Long Mahogany Poems
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Vasava – An untold story 10/Many
Curtains made of Silk with gold thread embroidery
Were hanging on all the doors and windows of the auditorium
Big silk curtains, were hanging behind the dance stage
Shining and blinking, because of gold and silver on them,
Were brightening the dance stage, making it bright like a day
Beautiful Persian carpets were displayed
Covering the entire auditorium, where the guests were sitting
A thin such carpet was also lying, all around the stage
Leaving the dance floor, which was made of Mahogany wood
On which, Vasava was sitting to start her first Raga of the day
All the eyes were drinking the nectar like wine of Vasava
So lovely were her looks and so intoxicating was her youth
The beauty of her spotless body, was spreading its charms
Which was coming out, from every part of her body, specially
The matchless beauty of her eyes, legs, waist, hands and bosoms
King Suyodhan was invited on the stage to declare the Utsava to begin
And then appeared the attraction of the Utsava or the day, Vasava
The drums and musical instruments began to flow their sounds
The team of musicians accompanying Vasava, took seat near her
Suddenly all became speechless, so that they may not miss a word of her singing
Vasava’s face appears to have taken, the beauty from full Moon glow
And the gold Noopur* which she wearing in her feet’s
Were ringing, on her leg’s movements, creating a melody on its own,
Her recitation of Saraswati’s* prayer had already enthralled everyone
And now she was about to begin, her first performance of the day
Ravindra to continue in 11
Kanpur India 21st March 2010
Copy writes protection as per Poetry Soup automatic Copy write provisions also.
* Gold Noopur Noorpur means small bells, which dancers wear while
performing the dances in Indian. The Noopur which
Vasava was wearing were made of Gold. It creates a
sound on the movements of legs. Normally it is made
of brass and many such are tied up in a cloth belt.
* Noopur A hallow anklet containing tiny bells
What’s left of Octavia glides down the hall
Past the portraits she painted in life,
Now framed in mahogany, rosewood, and oak,
And they’re hers for the haunting tonight.
She looks for the canvas she started the day
Her desire became indiscrete;
A nude on a balcony under the moon.
It was one she would never complete.
What’s left of Octavia passes the wall
Where her art is the featured display,
Recalling advances she made in the past
That went far beyond being risqué.
She goes to the window and conjures the scene
As it happened those long years before,
And thinks of the model who posed for her then;
A temptation too ripe to ignore.
What’s left of Octavia mourns what she’s lost
Like a dreamer deprived of her dream.
Her husband threw open the studio door
To discover her subject and theme.
He looked at the model, he looked at his wife,
And he saw what a fool he had been
To blindly indulge her artistic pursuits,
Which she took as occasion to sin.
A new moon at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
And she’s out on a haunting tonight.
What’s left of Octavia longs for the time
She felt anything other than numb.
The smell of the paint and the feel of the brush
Being foreign to what she’s become.
A specter deprived of the flavor of life.
An obsession that won’t fade away.
A monochrome canvas, a faintly drawn sketch
From a palette with ten shades of gray.
What’s left of Octavia stands on the ledge,
And considers the landscape below.
The moment of impact still fresh in her mind,
Because time has not softened the blow.
Her family gathered to lay her to rest,
And the ring was removed from her hand.
Though people would gossip, and ponder her fate,
There are none who in truth understand.
What’s left of Octavia comes to him now,
Late at night when he puts on her ring.
A family heirloom entrusted to him
When he married his lover last spring.
He stands in the dark as she enters the room,
And the séance is set to begin.
She watches him pose, while he takes off his clothes,
With her brushstrokes caressing his skin.
Confessions at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
But he's hers for the haunting tonight.
I went to the Hollywood studio meeting
Paul, Steve and Sandy gave me a warm greeting
I was there to advise them, hired from Spain
My motto in business was no pain, no gain
So we sat down to the business at hand
Their movies were sinking, like stones in quicksand.
"How about a cowboy movie," I said...
"Good guys and bad guys with the latter shot dead!"
A gasp of wonder spread to them all
"Why didn't we think of that?" said Paul
Said Sandy, who though rich, struck me as obtuse
"It has to be woke, it must have juice
The cowboy, we'll call him Abdul McPherson
No, wait, we should refer to him as a CowPerson
His love interest should be black or brown
A birthing person, the soul of the town
The villains name could be Donald McKnight
A Donald Trump stand-in, got to be white."
