Best Henna Poems
When you are
an agonizing
echo from a
benevolent voice,
life exhales in
mahogany haze,
spreading across the
lachrymose meadows as
scarred rivulets of
sandalwood scents,
where ceramic
rhymes slumber in
watercolor coffins
with opaque metaphors,
weaving hoaxed
hymns of the nascent
heavens within these
mortal hues.
I'm a bronze brushstroke
of origami colours,
pinned to the weary
wall as the state
of forsaken art,
splattered in acrylic-
resembling sombre
diamonds that
knit ebony pixels
of my onyx heart,
scattered across the
blistered brims,
framed from
fate crossed palms;
doused in poisoned
henna depicted
in dismay, to portray
the painting of despair
within my splitting mind.
Isn't the monochromatic
shade of an aesthetic
mural a clementine
symmetry, where ruby psalms
stained with black peonies,
bleed thistle-ribboned
tales from an orchid's silence?
Not every artist
can mold
peace from a
pastel palette
filled with poignant
petals engrossed
in purple pain,
but poetic fingers
can sculpt an evergreen
masterpiece through
crisp flakes of
tumbling torment,
carried through
arctic mists.
But is there a
teal-azure texture
to create a
timeless tapestry
interlaced with
lavender musings?
As melancholy soars
beyond roseate realms
like a moon-winged butterfly,
fluttering across
cantaloupe sunsets,
etching heartbeats of
hope in harp's periwinkle pigments,
when twinkling jewels
lose their shine,
leaving tales untold
to waltz with
forlorn silhouettes-
dwelling in a gallery of grief.
For, in the calligraphic
corners of chaos,
I’ve found healing,
between ethereal pages
within a cathartic labyrinth.
Monsoon mornings are like a seedless vase filled with paralyzed petals.
I sit reminiscing, the fleeting frequencies of his ancient clock,
now cloaked in coal cobwebs composing skeletal memories;
a timeless token of unblemished innocence,
when tiny fingers, tattooed with henna butterflies,
awaited the dawning strings of golden kites.
I ponder if shadows of the moving moon still caress chiffon curtains, forming a crescent spoon,
resembling five marbles of childhood that played hide and seek,
to his virtuous voice echoing down hollow hallways~
homing a trail of tender heartbeats from the swings he made for us…
For the empty room of a wise man is never soulless.
It shelters fearless footprints of futuristic art, painted with patience,
when fairies of twilight forget the lyrics of starry lullabies.
Tonight, I trace whispering wallpapers,
listening to the sound of my grandfather’s perennial promises~
that linger forever, embalmed in sandalwood serenity,
while nightingales croon eclectic elegies to the mourning sky.
I remember Cleopatra's moon,
as triangles of time
unveiled pyramids embalmed in
juniper, incensing golden dreams.
While in desolate dunes
of the sunrise Sahara,
I've engraved your initials
with pearls and diamonds.
For in lunar silence
when cylinders of stars
embellish skies with hieroglyphics,
destined twin flames ascend.
You’ll remain a musical~
maestro, choreographing our pilgrimage
to attain heaven beneath
henna herbs of love.
In the manicured meadow
of woeful weeds,
where hope sprouts amidst
forlorn fragrance of frozen seeds,
I dance to the hypnotic breeze,
hanging on saintly strings with
cosmic eyes, unraveling the
emerald iris of sacred skies,
orchestrating songs
of sonorous seasons,
searching for rhythmic revelations,
as spring-butterflies
flicker peacock promises,
gliding above rippling
star-jeweled visions,
like prominent parachutes,
symbolizing pearlescent presence~
of sanguine scriptures,
shimmering as ethereal radiance,
within this enlightened heart.
I refuse to let egoistic entities
enter my perennial sanctuary
blossoming with
halcyon hibiscus hymns.
For within lunar-glazed lentils
magical magnolias hibernate
in mere mindfulness~
unfolding a voiceless
poetic gallery
of chromatic colors,
bursting with incandescent flares
of iceless moonstones,
resting between merciful tremors
of unwavering faith,
counting tears that fall like
golden streaks on the
roof of charismatic creations,
eagerly adorning the horizon,
as pristine prayers ricochet,
to the impotent tunes
of immaterial repentance.
