 2018
No part of this website, photographs or content, in part or in whole, may be reproduced or copied without the consent of the photographer or author. For questions, requests, or concerns, please email immora@outlook.com
No part of this website, photographs or content, in part or in whole, may be reproduced or copied without the consent of the photographer or author. For questions, requests, or concerns, please email immora@outlook.com
