Long Exhales Poems
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There seems to be silence within the serene night,
yet those indoors have eternal cries of unspoken fright.
One man drowns in chocolate, shamefully eying his hips,
as the woman next door kisses the hundredth man’s lips.
Two floors below, one screams out in pain,
as fatal anger has won the game.
The killer, shadowed, makes no remark,
but watches the blood flow, immersed in his soul of eternal dark.
Three doors across, an elderly man sits, rejected and broke,
hiding his face with tendrils of smoke.
His trusty cigarettes always at the ready,
when his finances where never steady.
Another flight down, a woman drowns in her agony sip by sip,
her life seems to slip by like a commercial blip.
Yet all she can think
is that her marriage is on the brink.
Before she fades into the night of another day,
all she remembers is throwing her wedding ring away.
Traveling down to the ground floor,
the troubles seem to equal more.
A woman tosses about in her anxious bed,
while her worries do pirouettes in her head.
Try to let the past and present go,
but the future looms like a horror show.
Outside, in the darkness, a piercing light shines
as a moth flutters by, on the still air it climbs.
It seems this beacon, as bright as the sun,
new hope has just begun.
The moth bangs itself against the glass,
trying to reach glory at last.
Yet no matter how much its antennae bend,
or wings grow fragile and not able to mend,
it seems like the only thing to do
to deal with its feelings, old and new.
Until it steps back and looks at the light
realizing that harming itself won’t set anything right.
With the last of its strength, ending its plight,
the moth flies off into the night.
At this moment, the man decides to rid his house of fat-packed glory,
as the woman on the ground floor takes a deep breath, changing her story.
The killer at large turns himself in,
the end to his years of sin.
The woman pours the bottles of wine down the drain,
finally she can remember her name.
The elderly man exhales his last puff of smoke,
the grueling memories no longer prod and poke.
And the woman kissing her hundredth man
lets him go, heart no longer sinking in deadly quicksand.
The light of dawn finally breaks,
and the darkness of the mind no longer takes
away from the people’s lives
as the light of hope is now by their sides.
A Sky of Water
Arabic Poem By: Falah Al-Shabender*
Traslate By
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
====================
A sky of water
Doesn't blaze in a glance;
It follows us, as we head towards it,
Fraying its essence,
And transcending in its mysteries;
Emptiness .. Mooing.. And dizziness swallow us,
Undigested.
Here our faces are prayers,
The horizon is a hearth of died out ashes
No effort is needed
For faith in the supreme.
A phoenix
From the far away echo
Drops a shadow painting a sign,
The road leads to.........
Only if I had a seeder
For this bird hovering above us,
And if I hoped for any good from it!
But, No; it's there by chance!
If I set up a trap for it,
I'd capture it.
But, no,
Not this.. and not that!
We've defined its sky,
And I have the seeds for it
-What are your seeds?
-Words, Sir!
-I don't think it reads.
-But it could hear!
In the floating cave, their fourth was the bird,
Landed on the threshold.
- Only if this bird would write us on land,
To be our witness!
Of wood they carved a ladder,
And climbed the index of birds;
Their mu'ezzin called:
The nigt is nibbling at the day,
Digging its valley,
Pouring in seepage of the last farewell;
In the naked night,
We become more than what we are..!
And what hangs us to the sudden in the darkness,
We wait to see what comes out of its abode;
Because this hour,
Is the hour of mere animal!
It senses our nakedness,
Chills with patience
Floating creeps in .. A floating drum
Over a sky of water
The voice creeps ...
Somber chant:
The opposite triumphed........... The opposite is defeated
Falling rain .......... Rising smoke
Breathing and exhaling
The opposite triumphed........... The opposite is defeated,
And the foam exhales
Paper of disgraced thoughts;
The waves giggle;
We retreat, swinging with bias,
Turn around, and revolve around "the intoxicated boat;"
We retreat,
Our backs meet,
And we join;
The tough waits for the tough
"To be or not to be" ............ That is the guffaw!
Oh, sovereign power of the sea,
We are sand;
The bird is belated
And we are picked up by dust.
*****
Translatedby:
Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
USA
February 2010
*Falah Al-Shabender is a poet from Iraq
The original text in Arabic: http://www.alnoor.se/article.asp?id=80084
The light withdraws—
not abruptly, but with the grace
of someone tiptoeing from a room
where memory sleeps on every windowsill.