So tonight, I’ll allow
graceful galaxies to
sprinkle blissful-beams,
laced in lotus love,
perfumed with patience,
as my pen perseveres,
with persistent passion,
to sincerely seek
righteous refrains,
of divine magnetism,
letting ego perish,
when heat of worldly lies
suffocate the soft skin I wear,
yet they remain
unaware of inked henna herbs
of violet devotion~
I’ve designed in kismet zest,
through linear lines floating,
with vermilion verses,
in charming cadence,
to the alluring anthems of
an unbreakable dawn,
while silhouette
of my psyche swirls,
spellbound by the
enthralling influence of
celestial zephyr.
The cares of the world waft away like
the vague images of a forgotten dream
when he climbs into bed beside me.
And my comfort is found in the warmth
of a slight up-curved smile relaxing across
an unshaven face tickling me with a
hundred kisses as I squeal to his delight.
A calloused hand urges the small of
my back gently forward as I fuss in
mock protest of his boyish game.
His eyes gleam indulgently making my
heart swell with such regard I
choke back joyful tears and throw
my arms possessively around him.
With a knowing sigh he draws me in,
cradling me in his capable arms
sworn to provide and protect.
Then he buries his face in my copper-red
hair breathing its henna scent, and
holding me tight, he whispers my name,
swearing love that will never relent.
>>>
cavorted about as elfin brides
under a saffron maple tree^^^^
Dressed in prism-hued layers
of chiffon in ethereal shimmers
and delicate silken gossamers
They having their group wedding in the fall
And fairy folk bustled about all round
as flimsy and flighty as they could be
while henna leaves fell upon the brides,
>>>>> in ceremonial nuptial
An autumn's breezy ritual>>>Branches denuded
Yet autumn's august>>>
in honey fallen maple leaves as well
>>>>Playing hide'n' seek
with browny brownie grooms
also camouflaged in the heap...>>>
( beautiful quote 7)
star-swept with
soft blushing blooms ...
this slow sink ,
swathes my henna heart
with deep mauve hues ...
as I fall into the frostbitten lake
mispronouncing ~
the marmoris of metaphors
that were meant
to burn with magic ,
where the soulmate of poetry
breaks within the tears of sunset ~
sipping sighs of sorrow
from the crystal sky ,
that leaks loneliness
through the cracks of
liquid lilacs and lavender light ,
because there seems to be
no translation for the
language of love
that weaves woes
from warm wisteria
instead of blossoming
in coffee-scented chiffons
moulded into origami orchids ~
without any creases
and I wear no name
in the absence
of your ablaze august ashes …
read me swiftly
orchestrating in
the blackcurrant tattoos
breathing ... in tributaries
stretching to
the silent traces of trauma ,
twinkling with
turquoise and turpentine
for, I am not alive ~
but the seas still crash
the swollen shadows in my ribs ,
kissing the fallen sun …
that ebbs and flows …
through violets
of vaporising violas
like an incensed inferno ,
uncensored with ultraviolence
escaping the delirious doom
within driftwood dreams …
I want you ~
to not speak to me
so in affection
in this sparkling satanic siesta,
because poetry
has forevermore been
my saviour and my slaughterer ~
that leaves me …
drifting with the flow ,
in exile … evermore …
chained with
moonstone cobwebs
of confused consciousness
and conversing cryptics ~
befogged with gaslit goldens
laced with forest greens,
where verses wander
like a villain ,
withering
in emeralds …
listen, O velvet ink,
longing to be
r e
s c u
e d …
Wedding Night in Raqqa
Cyclonic violet vision
Etheral and immortal
She swirls her sand baked torso.
Evoking the initial collision of primordial seed,
Swathed in gossamer purple veils,
Writhing to the stomping and clapping
Of jeweled ankles
And henna stained hands.
The tribes have united for my wedding to their son.
I ,foreign and naive, swoon to the power
Of ancient rhythm and verse,
Ripe, fertile gestures,
Pregnant with throbbing pulses
And scattered beats of flailing arms,
Bleating tongues, spinning robes.
A cacophony of incessant chant rose from the dancing women,
Growing louder, feverish in their pleasure
And the nearness of release.
I join in the dancing.
They swath me in voiles and lead me to the center
I dance, and I succumb to my wedding night in Raqqa.
She wore a tiffany hat with a bow and six big plumes of red and white,
it had an ultra wide asymmetrical brim that rolled up to one side.
When it came to dames like this I believe God ran out of humble stock !
She wore pompadour shoes, like she had nothing to lose
and rouge so red it made the cardinals have fainting spells !