"Wait," said Steve, "cis-male is a relic."
Abdul should be tender, gender-fluid and angelic."
Steve looked at his reflection in the table of mahogany
Added "How about hints of consensual non-monogamy?"
Sandy said "No! We must push the edge with our fans!
Every character, even the horse, must be trans!"
I was sarcastic, I said "for a true creative spark
We know Spielberg had a hit long ago about a shark,
Maybe stick one in the film, somewhere in the sagebrush
A gasp spread around the table, an awestruck hush
Paul shouted, "that's it! Cowperson versus Jaws!
A fable about transgressing natures laws!
Lets start shooting tomorrow, drop that Batman remake:
With this kind of theme, we can't make a mistake!"
Despite guaranteed payment, I was feeling sick
I already knew there was no hope for this flick
But they got so thrilled, they made their bet
Sunk investor millions, their studio further in debt.
I gathered my fees, went back to Spain
And "Cowperson versus Jaws" circled down the drain
To my horror in the credits, they mentioned my name
I was jeered in Madrid, couldn't face the shame.
Paul, Steve and Sandy did fine at the bank
Woke investors kept funding, though the movie stank
Though audiences felt under a dentist's drill
The Critics said the movie was epic, groundbreaking, a thrill.
Geologists say that one day, California will fall into the sea
Its already happened; Hollywood is a parody
Showdown at Noon but no Gary Cooper, can't find John Wayne
Woke Bandits have stolen the gold off the movie train.
Magdadapit-hapon na't ang kalangita'y nagku-kulimlim,
naghahalo ang madugong pagka-lunod ng araw sa sinag ng
buwang nagbu-bughaw,
ang anino ng aking pag-iisa'y namumula sa pagka-bagot,
isipa'y nagkapunit-punit,
sugat sa katinua'y walang tigil sa pag-durugo,
animo'y nahiwa ng napaka-talas na labaha,
habang ang ulo ko'y nakabaon sa mapapaklang mga palad,
parang patay na dagang nabubulok sa libingan ng kabiguan.
Sa harap ng dalampasigang nangingitim sa hapdi,
damdamin ko'y unti-unting gumuguho,
nadudurog sa lindol ng kalungkutan,
nawasak sa malakas na hampas ng palakol,
at ang mga pirasong duguan ay tumilapon sa karagatan ng kamatayan.
Sa bawat sampal ng hanging malamig,
dala-dala ang ihip ng pagdurusa sa aking pisngi,
ang tanging kanlunga'y lilim ng dambuhalang mahogany,
sa gitna nito'y ang dambana ng ating sagradong tagpuan,
nagbabaga sa tuwing naglalapatan ang mapupusok nating mga halik,
ngunit ngayo'y nag-aapoy dulot ng iyong kataksilan.
Mga ugat ng berdeng lumot sa giwang ng mga adobe'y kumapit
sa tamis ng dati nating mapangahas na pag-iibigan,
hindi alintana na ang daigdig nati'y tinatangay ng rumaragasang
pagnanasa,
mga kamay ko'y nanginginig sa haplos ng mala-sutla mong balat,
marahil ay sin-kinis ng balat ni Anne Curtis,
katawan ko'y dinuduyan ng maka-mundong kaluwalhatian,
ina-anod sa agos ng makulay na musika ng harana sa tuwing dumadapo
ang iyong mainit na mga labi sa aking leeg,
paningi'y tila naglalakad sa kalsadang yari sa malalambot na mga
balahibo ng libong puting kuneho,
at ako'y nasa tuk-tok ng kaligayahang uma-apaw sa ubod ng sarap na tunay na pagmamahal.
Subalit ang aking mga buto't lama'y nangingisay tuwing sumasagi
sa isipan ang mga ala-alang may kamandag ng iyong pan-loloko,
damdami'y nakahandusay sa putik ng naka-lalasong pag-ibig,
para bagang tinusok ng karayom ng pighati,
nakabulagta ang pusong pinaslang ng brutal na dalamhati,
at ang kaluluwa ko'y nakabigti sa bangungot ng pag-durusa.
