Dreams of catalytic prisms
Pry upon my gutter brain
And dance among the gypsies
Of the night.
But when I wake in the morning
No nectar smells and fuzzy hairs
Can fill my finite hole.
Loping about the languid landscape
Of time and place I can’t help but wonder:
Would I have made a better dragonfly
Than a human? Perhaps I was one already
And thought conversely.
And in this way I busied myself with myself
Bip-bopping and buzzing by
The evening bazaar.
The sightless amass daily at dawn; a pilgrimage
Arms outstretched clutching away; the sightless.
A winding trunk grazing away to appease the pangs of hunger; the calloused skin of a leg, a cauliflower shaped ear, a skinny tail swaying restlessly
We know not what this is they echo in chorus; mouths voicelessly ajar at the gigantism
Bellows emit endlessly; stomping, churning,
A woolly mammoth perhaps…..Ice age
Clouds of perplexity choking the cerebrum….. the sightless concur….it must be a powerful apparition, a deity
Could it be that mythical monster; Loch Ness it ain’t, NHS perhaps
A Druid dance up the hillside may help us nail the answer
Ah…..we see it now….the answer flying in the wind…
Not as you like it, but “ASDA”…a medieval bazaar!
In the bazaar
Works and willful stacks of gold.
I grant thee one reticent
Knod, just for show.
There is no real fauna
In our new world.order,
We whet our fangs
And fight for the final time.
In glaciers cool but melting,
I greet the gods of Greenland mourning.
In glaciers hot and freezing
We leave the demons plotting.
In the dim-lit alley of the soul's bazaar,
Were jazz and jive spill from ajar,
We tap our feet, snap fingers, under stars,
And speak in verses, raw and without pause.
The city breathes, a living, pulsing beat,
Its heart a drum, its voice a saxophone,
We weave through streets, our words a rhythmic feat,
In its sync with life yet distinctly our own.
We are scribes of midnight's whispered tales,
Our ink, the dreams that dance in smokey air,
Each line is a track on which our spirit sails,
A journey deep, beyond the skin, we dare.
So let us write, with passion as our guide,
Some beat poems, where truths cannot slide.
Then we'll take a carpet ride,
Sail across space standing side by side.
I could not relate to the carols;
about jolly, happy snowmen,
when I sculpted in the sand.
I could not relate to the carols;
about riding sleds through the snow,
when I was riding my bike, in the sun.
I could not relate to the carols;
about sitting by a crackling open fire,
when I was sitting by an air-conditioner.
I could not relate to the carols;
about gliding over a pond of ice,
when I was swimming in a cool, blue sea.
I could not relate to the carols;
about lands of winter wonder,
when I stood under a raging sun.
I could not relate to the carols;
about falling snow and freezing cold,
when the land I saw was dry
and
I was sweltering hot.
it all seemed bazaar to me;
that Santa wore a thick fur lined coat,
but our sun gave off a blistering heat.
xmas characters wore overcoats, beanies and gloves,
but I was wearing shorts, T-shirt and thongs.
ice and thick snow covered the festive ground,
but I looked upon a dry ground covered in dust.
sky`s were cloudy, grey with no shining sun.
but I stood under blue sky with a blazing sun.
they slid over freezing snow and ice
I was cooling off in the deep blue sea.
The season’s trees were lush and green.
but the trees I saw were dry and brown.
when they were out looking for reindeers,
I had to look out for slithering snakes.
they placed the yuletide log to the open fire,
I turned on the air-conditioner way up to high.
people drank steaming cups of egg-nog,
but I was adding ice to my soft drinks.
even though the temperature was over 30 degrees,
we still had that hot, cooked lunch.
Finished off with warm pudding and hot custard.
The sky appears to be the only ceiling,
As this bazaar stalls fair weather in exchange.
And while sales are all important, a lot of
Begging & bartering seems popular to interchange.
Admittedly, my fascination is endless, as
The diversity & creativity search my soul.
While I roam about to find novel & new treasures,
Makes me think I've been stuck too long in a black hole.
Whether it's the open air or leisurely pace, the
Pleasure of shopping fills me beyond just common sense.
Since one can easily connect with these artisans
And merchants, creating bonds at no ones expense.
A lively church bazaar is on the avenue today,
In the house of the Lord, happy children play,
So much is going on, there is so much to see,
Like many hues flowing, in the house of memory.
Hot lunches and baked goods are here for sale,
Like myriad summer days, vivid blossoms prevail,
Old and young enjoy the raffles and the games,
As sunset going down, its vibrant smile retains.
