I behold the aurora from the open cerulean,
Descending down to the narthex of the east.
The first glimpse awakens the phoenix o'er the yon Caribbean,
And awakens my beloved's soul who still sleeps sun-kiss'd.
Filtered into the boudoir of my dear damsel,
The scarlet rays osculate her pinkish cheeks.
And her slumberous hairs with their swaying tails,
Waltz to the zephyr from the northern peaks.
The cupid's essence with a crimson glimpse,
Perches o'er her yawning eyes and blushing face,
And makes her warm in her auroral dreams,
With its divine fragrance of amorous grace.
How tacitly the piquant sun with its alluring arms,
Filches her sleep and kisses her lips too warm!
And plays too sly with bewitching charms,
To allure my girl into the morning's swarm.
Her skin bedaubed with the hazel tint of love,
And her voice now sweeter as Beethoven's strings.
Thus all my gratitude to the blest star above,
Must be offered on behalf of the mortal beings.
Thy chiaroscuro amid the swathes of bare skies,
Gleams as an epiphany o'er varied lands of men,
And bless each soul with thy ambrosial eyes,
Till the apogee of life into a little grain.
“ memory is my journal, that I carry around with me always”
No tiny doves fluttered in the air
There was peace everywhere...
The call of the peacock in the woods
Breaking the mighty stillness that broods
And I under the banyan keep’’’
Company to the shadows that sleep
**Only a soft drowsy humming
From the timid pond is coming
Oh it is the giant bumble bee~~
All bedaubed resplendently
With yellow wings against the black ground^^^
Each stripe not large, not thin nor round
Into the sunlight higher and higher
It’s wings catching the sun’s fire”’
Until it rested on the chosen flower**
The grateful petals danced in their forest bower
++ The beauty of this long forgotten day
Gladdens my heart all the way...
28/08/2011
By Tahera Mannan
For Constance’s “ A poem, please” contest
He's retired, at last he's free,
Released from bondage now.
No longer must he watch the clock,
No slave behind a plow.
His time at last is his alone,
He'll do just as he wishes.
His wife still has a job and so,
He cooks and does the dishes.
She goes to work to earn her pay,
So he does household chores.
He thinks,"What gives!? For I could swear,
T'was not like this before."
"Where does all this dirt come from?
That woman is a pig!
Before the house was nice and clean.
My job was not so big."
"She stayed home and watched T.V.
She cooked and made some buns.
I worked all day to earn my pay,
Relaxed when day was done."
"Now I work and slave and cook and clean,
Till I can hardly stand,
And then at dawning of the day,
I do it all again."
"It's not supposed to be this way.
I wish I had a job.
Then I could work and then get paid,
And not be so bedaubed,
With so many different jobs,
Instead I'd have just one.
She could stay here just like before,
I'd slave under the gun."
Judy Ball
The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.
Forgetting is a vain refugee camp,
Madonna, for still these walls get
breached, amidst the daily, frenzied
barter of honed art for bread,
While slaking arid, thirsty hours with
bits of loving, or even in deep sleep's
opiate-laced salve; your shrill wail
ricochets on palisades of silence,
Wrecking dreams, when your arms
thrust out, ghost-like haunt heart's
corridors to pained remembrance
of your hearth bulldozed to jagged
Rubble, grating deep your ample
loins that Gaza noon of nightmare,
hooking deeper yet the piercing
scythes of questions as regards
Your fate and of your son's. Again,
the mind turns, tosses on this bed
of dusty shards and tear-anointed
debris as you once more scream
Your picture-perfect, front-page,
silent pain, yet made more potent
than all sounds heard down old
Palestine when wailing, wreathed
The wretched walls bedaubed with blood
of innocents, when wanton death and
mayhem, too, by Herod's mighty hand
decreed, made firm, held sway.
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