Lunch

It Must Be Time For Lunch Now, 1979, by Francesca Woodman

the taste of it  
sticks under the roof in my mouth 

rough as unleavened bread
salty as the sea salmon

your big soulful eyes pepper the heat, 
falling into exhilaration of the hunting season    

and no amount of spooning nor post-loving kisses
can sweeten the fear and madness beating in your heart

loving me is a beast sweetheart 

give me the fork,
it's time for my lunch 



Written for The Mag - 137  ~ Happy Sunday ~ goodness, I don't where my muse took me ~
This work is from the same US photographer who committed suicide at the age of 22.

Shared with Poets United ~

From far away

I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.

                                  The sun rose like a ball of fire this morning
                                  spiraling clouds of pink, yellow and orange  
                                  
In my sky at twilight you are like a cloud
and your form and colour are the way I love them.

                                 A piece of the sun landed on my hand,
                                 burnt russet and gold, the color of autumn leaves
                                 stirring my limbs and eyes damp of tears
                                 
I remember you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.

                                The journals are littered with pictures,  
                                letters and notes.   It smells of rosemary
                                and Chinese herbs.   My note reads:  
                                10th week, slow progress, nothing yet.     

everything carries me to you, 
as if everything that exists, 
aromas, light, metals, 
were little boats 
that sail 
toward those isles of yours that wait for me. 
                                                           
                               I gazed at the pictures, wishing we were boats
                               with the wind pushing us further into the sea.    
                               All over Europe and Asia, I battled against the clock 
                               to ease your pain. But it was like chasing
                               the hoof print of the shadow.       

The night gallops on its shadowy mare
shedding blue tassels over the land. 

                               The wind became weary of its travels and came home:     
                               bones became stones, cells raged in fury,
                               like black tide, restless and relentless waves. 

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.

                               After 10 years of waiting  
                               death came like an old friend.
                               As the light slowly faded from your eyes,                        
                               I whispered the precious words
                               as if you never left me

 
And you hear me from far away 

Posted for:   D'verse Poets Pub - Collage and The Art of Cento - The left side are fragments of several poems by my favorite poet, Pablo Neruda.   The right side is based on my cousin's long  battle with cancer.   I wished my topic was little lighter but oh well ~ Thanks for your visit ~

Forbidden

my joys are simple:  sun on my face and writing by the window. 
      after 50 beatings, i change them to goat's milk and sweet pumpkin.         

~0~0~

forbidden from my eyes and henna dyed hands,  
      i dream of your lips, dripping with words sweeter than honey. 
    
~0~0~

your scent clings to my face, soft as rain,
     why can't i choose my love ? 
      
~0~0~


i hide the pressed blooms and stained book under my pillow - 
      your last gifts to me.  
      

~0~0~

night wind carries your voice above the sad fields,  
     my fingers pluck the sheep-boned strings - as softly as i could -    

~0~0~   

under my burqa, world is small as my hand.
     but with my pen, hidden under the folds, i dream of the sky.  
     

Note:  I had originally posted my landai poems in my other blog.  Because of the positive comments, I added more to share with my friends in OpenLinkNight - Real Toads (Monday) and D'verse Poets Pub (Tuesday).

Landai poems are mostly voices of Afghan women.  They are two-line folk poems that can often be humorous, sexy, raging, tragic and  also deal with love, grief,  war, exile and Afghan independence. The success of the poetry form is attributed to it being easy to memorize, which is really important in a culture where women are poorly schooled and forbidden to write or read (including to sing) poetry.  

An interesting Article:  Why Afghan Women Risk Death to Write Poetry

Picture credit: here

Unexpected

i buy
mangoes, plump yellow skin
amidst orange pumpkins and potted mums

i slice
with a sharp knife, along the seed,
sticky juice drips on my fingers

i scoop  
the flesh, sweet but not sweet enough,
but tangy to stir a faint memory, ever so lightly 

i cube 
the fruit, up and down in little squares  
then spoon the rest into a bowl with sugardust

i drain
wine glass, vigorously cleaned from your stains,  
inhaling autumn leaves on ground, unraked, spilling colors  

i savor 
solitude of where i am:  not in a perfect place 
but untroubled, safe from your lies and pity crumbs    

as i wipe  
kitchen top, peace comes like a sip from young coconut:  
fresh, awakening senses, content in one's choice-   

alone       

D'verse Poets Pub: Unexpected - Based on my friend's life, after discovering that her long-term boyfriend was keeping secrets from her, the most damaging being his sexuality.    Strangely enough, this conversation happened last year when I went abroad to visit my mom who was confined then in the ICU.   My friend came unexpectedly for a visit, and told me her story.   Thanks to Karin Gustafson for juggling my memory. 

Happy weekend to everyone ~

Picture credit:   here 

Jamaican rose

She graduated from university, a young woman full of mirth and bold dreams. 

Her two closest friends described her as the one with belly laughter, and vision to change the world.

It was raining so hard that fateful night that the subway trains screeched, metal striking, rousing the commuters blissfully napping.         

Her smiling face framed on the coffin and missalette, she did...  starting with her family and community.     

~0~0~0

She was the second of his three children, and the one who proudly shows her long scar from a heart surgery when she was 4 years old.      