Habang pinagmamasdan ang mga along panay ang tadyak sa mga bato,
mga luha'y hindi mapipigilan sa pag-tulo,
isa-isang pumapatak sa mga butil ng mga buhanging sin-puti ng mga nitsong nakahilera sa lumang sementeryo,
ang mga bangkay sa loob ng mga ito'y naninilaw na,
tulad ng aking mga matang naninilaw rin sa pait ng matinding pag-hihinagpis.
Peeling Back the Bubble Wrap
Peeling back the bubble wrap on the ancient of days,
Back to when Nixon was still presiding,
He, leading with paranoid deliberations,
Sold his yeses to the Goldbricks, and the Mustard Men;
And while he was dipping into the rubbery tides of the latex surfers,
I found your shadowy pointing breasts, shivering outside my backdoor.
You were standing in the dark, waiting for me to turn the key…
1973 was the year you taught me how to love a woman;
You, at 21 years, and me, ensconced in the stereo-lit darkness,
Of my dimly-lit bedroom on Hoover street;
You, wearing a wool skirt and that ruffled low-curving blouse,
With those tan buttons, like a half dozen corks, ready to be popped,
And you, sitting at my black upright piano,
The 1907 Schumann, made of stubborn black mahogany, and
You, with your long curved nails, femininely tapping the ivories,
Soliciting an intimate song I have since forgotten, but can still hear,
Your cylindrical tan legs pressing the piano pedals,
Like a fragile dancer made of fine glass, and
You, exploring human desire with determined pressings.
And then, into your garlanded home we strolled,
Hand in hand; And with our lips, we cleared the stoney path
Leading into the sun garden, amongst the cats and the posies,
And found astonished silhouettes behind the peephole.
Still peeling back the bubble wrap on the ancient of days,
Back to when my door was locked, and a green candle burned therein;
I saw you in the naked flickering, riding the tree of silver ascensions,
And with five pulsing fingers, I eagerly picked your finest flowers, over there,
Inside the throbbing, sun-lit bed of this poised sun garden; then,
You told me you loved me. Told me what I never wanted to hear,
“Even now, with me on top of you, in this silent grinding darkness,
I cannot bring myself to lie and say, ‘I love you.’
There is something about you I don’t want to know.
Yours is a long and complicated book I do not wish to read.
Your mind I cannot calibrate, or truly understand, so…I am sorry.
I deserve to be called an ass, deserve to be brushed off like a gnat, but
With you, my shoes never seemed to fit. My ears never seemed to hear.”
...when the copter went down, witnesses heard you scream…
“I am truly sorry.”
Joyce K
There is this Lady I know, I thought I knew.
Could I have been so wrong, from my point of view ?
She perceives herself, a cardboard silhouette of a soul,
a papier mache doll, an image we all should know.
A shallow pond residing in the middle of this human ocean
is how she sees herself to be – a very strange notion
for me to comprehend as I look into the depths of her mind
and reflect upon all I know, that has shown her to be so kind,
deep, thoughtful, caring - giving her all throughout
her living a life of advocacy, concern and no doubt,
much, much more than I know or of my word
- in this attempt at poetry – that she might have heard.
This Lady with such a fine mind – a model for man kind –
who looks back in time, within, and cannot seem to find
one moment in a long ( seventy eight years ) life time
to recall, remember, feel her humanness in a flake of love,
a speck of joy, a line of happiness, a pool of blissfulness from above,
a stream of contentment, satisfaction for and from all the good
she has done for this world of troubled mankind, where he stood
the self. the self-satisfied, the self-destructive, and the lost.
I want to believe she has known a flake, a speck. a line tossed,
a pool, a stream and that these have been a part of her experience.
Are known, if not in the conscious, in the subconscious existence.
Is she to be, not but – as we look upon and within – veneer ?
A mosaic overlay on cardboard papier mache, she wants us to hear.
Not a mighty Oak, Maple, Mahogany, Teak, Burl just a paper doll.
Is this the carefully contrived image she believes ?, is this her fall
from grace ?, she thinks herself to be ?, - not the beauty of soul, of acts,
of the face I know, - but a mask to hide what?/, what are the facts ?
