It comes like a slip in the day~
a blue stillness,
a pause I didn’t ask for
but must walk through.
The operating room is bright,
too bright,
as if the world has been pared
to its cleanest edge.
A feather rests on the tray~
not real, but the thought of one:
light,
soft,
bound to air
the way I am bound
to this hour.
Memory stirs~
the half-dream drift
of all I’ve lived through,
all I’ve held,
all I’ve let fall.
Peace is not loud here.
It is a small pulse
in my wrist,
a breath that says
I am still
in the world,
even now,
even in this
unexpected place.
And when I wake,
the light has changed.
The day has moved on.
But something in me
has learned
the quiet art
of returning.
With the art of under over,
footprints circle back,
to the gate left standing open.
Its latch polished smooth—
As I sharpen my key once again
the blade is now worn
to paper thin.
A map covers the desk.
Mountains are creases.
Rivers arch through meadows.
The valleys cast long shadows
reaching out well beyond
the dreams they sprang from.
One flower looked right.
Another hid behind its petals.
The bouquet grew to become bloated.
The vase overflowed with stems—
there was no room left
to wade in the water.
The boat left too late—
while one eye was searching distant shores,
another feared the rising seas.
Strong arms rowed out beyond the harbour
as the daylight quietly
ebbed the tide away.
One smooth stone will skip,
from a practised wrist's keen flick;
to then, sink down contentedly.
The steady hand knows when
it's right to let go,
leaving the cleanest ripples below.
There’s a boy who’s face hasn’t even found its shape
His mindscape is a landscape falling in and out of place
He hasn’t quite learned how to grasp and hold his space
He’s foreign to the maze of learning from mistakes
There’s a man with a guitar and a sparrow of a voice
His fingerbones made slender for flipping golden coins
He opens up his mouth and opens up a void
He opens up his mouth, and that’s a lovely noise
There’s flowers in her hair and it’s raining on venus
Mosquitos landing on her legs and sucking out her sweetness
The sparrow man sings quietly in an attempt to reach us
The boy sticks to the tune, though his notes aren’t the cleanest
The tiny houses quiet down, the church is bathed in snow
The boy looks up at the green sky to catch a UFO
The man points bony fingers, the saucer is his home
A giant beam hones in on them, and they’re gone in the glow
Nobody reaches to lord until leaving the rest
Tresaure of heart can't be opened until it is the pure cleanest
Extract the mundane from the tongue so Lord manifests
Until it is flourished, Sultan will not settle to palace
Perceivers of the secret of dying before death
Have seen judgement day before the trumpet blowed
Face of Lord's house has been circumamblated by lovers
Without house of Mamur at the sky and Kaaba at the earth
Shemsi burns continously at a strange sorrow
Wants to content Lord without being hated by public
Written By Shemseddini Sivasi
Translation Onur Ünlü
What would it be like
If you lived in the mountains
Breathing the cleanest air
Sunshine unfiltered by smog
Endless hours walking through nature
No loud noises would ever be heard
And the solitude you always wanted
What would it be like
If you lived in the mountains
It would be a life you always wanted
But a life that you could never imagine
© Poem – XX/VIII/MMXXV
LRET
I used to love to pick my nose.
After 3,
Better than playing with my toes.
With a nose you see,
Each little crevasse has a surprise for me!
A goober,
A booger.
Nothing I would find amiss.
Cleanest nose in town,
Until Momma was around.
Momma said, "Don't pick your nose,
You might get it on my hose!
There are not gold doubloons in there,
Just goobers and boogers.
Perhaps a bit of hair."
But that's the whole point!
My boogers and goobers,
Are my snacks at night!
Mommas in bed.
It's dark,
No one will see.
Just me and my nose,
Boogers and goobers are free!
I cried looking in your
Inquiring tear ridden eyes
Cradled your soft paw
last Breath released your
Soul floating way
Helpless my dear friend
I can never imagine
Why a God would ignore
Suffering and Death
Even the cleanest of
Angelic creatures deserve
Better treatment
A plethora of emotions
Are flooding my
Universe of helplessness
A tropical vacation that I never shall forget
The clearest cleanest ocean that I’ve ever seen as yet
I dabbled in a rock pool with a bamboo handled net
I told my wife, “It’s just for fun, to see what I might get.”
She said, “I know you all too well, you’re looking for a pet,
But look around, there’s no one here - you’ll never find a vet.