Sky smears gold across the edges of goodbye,
and rooftops inhale the hush of coming dark.
The world holds its breath
while shadows begin to
slip silently
from the ankles of trees.
They stretch and reach,
curling like ink spilled in reverse,
writing forgotten things in soft grey,
and I watch—
not with fear,
but with the ache
of remembering what I never quite knew.
In the hush,
the shadows begin to whisper.
Not in words, but in movements—
a tilt of a leaf,
the sway of a branch,
the slight retreat of warmth from the stones,
the silence between wingbeats.
They speak of things
the sun never says aloud—
of old stories kept in bark and moss,
of the names of winds no longer called,
and dreams that folded themselves
into the creases of dusk.
Somewhere,
a child once stood on a porch,
counting stars before sleep claimed her.
Somewhere,
a letter waits unopened,
the ink slightly blurred from time,
its promises softened by shadow.
And in the violet distance,
twilight walks barefoot
across the fields of once-was.
It hums.
Not a lullaby,
not quite a dirge,
but something in between—
the hymn of in-betweenness,
the breath
before
the dream.
And as the sky exhales its final gold,
and night opens its dark and endless wings,
I listen.
I listen
to the
whispering
shadows
in
twilight.
Down the fervent aeons Buddha’s sagesse,
casts its august shroud on benign witness,
shades, shadows, subtle symbol shift,
encompass cosmopolitan and temporal,
incongruous to flaccid predilection feigned,
astute statue of nuance and nicety,
crosses annual acme’s snowflake whirl,
Christmas that propitious seasonable fount,
amid the merriment and jubilation stirred,
can wry dispensation be somehow drowned,
sculpted mould epitomising solemn pearls,
to counter spartan sparkle an uneven match,
for the blissful bubble oft recurrent judder,
though evaluation oscillates on this thorny subject,
palatial gift as lavish token bountiful toward,
unswerving fellow pilgrims of our jagged journey,
despite the avalanche of advertiser’s counterfoil,
triumphant warm rush Burra Din advantage,
can engender migrating episodes deft mutual,
as the Buddha manifests a dovetail harmony,
strained coexistence with December frolic
in the most enshrined but unforeseen locations,
where Buddha influencer might drop wry hints,
juxtapose amidst jollied Christmas victuals,
where bear necessity bordering on martyrdom,
is gratuitously extolled in quaint quintessential quote,
that arrant caustic jibe at the apparently trivial,
the importance of recurring benchmark scope,
as that valid institution built on solid query,
might be seen as an awkward encroachment,
to the much pilloried fanfare of modern life,
changes are afoot when blind pursuit exhales,
has in zoom of instance been Buddha fostered,
if one probes forensically profound into the furore,
where future life burden is an exponential angst,
so abundant amid a sinister spiralling pessimism,
the seeds have been planted in a sprouting urn,
for above the shoulder carry torch consciousness,
a synchronous embryonic Buddha ethos at the core,
one is cognisant of this in zealous online sweeps,
where a budding spirit Christmas mosaic adjunct,
is a Buddhaesque nod on foot of wellness kinship
to concatenate shrouded inkling o’er enduring quest,
on the universal isthmus of humanity plagued by panacea,
one suspends as Buddha meets Christmas on a jubilant,
December day exuding generous exchange across the globe,
it’s a down the centuries dilemma entangled in time,
Before the mirror he stood and gazed, another soul sent to their grave, he needed time to
contemplate, at whose hand had they met their fate?
Is there an evil that in him thrives, urging that he takes more lives, he stands and looks
now at his face, reflecting back his own self hate.
The time had come for him to converse, with this inner demon for whom he worked, he takes
a breath, exhales slow, there's answers that he needs to know.
Determined now he starts to ask, the information that he lacked, how else could he get
through this night, but what if he's wrong, no demons fight?
What if the hand upon the blade, was his own hand that yielded pain, what if it was his
own intent, his mind tortured not by devilment, he knew he had to venture further, was he
truly capable of murder?
Seeking truth, accept no less, he asks his inner self to now confess,
"From the furthest corner bound to hell, upon the depths I cast this spell, I ask for
vision so I may see, the demon who posse-th me"
He stood transfixed upon the glass, as a voice answered back,
"My friend your doing very well, there's a place for you with me in hell, what questions
of me do you seek? come, come speak up, it's just you and me"
Unsettled by this demons words, his speech was shaky, somewhat slurred, he found the
courage to pursue, the answers that this demon knew.