With a robust voice, her father spoke through folded notes and photos:  celebrating her life full of courage, fun, love for music, and most of all, laughter. 

The jaimaican pink rose, cusp of womanhood, bloomed with the sweetest fragrance.

In the funeral hall teeming with unanswered questions and somber suits, the father wore his frail heart on his coat, beaming with gratitude.     

Posted for OpenLinkNight of Real Toads (Monday) and D'verse Poets Pub (Tuesday) ~

We attended the funeral over the weekend for my colleague's daughter (22 years old, after a tragic car accident).

The first time

Kiss by Sandro Chia

there must be a beginning,
scientists say about the universe:
a singularity, core of black hole

we turn towards my notebook,
intent on discovery of pressure and the
expanding universe, beholding its beauty

pop goes your laughter, as a fried chicken leg
slips my hand and gravy sauce edges mouth, 
warm as honeycombs, electrons charging

it takes millions of years for hydrogen molecules
to come together, a shockwave, collapse of gas,  
nuclear fusion, we gaze into each other

everything falls into the page: time, place, rhythm, 
perfect collision, simultaneous intake, wonder in eyes as 
your lips find mine by school bench, soft  

bursting supernova, helium joy on paper lantern
meeting the skylight, floating on a careless afternoon,
my hands find deep hollow of your back, holding 

a world unfolding,

us


Posted for D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics:   First Times - A cosmic welcome to Fred Rutherford  who is hosting the pub for the first time.  

I haven't been posting here lately because I am writing haiku for September Challenge of Haiku Heights in my other blog.   Thanks for the visit.  

Not quite autumn

i will pretend to be like autumn
falling gently to ground, but you know this:
unshaded, wild chrystanthemums
bloom in our arms like

a reluctant leaf clinging to bough,
sticky guava jam on crusty bread,
sweet as rice cakes, steamed in banana leaves

i will pretend to be like autumn
pink-eyed in the pumpkin patch, trying hard
not to remember the love notes

your scribbled on my neck and
back in slow circles, dripping ink,
carving memories of heated afternoons

i will pretend to be like autumn
ripe apple cider, plump as blackberries
until my journal is full of leaves, drenched in the rain,    

remembering your eyes
blazing like summer sun,
your skin, tangy as sliced yellow-green mangoes

i will pretend to be like autumn
mellowed orange, nibbling the edge of us slowly,
but always a foot wedged on closing door  

we're not finished, not yet

Posted for:   D'verse Poets Pub:   Autumn chill is in the air - Thanks for the prompt Mary ~








Photo credit:  Photo by Oleg Kosirev

this autumn day

autumn leaves are still curled
in breasts of maple trees, 
dewy wet from yesterday’s downpour

black crows circle outside patio, 
eyes on wayward crumbs from grill, 
hovering our conversation:     
accident, coma   

we sit like windmills, unmoving,  
as the sun bristles our skin, 
fragile glass on    

crumpled napkins, 
we swallow down our throats: 
mother's fears   


picture credit:   Posted for D'verse Poets Pub:   Symbolism

and Flash Fiction Friday - Tell a story in 55 words - For the G-man.

We received the sad news this morning that our colleague's daughter died after being in coma due to a car accident.  She was a young woman,full of promise.  How fragile life is ~   

Wishing you happy day and blessed weekend.    

To stay

It is I

knocking at your door,

not as a beggar nor

with a question

but someone who has written

the saddest song, 

the loneliest poem 

diminished,
a fraction of lemon leaf, 
bereft of scent and colour 

fear has stilled my fingers 

wanting to pull you under the water tide,   

melting in the roughness, 

arching feet in foamy sands 

i have come

as one who now cries at every moon rise,

wretched with summer's brevity,  
weary of long roads, 

my hands searches

for your light and steady gait,

even your shadows comfort me

I am knocking

not to leave you again

but to stay

yes, to stay 

Inspired by Pablo Neruda's The Question  -  When I don't know what to write, I turn to reading Neruda's poems.  A light piece for this long weekend ~  Back to work on Tuesday~  

Posted for OpenLinkNight of Real Toads  - Monday
and D'verse Poets Pub - Tuesday   

A model daughter

he smelled her even from afar, 
perfect blend of sweetness and
unbloomed rebellion in her blood,  
a model daughter, pale and meek

until he danced with her:  bubbling wine 
on glass, belly laughter deep as sea,
crumbling his polite facade until
all he could think of was just her scent

rich spice,  unlike the bland lineage of 
her wealthy family, who nosed down on his
humble roots, brown as mother earth 
but his words were gifted, pulsing her chest   

until wrists trembled to be freed
from family's expecatations and promises,
penning a letter, she left her home on the day
of his birthday, riding a plane out of town

she bore the costs of her elopement:
lost inheritance, empty mailboxes,
rough hands from daily chores and grind,  
silencing wild streak:   an outcast until

the birth of her daughter, bleeding 
and near death, she calmly accepted her fate as 
a wayward daughter, now a frail slip of a woman,
unlike her mother, strong as a rock, holding her hands 

forgiving and welcoming her back into the fold: 

a model daughter, pale and meek 

                                           

Posted for:  D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics: The art of rebellion

I thought a real life story would be a good example for this prompt hosted by Stu McPherson.  Thanks for the visit ~  

Picture credit:   here