Best Bazaars Poems
12 BARS
Twelve brazen bars, one frozen lock!
Confined, sublime, an ancient Roc
endures inside a barren cage,
her catacomb in sundown sage.
Of former days there is no trace
except displays of fallen grace –
Twelve dreams, abiding in her place,
are free, inhabit yawning space:
12 DREAMS
... of wings unfurled, and seething eyes
that dredge the depths of dawning skies,
divining clouds that cling below,
once ice, dissolved in morning’s glow;
... of clutching winds that carry free
above an anguished leaden sea,
dispersing dust of distant stars
midst chunks of chain in slave bazaars;
... of swooping to a silent shore
to perch beside the ocean’s roar,
at last to feel the sobbing breeze
message the leaves of rooted trees;
... of stalking strays and twilight tramps
within the fog of lighthouse lamps
that blink forlorn through caldron nights
in search of shades of errant Kites;
... of darkling vast deserted lands,
with shadowed stones on windswept sands,
where ghosts of Moorish maidens lost
disgorge faint groans in mourning frost;
... of blotting out the bloated moon
while feathers beat a banshee tune
and glimmers dance and prance aglow
upon a pearly pale plateau;
... of tasting cool torrential rains,
beyond the realm of binding reins,
and sipping freedom they exude
in quiet drops of solitude;
... of vanquishing a galley crew
aboard a ship of midnight dew,
beneath the pierce of seagulls' screams
that mock the strands of scarlet streams;
... of sating once an aching craw
with tearing beak, with ripping claw,
and echoed by an eldritch screech
while feasting on abandoned beach;
... of restive thoughts and weary wings
that drift on haze in smoky rings,
obscured within the opal shroud
of her resemblance in the crowd;
... of croaking caws in broken rhyme
in winter woe, in summer clime,
while building nests of sundown sage
beyond outside a barren cage.
Six steeple towers, cold as steel, drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.
Coiled candle sticks! Their twisted wicks no longer 'lume the cracks
with dying flame, subdued and tame, mid pendant pearls of wax,
since deference to innocence dissolved in molten tracks.
Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.
Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across the cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.
Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in lurid swinging gait),
haunt ballrooms, bars and bare bazaars, though no one's there to fete.
The souls who come with jagged tongue won't sing a silent psalm,
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, nor beg lethean balm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, and face it with aplomb.
A Cup Of Tea
A cup of tea is a gift unique
In every cup it stands supreme
In restaurants, hotels, bazaars and homes
It’s a great dose for relaxing bones
Historical demand from ancient times
Light and strong always served by host
A cup of tea makes people close
In a friendship circle like petals of rose
A cup of tea has great respect
In every season, it’s always best
In making warm and giving rest
A cup of tea comes always first
Tea parties are an old tradition
But generation to generation
It’s always in fashion
A cup of tea is the Queen of cups
I like to serve it with cream rolls and buns
With chicken roast, cookies and crunches
Samosas, Kababs and finger chips
When stress compelled
And your mind obsessed
When anxiety brings
Those unwanted thoughts
Take a cup
Of herbal tea
Charming and sweet spell of magic
It will cast on your mind
Then your mind will no more be lost
In miserable, awful and uninvited thoughts.
Poetess S. Nadia Azam Shah Bukhari
All Rights Reserved
To live a talented retiremant,
i dreamed of a normal retirement,
Meeting classmates again coincidently
Getting together for a cup of tea or coffee,,
To be with the church,
When I retired that all began,
A storytale retirement,
I did participate and did things,
I have never done before,
I wrote two books, "Living with God",
The next good book"The Sounds of Christmas",
My poems were well-liked by the seniors at the residence,
I gave them as christmas presents one year
Blessing my relatives and friends,
I was featured at the Open House as a guest poet.