Is she this hollow, empty cardboard papier-mache doll ?, devoid
of feelings, of love, just walking through life, living it, must avoid.
I think not, nor can I – not even in my wildest of dreams believe
or perceive of such possibilities - but then, who am I to conceive,
to question the perception of the one who should truly know
herself, intimately better than anyone else on this planet could show.
So all these assumptions I have put out there, I should retrieve.
B. J. “A” 2
May 14th 2005
As the seasons change,
Spring to summer, on to autumn
With winter closing in, just around the corner
Following close on the hills of a moment
Promising hope to those who know Him
The One who created this November
Whispered light into the sun’s glowing
And breathed joy into the snow’s silence
As the seasons break through
Each reflection of the inspirations
Soothing and beautiful, like grace peeking
Through the soul, inviting the kiss of a moment
A prayer who awakens God’s ear and gentles
The darkness with the shimmer from
Stars who know what it means to stir blessings
In the faded falling of rain showers,
Tender sighs of leaves in hues of amber
And gold – rich mahogany bursting
With the laughter from a heart who knows
His love, His grace… His way
As the seasons stir wonders,
Abiding peace and sweet promises
From the faded expressions of lost dreams
Who keep weighing heavy on the singsong moments
Beckoning through the burning passions,
The lightning fast cravings, amazing
Praising, breathless pleas for His hand
Taking away the doubts, the fears and tears
All the reasons for disillusionment
As the seasons pass – spring to summer,
Summer to fall… autumn to winter…
I can recall the moment when I first knew
The blameless hope that restores my soul
When I can’t seem to even breathe on my own,
When it takes His word, His touch, His love…
To even know the meaning of being sure, assured
Filled with the knowing that He will make a way…
Even when my heart is cold and I can’t feel the love
That I know carries me through each doubt…
And gives me the promise that He is always in control
With Jesus… I know –
The light has shattered the darkness
With a grace that survives every black thought
A love that provides more hope for this world
Than a mind can imagine or a muse can inspire
More … of what is His gift… grows wisdom
Inside the heart who believes, the soul who receives
This love that is alive – in every season, each grief
It is a love that knows and gives generously…
So we’ll never know the meaning of despair or misery
With Jesus…in every season, I know – true peace
It is His peace that brings with it… a reason to be
A reason to believe – a reason to agree…
He is everything I will ever need!
The elevator opened on the 46th floor, to a small foyer and one plain, grey door
The door opened and a young girl, 10ish, in a blue, polo, tennis dress, said, “Hi! I’m Karen, you must be Anais. Will is around here somewhere. Aren’t you pretty, though? You go to school with Lisa? No wonder Will likes you.”
She skippingly ushered me from a bright, windowed, off-white, staircase entryway, into a deep-red, mahogany paneled library. A persian cat was soon underfoot, purring and winding around my legs.”That’s Misha,” Karen said, “just shoo her away if you don’t like cats.”
I stooped down to pet Misha who eagerly offered herself to be petted and admired. As I stroked her charcoal fur, Karen said, “Let me get Will,” as she scampered off.
A gold framed, impressionistic painting, pin-lit in bright crystalline light, hung over a fireplace. In the painting, two girls, in summer hats bright with startling red bows and yellow flowers, were sharing a book. The colors were rich, deep and swirling - it looked very much like a Renoir (I know my French artists). He’d done a whole “two girls” series. I drew closer - it wasn’t a print.
Though dazed by the opulence, I hadn’t missed what Karen had said. Will liked me. I longed to interrogate her about how exactly she knew Will liked me, and what form, exactly, Will’s liking took.
I know Will and Lisa (who would be joining us in a minute) are just friends. Not that it matters, we’re heading back to New Haven later - but Karen’s statements were capable of activating a girl's guy-dar.
Karen, wearing socks but no shoes, came to a sliding halt, on the wooden floor, by grabbing the door frame to stop an otherwise complete slide into the library. “You guys are going to the Ritz for lunch?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder, in a way that indicated that she knew the answer quite well.
The Ritz Carlton is a block away and our mission was to grab the food and bring it back here to eat. “Mind if I join?” she said, before I could answer her first question, all wide-eyed, blinking impatience.
“I don’t mind at ALL.” I said, Karen whooped and was off again down the hall. “I’M COMING TOO!” she yelled. I chuckled, knowingly - I’ve been there - I’m a little sister too.