"When in the midst of violent rage, you write the script upon my page, you control my
inner will, you push my desire for blood fuelled kills, do you admit to this no less,
speak to me demon, do you confess?"
Urgently he needed answers, this demon feeds upon him like a cancer,
"You would like that would'nt you, that it was me who killed, it was not you, to feel
relief, exoneration, escape the punishment of your own damnation,the truth you seek won't
set you free, the murderer was never me"
In a mist of temper he destroyed the mirror, as shards of glass dispersed and shimmered,
he took a blade whilst in this mist ,and in desperation,sliced his wrists,
as he fell upon the floor, he knew that he would Kill no more, the peace he sought he
found at last, from the cold slash of the broken glass,finally he was free from his sin,
as life left his body, and death moved in!
Beneath the hailing of the storm, my baby
And I hold each other close, rock in to the
Rheum of the rain, let the thunder strike,
As it chases after the tail wind of the lightning bolt,
But all I hear is his heart beating in tune with mine!
Passions earth bound blaze, as desires lustful spirits
Sets this night a flame, I’m ignitions token to spark,
And he’s the fuels kindling, fire and ice melting together
In perfections ultimate blending of lovers, just listening
To the rheum of the rain!
Tender petals of moonlights ecstasy, fall within our silken
Sheets of seduction, let no tear drops blemish this magical
Unions bedding, for under vows spoken umbrella our love’s
Devotion protects this cherished couple!
Dream weaver, within your mystical inspiration these timeless
Castaways, drifting upon the waves of pleasures endearment,
Listening to the rheum of the rain, floating amongst the tides
Of their life together, carelessly set free within each other’s open
Arms of love!
Let the clear mists flow across the puddles of rainbows
Reflections, but we notice not for we’re lost within
The gazing ripples flowing between us, as exchanging
Softly words whispered in this night of lovers,
Whom rock in the rheum of the rain!
Let the sand castles melt within the surf’s spray,
May the world pass us ideally by we are not,
Allow the very mountains to be consumed
Beneath the commanding waves of the seas
Themselves, but it will not disturb this
Totally perfection shared between him and me,
My lover and me!
Oh Lord God, I’ll hold no ideal above thee,
Except the image of this man whom rests besides me,
For he is mine heart and soul, the very life breathing
Within me!
As his blue eyes open in the first rays of sunshine,
My world begins to spin, as we share good mornings
The clock begins to tick, forever the stars linger
With every breathe he intakes, and exhales,
Behold life is fresh and new all over again!
Two rain drops flicker in the twilight hour of night,
Spinning from heaven, as silver tinsels of crystal
Water, chasing each after each other, as light prisms
Of passion cascading downwards hitting the tin roof,
As two lovers listen again rock to the rheum of the
Rain, what a sound to behold!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Plethora of humans (think overpopulation)
directly linkedin to planet Earth dire strait
re: environmental catastrophe, née debacle
teeters along brink tipping point inevitably
pitching civilization headlong into oblivion
*****sapiens (minus those living off grid)
admirably self sufficient unto themselves,
perhaps ecological intentional community
while yours truly, one guilt ridden scrivener
laments impacting minimal carbon footprint
(courtesy these thankful little feet size nine+)
nonetheless psychological torment wracks
lovely bones garden variety/generic human
specifically comprising complex edifice me
Matthew Scott Harris riven with loathsome
abomination, constipation, indignation, et al
mustered, tethered, yoked into capitalistic,
commercialistic, consumeristic ditto et alia
versus altruistic holistic, simplistic again re:
call synonymous words regarding contrast
between belching, exhausting, and polluting
(naming three adjectives describing impact
predominantly nsync with prophetic albeit,
profit oriented profligate, profane paradigm
unleashing immense global carbon emissions
see following website for further details: https:
//www.scientificamerican.com/article/co2-
emissions-will-break-another-record-in-2019/.
Impossible mission to uncouple accountability,
(no matter minuscule - veritable drop within
figurative bucket when quantity contrasted/
compared alongside industrial waste courtesy
major corporations), yet helplessness prevails
survival (mine) inextricably bound trappings
twenty first century allow, enable, and provide
exploiting even dollop so called nonrenewable
resources, I could sacrifice corporeal entity -
body, mind and spirit within eyeblink exhales
last breath before becoming repurposed - inert
cremated ashes randomly scattered across all
points encompassing terrestrial world wide web.
