Thursday, March 5, 2015

Adam & his brother



a hand, stitched in gossamer 
waits in the cold darkness
as if a seed, flowed out of dry river
as if a butterfly wing, searching
for wind's breath

the other hand is crimson
wrapped in energy & force-
straining and pulsing like 
welder's fire
silence is not his trademark 
but rapid arc movements 

he lifts his finger 
pointing at his half-dead brother
now drifting wood, chewed 
barren by bleak sky    
a flash of lightning sizzles,
waking up the sleeping hand 

who now grabs a stone  
to make fire & then writes
on palm leaves of his memories 
when he was in the womb, half remembering  
the cord 
there is hunger
as he searches where, how
he came to be 

the taste of fruit remains in his lips
as is the sound of clock
ticking inside the cave of his skin
His chest, clustered of red trees
echoes the same heart beat 
and though he raises both hands to the sky
in longing 

The two palms will never meet
across the universe
blackest of sea
untarnished, a clay ever birthing
cosmic void, expanding 
space
between the stars -


Posted for the D'verse Poets Pub - This is an old but unpublished poem which I have edited to include surprising conceit (pushing metaphors as far as I can) ~  

Thanks for the visit ~

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Lighting 1000 candles & more



The father saw the body
of his dead son
and told his other sons
not to wipe away the blood
staining his son's face granite-stone
not to change his clothes
soiled by spray of bullets

And so into the streets
they carry his lifeless body 
the crowds pour as wildfire
ignited by sudden fuel-oxygen mix-
there is lust to break bones 
there is passion to avenge his name
words chanting of hate
grow out of their skin pores 
until the sea of faces
becomes tar, earth dripping of blood
field of silent red poppies-

Somewhere in small town 
a woman sits mending shirts 
In solitude, she holds on to a prayer
and then lights a candle
as she goes back to her chores -
paring vegetables, cleaning, repairing things- 
Her hand musses an orphan's hair 
then another
then another
whose faces light up 
like spring buds, dewy with gentlest of rain-


Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Hosted by Abhra Pal ~  A time for light amidst the darkness around us ~

Sunday, March 1, 2015

torn from the white sky


                                                           




white-washed by night
i fall headlong, torn
from the sky

a solitary leaf,
muted white by snowflakes &
icy northern wind

weaving an intricate
dance of death, slow waltz--
parry and thrust--  

until arms become 
stones, white crystallized to stillness- 
the moon, perched 

on window seat,
ghosts under shadows, whiter than white-

you're too late

 
   
Poetry form:  Lune - 3-5-3 word (almost)

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - 55 white words for Flash 55 Plus

And Poets United

Thursday, February 26, 2015

sketching//the stranger in the corner

Photography by my daughter, Sofia


A shaggy white-haired man,  stooped
with age & black leather jacket enters the train

His red cane, flint-scratched & wind-bitten, side steps
the crowd while balancing his uneven gait as one hand

firmly grips a clear plastic bag fluffy of papers-
It looks like trash or maybe treasures, depending on one's

lens.  One young man gives up his seat, while another man
leaps out of the way.   Gallantry is alive, like a lilac, waiting

to slip out.  The old man takes a seat & closes his eyes
His unshaven face, white-inked like well stamped book

slumps in rest, bent to train's rambling duet with wind-
On his lap, he carefully cradles his clear plastic bag like his

guts spilling out for all 
to count 

There's an empty seat beside him
No one takes it, no one comes near.  Time

crumples between my fingers & palm-
A woman in stylish winter coat boards the train

She moves towards the empty seat, but one look at the old man
& she backs off.  She doesn't hide her disdain, swift

as bullet.   The old man's station arrives & he gets out
limping with his cane, while holding on to his plastic bag

Our collective breath is shallow, empty of recoil
& the cracks in our mask move with us

As we speed past blurring tunnels
into a small world


Posted for the D'verse Poets Pub - Pick a line - and get that joust started -
The lines in Italics by Brian Miller's poem, If I Stay
The title is inspired by Claudia Schonfeld, Sketching on Portabello road//the clock//is body-less

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Dear White Knight



Sculpture by Stephen Fitz-Gerald


I have been missing you
-your silver lance & sword
Are you on your way to Camelot?

To fight for king's flag, royal blue 
To avenge wrongs denied, without rewards 
I have been missing you-

Your gallant words, fearless imbued 
Your firm grip on your shield of beliefs, a fort
Are you on your way to Camelot?

Has another lady won your heart in grief ?
The journey is long, forked with rivers distorted
I have been missing you

The winter's light is frail dew    
And my knees are cold kneeling on hard board 
Are you on your way?   To Camelot

Where the bravest of men fight & show 
Honor.  The tournament has started 
I am missing you
in Camelot.  Have you lost your way?


