November wears a cloak that is not thick enough
She is not pristinely white and frosty like December
There is no crown for Christmas Queen in November
She has to follow October who gets ghouls and goblins
Bats, cats, witches, brooms, and costumes
November gets what?
A turkey
an ugly bird
not even tasty if you don’t cook it right
November is the ugly stepchild
the one neither parent wants to claim
They are fighting over October and December
the interesting exciting months with the favorite holidays
November crawls into a cave in a fetal position
baby owl was sleeping on his October broom
we saw him fly by while we were visiting on Zoom
Is he asleep? Some of the old women said.
He might fall off and hurt his head.
I cannot control the brooms in the sky
my husband told them, for he is not shy
They wanted him to run out and save baby owl’s life
But how could I even reach him? Guess I’ll ask my wife.
Fun
Aspects
Survival,
"Good riddance" said,
Divorce Court Barbie,
Diversity Mattel,
Plastic fantasies couple,
Parked him in husband day care bar,
Should have party, no more ball and chain,
Don't need spaceship, navel gazing on brooms.
The hogline taught me to be precise
The backline taught me how to trust
But every path across this ice
Leads me where it must.
The push is quieter than it once was.
The slide is calm and clean.
The rock listens when I take a pause,
Like it knows what I mean.
I’ve chased the weight, I’ve fought the curl,
Learned when to wait, when to release.
I’ve learned the lines the pebbles draw,
And found my touch with ease.
The house grows still. The brooms stand true.
The moment sets me free.
I don’t throw to prove, I throw to place.
The tee line waits for me.
With their carnival of colors
they glitter the grass and the gutters,
till brooms, offended by their loitering littering
brush them aside,
till stray winds and wily stepping strides
scatter them back where they belong
as the foreground to scenes of order, and creativity
confounded my tug of entropy
'Tis the season of the spooks!
Don't look into dark corners or nooks.
Laughing pumpkins and witchy hats,
Dancing brooms and flying bats.
Evening teas with Casper and Frankenstein,
Don't look under the bed once the clock strikes nine!
Wicked women cast spells
Wearing black pointy hats
With warts and green faces
Warming bubbling cauldrons
Waiting for their potion
While luring bats and frogs
Whisking away on brooms
Witches love Halloween,
When it's their time to screech
With their old, worn-out brooms,
Willed to fly through the night
Wild flocks of bats in tow.
Wrapped in the full-moon glow,
Weird scenes repaint the sky.
Witches in capes and their black pointed hats
Riding on brooms with their black
Witches cat.
Witches don't laugh they just cackle and scream
Are Witches reality or do they just live in your dream
Witches casting spells That can make you bark like a dog
Making up Witches potions that can turn
You into a frog
Witches are they real this or is what I write
All in fun
But I will only advise you this if you do
See a witch RUN.
Life, come thou unhurried to me,
Said she, 'I'm long buried' to me.
A strange sorrow once married me,
Wonder who it carried to me.
Once a bubble dared laugh at me,
Blown soon, it looked harried to me.
Where’s the strainer that filters sins?
The query stands parried to me.
What all my joys can sweep aside,
Such brooms have never worried me.
___________________________
Ghazal |05.09.2025| sorrow, sin, joy, life
We climb the veils of woven mist,
Where time dissolves and stars persist,
Our hands coax flames from shadowed thread,
And light the paths the lost have tread.
We herd the fog on silver brooms,
Awake the night with whispered tunes,
We teach the snow to hum its prayer,
And fold the wind through tangled air.
We sail in cups that catch the light,
Pour dawn from hours stitched in night,
Our shadows rise like restless rye,
And scale the quiet ladders high.
We trap the dark with seeds of flame,
Nameless in dusk, we feed the flame,
We bind the tides with threads of hair,
And float the sky on breathless air.
We are the last lamplighters here,
Who guard the hush when stars appear,
With trembling hands, we cradle night,
And rock the moon till morning’s light.
Whirlwind
Of summer embers
Stirs up
From the un-mowed grass
Swept by the brooms of July 4th fireworks
Booming distant in the furled city
Up high
To the tree tops
The fire flies rise
To the hunger of bats that swoop as spoons
Banging the pan of moon
More than enough for all
The stars
Lightning bugs
Moonbeams and bean wings
Consciousness everywhere
Our heads tilt
On their cracked bodies
Statues
Still standing
For a longer whisper
In the ancient gallery of this summer
My wife her husband
Hands freed from our marble robes
We
Ignite and hold
The gold of a sparkler
Close to our faces.
If the dawn light
we're not being pounded into blindness
by the pelting rain,
if the earth and sky ceased
crashing into each other
churning threads of twilight
into a bitter pulp of crushed worms,
a clogging alluvium
then all must lay as it is
until a muddled earth resettles the land
for in those muddled mounds
there will be the seeds of a new sky
Then brooms, shovels and the titans of charity
will once again labor to seal the rift
between hearts and eyes.
Ominous thunder, prophecy or merely a warning?
God’s hands clap loudly, oak tree or transformer must have been hit.
Portentous night has turned still and bleak, silence as a warning
Menacing clouds are moving ridiculously fast toward the east
This is an evening for witches, gremlins, warlocks and bats
I expect to see brooms in the sky; I feel threatened
The moon weeps, there are black clouds of thunder
I cringe at the noise, feeling more threatened than ever.
When we were in secondary school,
we used to hold brooms like reign and sweep and sweep
and sweep and sweep clear and clean each an every
house.
And race to sweep Hamman Dikko house;
and race to sweep Tudun Wada house;
and race to sweep Ardo Sali house;
and make hay while the sun shines.
I remember the brooms were sharp and fine like rainy
water shattering amidst rainy season O a flowing river
towards the sea.
Our mathes teacher would almost punish us for assuming
that we can anyhow shatter in in in the wood- I remember
the duty perfect used to say as etiquette let begin
from jss 1 to the staffroom , let the ss1 and jss 111
sweep the senior classes and the computer lab.
I remember the motto is keep out impurity and clean
your school and the society at large?.
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