Indoor and outdoor fun, and crafts of interest,
Like joys of the rainbow, which shall be missed.
Today the green avenue is ringing with laughter,
On Sunday afternoon, lemon sunshine splattered!
Written on 8/29/2021
For: The Avenue Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Julia Ward
Vendors ply their trade in open air without an air or grace,
the velvet chocolate slabs so neatly laid,
suitable for vegans but a salve to pointless guilt the label said,
my texting fingers drip
with honeyed scruple,
Like dates?
give us this day our daily bread is how we earn our corn,
a corny line no less,
pumpkin seed in barrels dot each loaf as if it were an invite
to a milling throng
another corny item on the menu,
off the wall, off the tongue and off the fork
from shell to shelf is how we go to market with such buzzword brand elan.
Yet us artisans must surely set our sights beyond the sound of cash tills or the pin pad swipe and scan zeitgeist
World of colours twinkling like stars,
I really wonder, how mesmerising could be Bazaar.
When one is low,
When one is free,
When one wants to have some fun,
Going to bazaar would be awesome.
Wow! See that shop.
Don’t you feel, we should stop!
Tinkling chimes,
Hanging in line.
I want to stop here for a while.
Those sequinned cushions,
All in white.
Could there be something, even more bright!
See that hoard of antique next to the boutique,
From fairy land to queen land, what a transit!
Look at the horde out there!
LCD on the wall and cricket in the air.
Oh ho! That’s a restaurant!
People are being served on the chair.
That’s indeed a tricky affair.
Let me also take a break,
And grab my cake.
Hey! You don’t wait!
Walk around! This place is great.
22/2/19
Bazaar
The nights’ chest opens up -
strings of illusions
rattle in palms
the knowing buyers haggle
for a dream
while the fascinated women
try on
toles of princesses or odalisques.
In the shell of hope
genuine perls are priceless.
Silk labyrinth
of amber and incense,
amulets of shamans hidden in death,
a mirage in golden cases,
the drug of success
paths and passions
unknown potions
scaffold question.
Merchants with epheb faces
skillfully spin shadows,
scarves, dependences, embroideries,
compasses, elders, rings, sapphires,
open
conspicuous roads.
Rubys, gold,
sealed fates
days delirium
forgotten writings
bracelets and silver girdles,
old things,
new objects
disturb the untold air.
The world’s cornice
crunches upon the stalls
heavy stars
cramped into bags
shriek
with undecipherable voices.
Thousands of dead and living worlds
rise to the skies
from eyes
touched by temptation.
Seaming in a sewing room, earning his copper coins in twos. With patterns, tools, & spools, fast pace so hard to do. Rusty fans that are always frozen, feed dog staying broken with a boss who's constantly smoking fine Cuban cigars. Just another day at Sweat Shop Bazaar.
*Chor Bazaar*
Hidden in the forgotten alleys of burgeoning cities
the market is a guilty row of stalls on half a street
where lights are dim, voices are hushed and things are cheap
It had to hide somewhere, away from law and affluent glare
for it sells used, pick pocketed and stolen ware
The irony is that there is never a dearth of customers,
the market does well to please its valued hapless buyers.
A fake Rolex on a calloused hand, tired eyes sporting a Rayban,
feet that walked in with broken shoes are now ensconced in faux Jimmy Choos
No arrow leads you that way, no sign says that it is there
Yet it exists, like a secret merchant of dreams.
(Chor Bazaar literally means- thieves market)
Barry was a simple man
Who had a simple plan
He would be the greatest collector there has ever been
Of all outstanding Barcodes anyone would have seen
So he collected them from sun-up to sun-down
He was seen sniping these line patterns around the town
And his walls and ceilings were all covered
There was no Barcode that was undiscovered
But alas one day when hunting at the local tip
He fell in front of a bulldozer and that was the end of it
Some say it was a sad way to end for an avid collector
While others said he would be happy as a new wave instigator
For he was the human Barcode once the bulldozer ran over him
With the lines from the tracks on his body as a final fairy-tale whim
So Barry the Barcode collector can now be seen
The third Sunday of every month at the Barcode Bazaar looking extreme.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Rest for the weary
From cash and carry
Not now dreary
From odd worry
Fond taste speaks well
As sales splurge dwells
On choice that spells
Just what stuff tells
Sound motifs bind
Such vivid finds
In touch that binds
A willing mind
Feed find fancy
With sales crazy
In choice dizzy
Dressed as happy
By bazaar street
Pure fancy meets
Stuff that now greets
Your curious feet
Leon Enriquez
14 October 2017
Singapore
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