They praised my accomplishments,
We had a lovely reunion with my relatives,
The sound of music came honestly,
I taught myself as a teacher to play many songs,
A friend came up to me and said,
That they would like me to play for the birthdays,
I played the piano for the birthdays and socials,
Previously I had sung with the choir,
I participated in bazaars,
A well-respected poet and pianist,
I said to myself, perhaps I have practiced all my life ,
Just to be featured today as a senior today,
I met a future mayor of our city and a bishop of our church,
I had friends that were ministers and lunched,
I thank God for the many accomplishments and blessings,
We have a beautiful conservation area nearby,
Many hikes and lovely walks guested with relatives and friends,
A retirement that is blessed by the Lord,
To have been blessed to share my retirement with my father and relatives,
To have discovered my favorite miracle singer,
These are the many blessings of God and I am truly thankful.
Author: Gwen von Erlach Schutz
Westernmost in its regional placement and traditional identity,
rare but indigenous is its Arabian flavour,
and a significant bridge of peace
between its brothers and their common enemy.
Displays an open tradition, appreciative of diabolism
as witches are integral part of its cultural settlements.
Typical of its nucleus is a combination of minarets structured worship centers,
Bazaars, sections called medinas and lasbali fortresses.
Its riches in wood stored up through the Atlas mountains
has milked its way from the dashboards of the Rolls Royce brand
and its possession of the “mother of all flowers”
has given the French creative experts a reason to fancy the world.
Public bath are greatly preferred to private ones
to flatter socialization in shrines of ritual purification.
Its rare ideology in liver displacing the heart in love’s symbolism
gives a perceived cosmic effect of its cute uniqueness.
The “assembly of the dead” and the Tomb of John the Baptist
are hugely important in its global historic relevance.
Just the way Aid al-kebir is held highly
so also is handling of food with the right hand
and as well in the acceptance of offered meat.
The glory of such a symbolic geography never stay silent
because the constant whispers of its honour,
despite not a continental union member
is evidenced by its official friendship to the world power
which is the first ever, among hundreds of many more.
Ill-fated crowds neath unchained clouds: the Silent City braved
against a sudden flashing flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which stripped its stony structures, blown with neutron bursts that laved.
Its barren streets, although effete, resound of yesterday
with chit-chat words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.
Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes,
which limn its frail forgotten tales, in weird unworldly runes
with symbols strung like halos hung in lifeless, limp festoons.
Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.
Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, throughout the doomed domain
reflecting white, wee wisps of light in ebon beads of bane
which cast a crooked smile across a faceless windowpane.
Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait),
whelm ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, though no one’s left to fete.
Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap the spirits creep beyond the mushroom clouds.
No ghosts of ones with jagged tongues will sing a silent psalm
nor haunt pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.
Continued in part 2
Journey starts
Kunming portraits;
Highway song
Here old and new
Merge yet apart;
Vignettes juxtapose
China welcomes
Both ancient and modern;
Sign of the times
Tour group confronts
Unfamiliar grounds;
Rough edges grind
Quaint ways of old
Ancient tales displaced;
Modern day norms intervene
Spectacular vistas
Natural wonders;
Man seems insignificant
Flood tide drowns
Flushing away;
False assumptions destroyed
Gust of wind
Reveals new passages;
Knowing does not know
Mountain peaks
Valleys well-clustered;
Fertile grounds well-used
Everywhere we go
People of all tribes;
A Chinese pageant
Human nature speaks
Polite tones sway;
Touch of humble quiet
These Chinese people:
Kind, warm, hospitable --
A touch of home
Himalayan backdrop
Mountains for company;
Melodrama purged
Methinks that I
Could hideaway here;
Unknown, undisturbed
One sure currency:
The Chinese language;
Pervasive, ubiquitous
Vast is the land