Yours truly,



Lady from Norwich (In) Distress

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub -  Theme is medieval tourney ~ Thanks for the visit ~

Saturday, February 21, 2015

For Elijah



No one heard you cry
as you curled tight in corner, blue-cold
Have I been remiss?  I miss you-

your toothy grin, white shirt & boots
Too thin & frail for polar cold
No one heard you cry 

As your pulse slowed, repulsing icy wind
Your high-pitched voice now low, hollowed   
I miss you - Have I been remiss  

In locking tight the doors
In checking to make sure you are safe
No one heard you 

As you ran out, a rabbit excited about
Making snowman & drinking warm cocoa
Have I been remiss?   I miss you-

No one held your small face
and whispered good night, my little angel
No one heard your cries this morning
I've been remiss, missing you-



~0~0~0~



I heard no bird songs
nor laughter pink as your cheeks -
Ice had seeped in, black-



Yellow-rumped warbler by M. Bednar 


RIP Elijah Marsh, 3 year old toddler who died after 6 hours of wandering outside his family's apartment.  The last picture taken of him showed him wearing only a shirt, diaper & boots, as he stepped outside at 4 am.  His family discovered him missing from his bed at 7:30 am. The weather that morning was -30 C with the wind chill.   Source

Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Play It Again - Haiku & M's Word List- Absent
and Poets United - A villanelle of a sort ~ Thanks for the visit ~

Thursday, February 19, 2015

Of frozen glass & confessions





The snowstorm poured like daggers
Outside my window, a silver chandelier
Dripping dry ice, flawless as paragon

Above ebony trees, the moon hides
its fat cheeks, its slice of beauty 
How the wind rides a black pillar every night
Wrapping dead things in resin & layers of glass

I wait, not for the thaw of snow 
But for the shattering that will come
Slow motion of loop, arc of force

After my long guilty confession
My fingerprints staining of grease
I am caught inside this urn, honed by fever, 
Encased in this nebula of darkness

Light, he stops me, shimmers between cracks 
The scars you carry never occurred 
but in your heart


Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Not a sonnet but one with a volta ~Hosted by Bjorn Rudberg and Poets United  Midweek Motif- Glass, Hosted by Susan

Tuesday, February 17, 2015

A poem from the future


I have forgotten the smell of ink
& crease of paper on my hand
As I write to you

Everything here is paperless
Which makes my nose & other senses
Addled & forgetful of

The fragrance of roses 
The taste of freshly cooked vegetables
The sight of crisp apples dangling from trees

The products here are artificially made
Genetically altered, lab controlled,
Mass produced, scientifically reprogrammed

All seasons ready & available at button's press
No need to go to grocery & lug them up your house 
Food & drinks are delivered in small packs

A thousand flavors to choose from
Like seeds for spring, ready to explode 
by adding half a cup of water  

Not much cooking is required
My teeth are whiter 
As I don't tear nor chew on my food
They have been blended soft & coagulated with vitamins
mandated by medical authorities

Here, you won't recognize the cities 
Stacked by tubes & cylinders reaching near the skies 
And guess who is walking along the walkways 
Not just people but robots

Doing chores 
Doing the planning for you
Carrying out your fantasies 
Dulling your primal instincts with promises of efficiency 

Yet I have to say
that until now we can't control the weather
Nor predict the arrival of hurricane's spinning eye

The universe is still a mystery
Wrapped in umbra of exploding stars
Birthing new planets crackling from the distance

I will not tell you where I am writing from
Because your future destination is yours to make
Bathe in the present 
Uncovering the deepest meaning

For our time here, like the twilight
is precious and fading
and while there's certainly nothing new under the sun-
Under the moon, there is waiting 

Ending lines & inspiration from Ben Burke's  A poem from the future 

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - I am pleased to be your host for our Poetics inspired by Ben Burke's A poem from the future which originally appeared in TED.

Picture credit:  United States OKs Canadian grown non-browning GMO apples - Okanagan Specialty Fruits two genetically modified apples — Arctic Golden and Arctic Granny — are deregulated by the United States Department of Agriculture.  

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Shades

I have learned that cold has many shades.   There is a cold that is crisp & invigorating like first bite of sweet plum or tang of ripe nectarines.   There's another that is comfortable like a worn warm jacket when the snowfall has stopped and everything looked like a sculptured garden, scent of fresh pine cones. And there is that cold that is a sharp knife pinching the flesh so tight, I can hardly breath its polar musk.     And finally, there is that shade of cold that is deadly as a glacier in the midst of the sea.  Yet,  I have also witnessed how that huge pile of snow could melt like spring water with the dawning of the sun.  


peonies bloom
pink white, a prism of beauty 
i can't catch on paper




By Artist:    Danny Gregory


Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - A haibun for Gabriella who is hosting the art of Danny Gregory ~   Thanks for the visit ~

Tuesday, February 3, 2015

when squirrels romped in our backyard//is spring coming soon?

There is something in the winter air
more than crisp, tangy, full-bodied oxygen

that pinches the nostrils blushing red
that pumps the legs running for feverish heat

Perhaps the grey squirrels know the answer
as they cavort energetically up & down bare trees

As lusty as young men romping for a morning
delight as one female squirrel goes into heat

She sits at the top edge of treetop, waiting to see
who amongst her suitors will prevail & giving

chase along the way, the mating season begins
The dregs shake with earnest, twigs falling on ice
 
Signalling the changing season, that spring
will come with birthing of young, tender creatures

each one, beautiful
as a snowflake.   




snowflake photography by Alexey Kljatov


~0~0~

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Seasonal poem (Winter for me) Hosted by Marina Sofia~ I took a fun and light approach to winter after seeing all the racket the squirrels made in our backyard ~  Thanks for the visit ~