Obituary -
Despite havoc primate species did wreak
from the afterlife I figuratively speak
and applaud millennials whose peak
performance accorded courtesy
your token "aged hippie,"
and long haired pencil necked geek,
whose disembodied spirit
now volunteers as Halloween sideshow freak
incorporating gallows humor tongue in cheek.
Story of Afghanistan
The barren land of my birthplace
Green at times but screening a rocky face
Known for thousands of years for its warrior race
Let me tell you the truth,
No one really wanted this “space”.
Up until two lions began prying around
Initially, just fooling around
Afterwards, casting off their cannon sound
Resembling the 6th night of an infant’s fête
Building their castles, and so began the burial grounds.
The lions pledged to crush the other
With a master plan
Dividing the blood brothers
Such was the instruction of the queen mother
As the clans clashed and killed one another.
The chiefs were swallowed by the promise of gold
The mullahs were swapped for the hollow soul
The seniors by the fire recounted and foretold
The purpose for the lion’s vehemence
This story definitely in time will unfold.
The old grew timeworn
Waiting for their young ones to return home
The teenagers free born
Screamed out of their mosques’ domes
Come and join us in this struggle
Faced with the crusaders of the Church of Rome,
But little did they know,
No one will return but the maimed men to a funeral home.
The sturdier lion won the combat
But what has become of my Afghanistan
The wolf in a sheep’s disguise
Has spoiled my jade paradise
My heart denies it but I may have bombed my youthful chums,
This is now a global land-dwelling for bums and slums!
The lion wishes to be unveiled this time
So he promises to take the last dime
After all it pays to cooperate in war crimes!
He roars in a deafening cry
I bring Democracy to this land
With loads of cash in one hand
A whip in the back hand--forgetting the long years of perfidy
I now declare and demand
This is the new Promised Land.
A woman of this realm is exposed with a promise
She is liberated by democracy
Famous on national publications like the story of Pocahontas
She’s affirmed independent and agreed to arise out of the darkness
As the saga is read to the United States Congress
She exhales
And anticipates the lion’s hunger
Waiting for the day when she will be veiled, unveiled, and then veiled again
Not by ordinary men
But by inscription of law.
Thank you for sealing the decree!
Must be a false awakening this cannot be. on one shoulder, a shackled self in a fetal position, full of meshed stones, on the other, dancing butterflies fleeting towards a blue sky This is not happening. it is not real, this exhausted angel drooped over a headstone. Exhales of frustration in one cracking, leave me alone, while inside waves of hellos and goodbyes bursting, into little bubbles of whys. A colossal geyser pushing its self, through narrowing aqueducts, into two little pinpricks of welling eyes. Awakening again, to one last tear rolling down a face Parched reddened eyes begin to squint. Inhaling like it was your last breath. Silence, then fiery mingled flocks of birds, screaming towards the sky, with a heartbroken war cry The whys become bargaining chips and a stern poker face, with varying suites of the lowest cards but it was called by the most high, so you try to sleep and go back, to the first dream Walking for miles in this sleepless dream, coming to a crossroad of acceptance. Reliving is not living and nobody wanted this, for those that are there and those that have gone. Happiness will come again but not surreal like a grief strickened dream
Greenwich Village breathes,
She inhales exhausted tepid air,
And exhales blustery winds of possibility.
The lady blows away the veils of dishonesty.
Tangled streets strung together,
Knotted masses of pearls and poetry,
Entwining marbled heroes,rounded arches,
Crucifixes,and snakes penned on skin.
Artists, tourists, vagrants,and scholars,
Know the calling of its siren song well.
People living on the fringe of humanity,
And those from the upper crust, fuse.
The village is the one spot on earth
Where you can expose your primal desires,
And explore their depths unfettered.
She is a lovely harlot who lives to please .
Musicians and thinkers engage in chess,
Neighbors line the benches of it's central park.
Children run naked through its fountains.
The poor and idol rich roam, anonymously.
A reader of fortunes lays out his cards,
Lovers tango,who knows which one leads?
Perhaps all the seekers will find their way,
And the leaders will learn how to see?
Lady Greenwich Village,the canvas of New York life,
Her face painted with brilliant spattered oils.
Each of us can add our own divine colors,
Dripping and blending with individual uniqueness.