So go check out that ocean blue and get your Speedos wet,
I’ve never seen you swim a stroke; not since the day we met.”
I couldn’t let her know why I broke out in such a sweat
The fact I never learnt to swim is something I regret
But I was loathe to let my children’s mother see me fret
And so I said, “I think instead, I’ll have a cigarette.”
How soon we stepped on British tarmac from our Jumbo Jet
My wife waved to our eldest son who’d brought his red corvette
She handed him a ten pound note and said, “That clears my debt,
You’re right, your father cannot swim: I guess you won the bet.”
A gem I taught in his school
And under him grabbed the rule:
An Igbo man from Okpo,
Whose enemies she shot “Kpoo!”
With him you don’t around fool:
He’d begin to lose his cool.
Staff learnt to submit their notes,
Even if one had twelve coats
But with same staff reveled
And with that up things leveled…
No intimidating him -
His wine glass fills to the brim;
To me a Second Father
That should’ve been First rather…
When Okpo had wars Radar
But would not burst foe’s bladder;
For himself raised sweet children,
Who avoided hot Cauldron:
A hero engineer son,
Who goes out to meet the Sun
And a lawyer daughter
One might rate Cleanest Water…
Just recently lost his wife;
Death has walked in with its knife!
But he’s the unstoppable
Forever capable!
The cleanest water source
Radiates a bright golden light
Light rain, this snow, that pleasant wind,
But somehow, the weather is still cloudy
A sky darker than usual
Will I ever see the bright golden sunlight?
How long will this fertile soil last?
This place so flawless I would build my home
But the scarcity is so great
Will I ever be in a place as good as this?
Every tick hurts like a stab
I don't need the sunlight.
I feel for next-house Nora
Getting poorer and poorer:
A plant facing stem borer
While she seems a goal scorer
Her idle hours rarer
State of things not fairer...
Nora's younger: Victoria
Is doing well in Pretoria
And her cousin Eugenia
Sure to become engineer ;
In South Africa clever
And there could live forever
No causeless xenophobia
When with host shares her beer...
I feel for striving Nora
Refused loan by rich Dora
Who drives the cleanest Bora
And exudes sparkling aura.
Sorry we say to Nora
Sleeping lightly; no snorer.
In final exams scored zero:
Who drives The Cleanest Pajero;
The Guys ahead of him in class
Aware he is of Upper Class:
Enjoying financial morning
But after exams mourning...
Todd could with The Law have a brush
And a cop to hospital rush:
Bodyguards with exploding shots,
Richly paid but in agreed shorts...
Wishing to be like Todd A Gross:
Those who'd guessed they couldn't be Boss.
Life, forever, Different strokes;
The first lesson for all hurt blokes.
Autumn Arachnid Drink
Spider
Cider
The Bridge Spider
Spider
glider
The Goliath Birdeater
Wider
Spider
The Wolf Spiders’ Babies
Spider’s
Riders
An Aquatic Spider
Strider
Spider
Spider on Ice
Spider
Slider
Spider to Beware of
Spider
Hider
The Fickle Spider
Flighty
spidey
Cleanest Cobwebs in Town
Tidy
spidey
Daddy Long Legs
Fatty
Daddy
November 10, 2022
For 'A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE' Poetry Contest
You had things wrecked with your Nope
And I could no longer cope:
I, who had the cleanest hope
Of conquering Rugged Slope,
Soon slacking for what I lacked
That your could give but out backed;
Showing how words strong zeal crack
And down the sound idea hack...
My defeat was your "Loud Nope",
Running a school fought with rope:
Twenty years ago you did
And a Praised Talent was hid;
Presently A Mad Idea
Poetry I face Top Gear
A French walked into Nigeria with it,
Straight to Rose flower Hotel you can’t quit;
The Man’s Partner: Her Cleanest prostitute
At negotiating prices The Astute
And because he was dying for it ‘shrewd,’
Over her cruel price did not dare brood…
Hotel Material and Four Figures high,
Not caring it might White Guy leave dry:
And it’s not about thrusts, mere plain licks;
A flesh-close tongue mimicking wavy sticks
One might say a woman meaning to rob,
After some French had her sold The Job;
All to The Glory of Hardworking Satan
And bound to be bad to Prophet Nathan…
And for six hours White French at work
Just after Bottle forfeited its cork;
Doubly Satisfied Eve moans a “Don’t pay…”
“But be sure you’re here without fail next day!”
All The sagacity of The Devil
Out to make Straight Lines of Life bevel.
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