Far as our eye span;
Beyond imagery
Trades of all sorts
Risk is a sure thing;
Living is risky business
Ancient towns
Showpieces that speak;
In steady silence
Rivers and streams
Winding into quaint towns;
Ancient as old time
Pulse of the moment
Camera shutter snapshots;
Still life captured
Picture posture
By this arched bridge;
Keepsake souvenir
Sensory pursuits
Old Town bazaars;
Hasty trinkets acquired
Silver artisans
Hammer away;
Creations of white metal
Bric-bracs scattered
Awaiting curious eyes;
That impulse buy in tow
Round this village
Tourist show piece;
Modern commerce prevails
Bargains await
Hungry customers;
Weathered Oriental wares
In this roundabout square
Locals and tourists stride;
Seek new-found distractions
Spring time weather
Hot and dry and windy;
Like home without humidity
Our tour guide --
Cautions that silver jewellery
Best bought from reputable shops
Cheap price often
Compromises quality;
Authentic stuff cost much more
Lessons unlearnt
On-the-road trade routes;
Return odd regrets
A silver bangle
Heavy with 99 percent;
Quality speaks tons
Scattered eateries
Street vendors offer;
Glimpses that never die
So much to see,
Words fail description;
Feelings explore facts
Only ten days here
We see yet do not see;
Only vague interpretations
All too soon
Sojourn over;
Yunnan in mind mists
Leon Enriquez
31 May 2014
Singapore
THE SIX DAYS WAR
--------------------------------
The sweet smell of orange blossom
wafted along the sandy paths
hovered over the concrete sidewalks
and entered the open windows
shaded with green blinds
Pure sunlight seemed to engulf us
students of biblical studies.
the heat haze played gently from the sea
and a sense of history
settled on our shoulders.
City gents passed by
at a fast, inflationary pace.
We did not mind them
as we made our way to the Arab bazaar
down the side streets.
How we remembered the bazaar,
there were rubbishy carvings and metalwork,
and orange blossom was lost in the spices
and the black coffee.
how they wooed us.
Such charm these people of the bazaar
but above all I remember the colour,
there were hangings for the house
silks for the dresses
scarves against the dust.
Then, as we walked along the timeless streets,
bathed in the sunshine and the orange blossom
came the boom of gunfire.
Canons raided the tranquillity
with rocketing noise.
Here was the land of the Prince of Peace
shaken in the April light
shaken at the Passover,
not escaping from Egypt
but conquering the West Bank.
On April the 7th
friction between neighbours
became terrible war 40 years long
and the colourful bazaars
collapsed in hostility and dust.
Voyager 1’s “The Sounds Of Earth”
Eleven billion miles from the sun
a record, golden when it left these parts,
a runaway hit on Voyager One,
at Ophiuchus, sure to top the charts,
will introduce Mozart to other stars,
not to mention Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode”.
The knock-offs sold in alien bazaars
will knock their socks off or at least it should
make them extend their eyestalks in surprise.
They’ll soon begin to learn to sing along
to whales recorded and the baby’s cries —
adepts might even master Earth’s birdsong.
Should Beethoven not prove to be their fave,
Then Guan PingHu’s GuQin could be their rave.
I Have Seen The Stars Fallen
The pageants veiled, and gnawed at gladness,
As prism from far inter-stellar space;
And they eclipse and the luminosity fa’e over the
phase,
And the pursuit of phantasy had sold out to gravitation;
I Have Seen the Stars Fallen:
And have delectably shine in the sky delightfully for
ages,
They have eagerly seen all and excellently heard all;
Have gratuitously appeared and valedictory disappeared on
stages,
And so far, they have said bye to deathless oblate
sphere.
I Have Seen the Stars Fallen:
The spectacular success increase to covered their eyes,
I would be this and that and scintillating pot king of
enamels;
I would be, I would be motto have gone to
too much I,
And the overwhelming gaol and ignominy was where it ends
I Have Seen the Stars Fallen:
All the specter of prosperity are all spent,
They rapaciously built diamond and golden palaces in
silver moon
The marvelous headlamps of pleasure glow in affluent,
Like the eyes of the wizard on descent
Today, the sybarites had all packed their bazaars in
calabash in,
I Have Seen the Stars Fallen:
Gradually fallen made a dying fall;
They fall among us, in the sea or in the woods,
That one fallen could be the star you know;
No matter where they fall,
They made a resounding blow.
