The pomegranate garden

Unstitch my mouth of black threads & brine

Unbound my hands, I am in search of garden

I am marking with red seeds, this path, mine

Not on your ancient books or shrines

Not on your laws with heavy curtains

Unstitch my mouth of black threads & brine

Your morality police lacks spine

My voice, my face etched with burdens

I am marking with red seeds, this path, mine

Searching for my own power & shine

Your cruel blows kill - I can't pardon

Unstitch my mouth of black threads & brine

Do you fear that I will get out of line?

I am Eve and Anahita

I'm marking this body with red seeds, mine

With sacred twigs & water from the garden

I'll draw rockets, stairways, freedom

I unstitch my mouth of black threads & brine

I am marking with red seeds, this path, mine

The Pomegranate Garden,” acrylic on canvas mounted on shaped wood panels, 74 x 57 x 8 inches

Inspired by the Iranian artist, Arghavan Khosravi, Colossal.

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight.  Join us with your poem when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Have a good weekend!

seeds

within my gardener's pockets are seeds

i harvested all seasons-

round & small as buttons

flat & pointed as pins

white, brown, speckled, yellow, black 

or shiny and pearly

i have all the colors- 

soon, i will open my shed for more seeds-

mottled, scarred, rusty, half-pitted ones-

it comes

from all over my travels

i have kept them in the darkness for the season

but now it it time

to scatter them in the wide fields

all the seeds are covered with soil & water & compost

i don't know which ones will take root & grow

some will blossom in a few weeks with leaves

some will decay underneath the soil and never

even bloom

but this i know:  all are good 

so are the sky, sun, rain, cloud storms and creatures

pollinating and moving the pollen & grains-

there will be good fruits to harvest

there will also be plants to prune and throw away

one rotten apple does not mean the tree is not good

sometimes we just need to look for other good apples 

& often times finding one good apple is enough

for this gnarled gardener's hands

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub -  A discussion on Good and Evil, hosted by Punam.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  

early autumn

 

We walk on a few fallen red maple leaves.  It is still in the early fall season as most of trees have their leaves.   The leaves have started to change colors to pink lemonade, beige and honey, forming a delightful umbrella versus the grey sky.  We talk about how quickly summer time has passed as it was suddenly my dad's 5th death anniversary in September.   Time has softened the memories into an old movie projector and I can pick out the reels with happier and carefree times.  Soon, our footsteps lead us to a river, flowing with rhythmic beat to the wind.  

beneath the glass sky,

leaves spark a fire of colors-

river ripples, ducks- 

Posted for dVerese Poets Pub, Haibun Monday - September Song, with guest host, Xenia Tran.  The virtual pub doors open at 3pm EST.

rocket man

 

let's wander under the skirts of the stairs

& the elbows of the turrets

& spiral down to the edge of the dark forest 

my blue suit is ready for flights of imagination

my hand draws axis on sun windows and 

arching bridges to nowhere points

i have pinpointed a planet-

a belt with a red moon and young stars-

i drink your green bowl of solace

as you zip up my meandearing compass

my launch lug is filled with your lush meadow

and melancholic dove songs

i am ready to blast off to  

the skelter helter sky & stardust

my moonflower queen-

you can be sure of one thing:

there is no home like

you

Credit:   Lee Madgwick

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - The strange houses of Lee Madgwick, hosted by Sarah.   This is my choice, among the 5 photos we are to write about.  Pub doors open at 3pm EST.

list of summer's bounty

 

my lazy left eye draws

the half-moon, a solandis 

as i capture the last of summer's bounty-

peachness of ripe oranges  

abundance of tomatoes in boxes 

fallen rose petals

a susurrus of the cool breeze

slow drawl of honey bees

burble of chickadees on red barbarry shrub

babble of racing black squirrels

bloom of the last yellow bud of cucumber 

greeness of rotting crab apples

empyrean of sunlight on fading grass

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Poetics - There's a word for that, hosted by Mish.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm.  

Choices

 

i close the door

& walk out of the building

& wait 

this can be a beginning

or an ending

or maybe a middle muddled situation

or a detour 

my feet & lungs are anxious

to know of my decision

there are many choices

but by now,

i write my story on sands

and journal my walks on origami paper

these are not set on stones

but built on windy re-takes and mid-

night revisions 

for every decision - this is 

which comes with one big exhale of relief

there is hundred fold sharpness of - this is not

but here is tricky part

you learn to live with this over time

-the fullness & emptiness of it-

& if you are lucky,

you will have your 2nd or 10th time around

the time carousel

and this time, you can make <another> choice-

-witness the first sunrise or sunset- 

with the eyes of a child

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub:   Poetics : Choice by guest host, Christopher Reilley.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3 pm EST.

scents in the house

i.

a twig of rosemary

a fist of fresh basil leaves

a dash of pepper & thyme & lime

on homemade soup and grilled meats- 

the table top creases of ripe blue berries

and yellow banana oats muffins-

i'll wait here >>>

after i devour my plate 

of canned dog food

ii.

fallen

green crab apples on ground-

brown-edged

maple leaves on sun-burnt grass-

smell of early autumn

iii.

down the rabbit hole at the back of the house

i trace back

the city where i grew up

small park around the church & stores-

smelling of sugar canes & fresh sugar fields-

every street corner filled with rice sugar treats-

the summer heat fills my nostrils like smoke-

my bones are diabetic now

but my hands search for that sweet air of sugar-

the cotton-candy-kind-of-missing one's childhood

iv.

i press my cheek

on my grandchild's head of curly curls-

in between sticky fingers of saliva drools

i inhale sweetness of soap & sunshine-

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - A World of Scents, with guest host Jo.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

earthly home

 

all around me, earth

filling me with its soft breath

& hardening my skin of rocks 

the salt is my lifeline

the sky is my sea-green world

though i am just an oyster

within me, is home

to a pea crab

within me, is white mountain

of pain

within me, is food & brine

to lavish & cleanse

within me, is forest

of solitude 

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Tuesday Poetics - the four elements, hosted by Sarah Connor.  I have chosen the element of earth (the other choices are fire, air and water).  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

Fever

 

fallowed yellow, you're the autumn

i sink into, blur lake bottom

your tarot hands are cool blue

soothing my butterflies coup

you tell me, i'll be okay 

moon fever will pass like whey

fallowed yellow, you're the autumn

i sink into, blur lake bottom

Posted for dVerse Poets pub - Poetry form is Octelle.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

The Octelle, created by Emily Romano, is a poem consisting of eight lines using personification and symbolism in a telling manner. The syllable count structure for this verse is 8, 8, 7, 7, 7, 7, 8, 8, and the rhyme scheme is aa/bb/cc/aa. The first two lines and the last two lines are identical.

In August

I. 

red is the torrid skin

bare to the summer sun

flesh turns beet red & tomato plump

hips swaying to the outdoor music festival

tongue devours the cool ice & wine, sweet

as peaches, plums and strawberries

golden yellow, dark velvet, earthly brown-

we celebrate ripeness in all its colors & spices

II.

red is the torrid sky

scorching the grass to dry pale paper

burning the borreal forest to ash & soot

the sky is smoking darkness during the day

the smell of destruction is invasive 

as gypsy moths, all that was vibrant and tall

are now burnt by growing wildfire in an instant

the charred soil is a reminder that death

stamps, entwining with life's abundance

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics, Sometimes August isn't recognized, hosted by Sanaa Rizvi.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.     During the summer months here in Canada (July to August), we get wildfires in the forests. It is a total destruction of homes and communities.