Her hair was soaked in henna, elderberry & radish extract,
and I believe her dress was stitched in the boudoir of coco-channel!
She was a nouveau riche reveling in her new found fame
and everything in her life was right as rain until that fatal day,
when her hat expanded 10 x its size, growing past her shoulders
like a great big beast, of leavened yeast!
Her hat pins strained from the strain of those great big plumes,
moaning and groaning from her lithe walk and all that perfume !
Then First World War arrived and suddenly it was unpatriotic
to be concerned with one's appearance !
She was no Rockefeller and didn't own a rupee nor a heller,
so she became a steadfast loyal dame, like dear old Helen Keller .
What happened to that big old hat, with the plumes of red and white ?
She stewed it, brewed it, boiled it down then poured it in a flask,
and yes she drank it slowly,... just in case you thought to ask !
March 30/ 2025
get ready to play
leaves and apples on the ground
shades of henna falls
by heavenly heights
color glow in the sunshine
embrace you naked
like small angel wings
they fall eager and ready
treated by the storm
13.10.2018
Sun :) A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
(howmanysyllables.com)
the s p a c e between us,
is lined with full stops
and wistful questions~
tucked within "inverted commas"
of w e e p i n g stars,
but I'm lost in
suffocating s i l e n c e...
t h i n k i n g
l o n g i n g
d r e a m i n g...
as Y o u, my beloved
are enough...the poetic pause
breathing between
stellar heartbeats
of the mourning sky~
punctuating promises
mirroring the magnetic
equations of l o v e ~
a cosmic pyramid
glazed with pearl-dust
as herbs of henna
soothe this soul
swollen with g r a t i t u d e
sipping midnight mocktails
like a dressed devotee
worshipping the aura of roses
within serene scriptures ...
Santa’s a superhero thanks to Sienna
She’s made a Marvel with her old school penna
So let’s not stop with Putin
When it’s Trump we’ll be bootin
Next elections, he and his orange henna
Santa in red tights and a fur lined cape
His new Marvel powers no villain can escape
Trump, don't mess with the jolly man
He'll kick your orangutang can
And leave you but an empty shell of an ape
Two hearts owned
Two people of same interest in a canoe
Two people, four hands to row
Lovers are immortal
For their existence never shatter
To one, for the other to live, is what matters
Love is immortal
Living through ages and offsprings forever
A bliss in eternal
Like a rune on the sky and on oceans like henna
Lovers live through each other
Lovers live for each other
Lovers live in each other
If one dies then the other has the memories and name of the gone
Its a result of what their togetherness has born
And if both dies, their love still stays
Stays on earth and continue its crave
For love never had a grave
Never can be buried 'cause it never dies
Its like a carving on a rock, which forever in history's been dried
A name which forever will be high
Lovers never die, lovers never die
No longer ...
Are my eyes my own.
My ribs thrum with a drunken heart,
Your drug, molten and pure, coursing my veins.
I am the smooth cheek to your tears,
Warmed by the waiting ...
Let dash, your fury upon my reef,
Your concern and cares,
Ebbed with worry to the depths.
My lips brush tiny shivers on your skin,
(Anticipation doing what the autumn air can not),
As I whisper sexy words to the curves of you ...
Your henna-painted fingers like electric tendrils thru my hair,
Pulling me closer, tighter ... closer.
No longer are my eyes ...
My own.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "September 2018 Standard" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Sponsor.
My lover is to me a cluster of henna blossoms
from the vineyard of En Gedi.
Song of Songs 1:14 NIV
he is vulnerable
with me.
he is charming, handsome —
his silver hair and bedroom eyes.
i press my nose
into the featherbed of his chest —
the mix of his scent with cologne
his arms encircle me
embrace only me
the ripples of henna
paint a vista
for my love and me —
our song of songs
blossoms
we’ve left youth behind
embracing the divine.
he knows me —
the cluster of our fingers
singularity, our intimate jokes
and home sweet home.
after the sprig of coolness
excites and weaves
into the dendrites and sinews
of our life,
comes the wintergreen crest
of the ocean’s shiver,
climatic and familiar
rock of our houseboat —
survivor of tempests.
j’aime mon mari —
love defies the language
and sound barrier, the dangerous
reefs. communication,
as our pressed together crowns
on downy pillows,
speaks with its own lavender ink.
6/10/2019