I Have Seen the Stars Fallen:
Out of the evening sky in the nighttime,
As light from far away heavenward;
And they fall and can’t shine again
Down on the earth they are found crawling.
Are your eyes the green of a shamrock's leaf,
or your nose the tide that comes and runs?
Is your skin the plains of pearls and perplexities,
your hair the curtain to a rainforest peace?
Could be your ears the caverns where rarities dwell,
and your shoulders belfries that will never ring?
May your chest be a wound that never swells,
and your heart be the silence that learns how to sing
Is your hand a ten-minute first-light,
your fingers the fleeting moment that stays?
Might your arms ensphere the the broken, the evil, the cold,
bring what ends, for sure, to the prelude, alright?
Your legs and feet, perhaps, lucid dreams and strange fools,
with bizarres and bazaars, eccentricities galore,
Playing with colors, creatures, the cosmos, the rules,
that no matter duration, leave invocation for more?
Your mind calculates, creates, contemplates, is there,
But without You, none of these could ever, ever be.
For without the green of a shamrock's leaf,
the vastest of woodlands would seem nothing but bare.
One day I will go to Cordoba
Walk along the old cobbled streets
And hear the echoes
From many centuries ago
When the Muslims ruled Iberia
I will see the colourful flowing robes
Or white against the dazzling sun
Endless gardens of symmetry
Exotic flowers, fountains, cascading waterfalls
Cordoba enters my soul
The scent of spices and sweet perfumes
Will waft from the bazaars
The scientists, physicians, poets
Alive with thought, buzzing with ideas, vibrant
A new, tolerant, exciting way of life
An amalgamation of people, religions, languages
That is how we worked best
Lived at our best
How I yearn for that Cordoba
Chilly breeze
Punctuates our stroll;
Morning conversations
~~~~~~~~~
Hand in hand
Here we go;
Chinatown bazaars
~~~~~~~~~
Flavours and mix
Savoury delicacies;
Soft ice cream trip
~~~~~~~~~
Haiku moments
Bamboo trees arch;
Aqua moon floats
~~~~~~~~~
Sad notes
Lover's letter;
August goodbye
~~~~~~~~~
No need to fuss
No more worries;
Dead and gone
~~~~~~~~~
Write words
Cite speech;
Words on water
~~~~~~~~~
Listen well
The wind tells;
A coldness swells
~~~~~~~~~
Morning news
More people dead;
China saga
~~~~~~~~~
Dementia slays
Loss of great voice;
No more concerts
~~~~~~~~~
Sit calmly now
Here on the verge;
Wait upon words
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
21 August 2015
Singapore
REVELRY
Our settlements these days identify
With blooming darkness
Velvety petals have turned
Into prickly thorns
Patches of blood adore pathways
As on a canvas, random brushes
Of seasoned painters do
Invisibility has helped cover
Umbilical cord that nourishes
Flourishing bazaars
Which, by the way, claim
To be self-styled pillar
Of our vibrant democracy
‘Whether you do, don’t or the way vote
Has no inkling with
Your doomed prosperity’ they say,
‘Your voluptuous appetite for smoke,
Not whims of bazaar
Has rendered mill-chimneys crestfallen’
You can die of hunger, sorry!
But you won’t ever be deprived
Of revelry,
Our settlements guarantee these days!
Royal days and knights,
Experiences ever so bright.
A building so divine,
Built to last through time.
The exquisite environment,
Surrounds the palace.
Tall trees and pines,
A walk makes you feel fine.
Performers and actors guest,
Some of the very best.
Bazaars and fairs,
Treasures and tables seen in the fresh air.
Delicious foods and teas,
Good company if you please.
Favorite relatives sending us love and care,
Whenever they visit and are here.
A symphony in the summer,
The sounds of music are heard, without saying a word.
Life is sublime,
What a beautiful rhyme.
God is our Lord and master,
A writer of respect and divinity.
Author: Gwen Meyer-Erlach Schutz