All I remember is rampant rain and a loud bang.
As dawn distilled through a canopy of palm trees,
glimpses of light reflected like emeralds on leaves.
I felt blessed in its warm golden glow,
as I awoke under clear sapphire skies.
Radiant sun blazed brightly,
reflecting like a fluorescent mosaic
upon turquoise waves kissing my bare feet.
I could hear cobalt macaws squawking
and soaring from cliffs to branches,
as the ocean lulled with a soft lullaby.
The air was so pure, but muggy,
as curious creatures, I had not seen before,
creeped and crawled around me.
As I wandered along a champagne shoreline,
I could hear an orchestra of morning birds,
composing their exotic melodies,
which added to the tranquillity of calmness.
Footsteps of fate led to a verdant forest with
an abundance of mahogany and rosewood trees.
A fluctuation of kaleidoscopic butterflies floated
among a plethora of petals in lush layers of
amber allamandas, maroon mandevillas,
orange orchids and purple passionflowers -
their sweet scents blending with saltiness of the sea breeze.
As my soul connected deeply with my surroundings,
a leafy path of twigs led to a myriad of mangroves,
their roots resting in an aquamarine toned lagoon.
I could see fancy fish in vibrant red, yellow and silver,
swimming in trails of troops around water lilies.
As my enchanted eyes gazed beyond a
flock of fuchsia feathered flamingos,
towards a gentle waterfall cascading,
serenely over steps of rock -
I caught a glimpse of a figure in divine light.
Dressed in ivory and gold,
reflecting in the image of Aphrodite.
Her bronze skin shimmered in the sunlight,
as her flaxen fair hair flickered in a gentle zephyr.
Such was the epitome of her grace, I was mesmerised.
I could have admired her brown pearl eyes, forever.
Unaware the endless blue horizons were
now dipped in velvet and honey hues,
I forgot about the diamonds in the sky.
The moon glowed like a ruby at midnight,
shining scarlet moonlight upon her lips -
my whole being craved for just one kiss.
Before I could approach her,
I opened my eyes in an unfamiliar room,
as a nurse in a white uniform asked me;
"welcome back, are you all right?"
Written: September 30, 2023
Sponsored by: Silent One Pick a Colour Contest
"There is my body, in it an ocean formed of his glory, all the creation, all the universes, all the galaxies, are lost in it. Rumi"
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In the scenic scope of a sparklingly stained sky.
Brushstrokes by a dulcet master, sky-high
An exhibit of azure splendor, a masterpiece.
Exquisite works of nature, why must you cease?
A cyanic cerulean, cavorting and courageous
Paints a tale that is both untold and tenacious.
Azure colors dance with genuine happiness.
All day long, hearts are captured by sappiness.
Wispy wetness, whitening whisper wreath.
With complete pride, wrap the sheath
Clouds of cotton candy wander nearby.
Adding elegance and grace to a sunny sky
A golden orb, the sun, sends a brilliant light.
Exudes a svelte and diaphanous gaze bright.
A radiance of soft light through the universe.
Fluttering formulaic fascination is fluminous.
Flowers fields in fabulous fonts of Forebay
Akin to a painter's palette, they thrive and sway.
Delicate petals, akin to brushstrokes fine,
Creating a tapestry is so divine.
The ocean waves have a turquoise hue.
Crash upon the shore, in shades of dew.
Symphony of mellifluous vibe, a rhythmic song,
As the creator elixir flows swiftly along,
Seagulls whiz by with wings wassail wide.
Their graceful flight was a sight to abide.
They elapse through the canvas with elegant ease.
Adding zest and zeal to an ephemeral breeze
As the day gyres to dusk, the sky transforms.
Brushstrokes of indigo chart various forms.
Mahogany and navy, fete the felicity of the scene.
Choreographing a fugacious, halcyon, and serene
Furtive stars twinkle, akin to gems so bright,
As the divine fulfills the tableau for the night,
Brushstrokes of cobalt in the glamor sky,
A marvelous feat that yields hearts to sigh.
The splendor of nature's marvels can't be denied.
A canvas filled with hues, so bright and defied
The creator is inconspicuous, yet his aura is felt.
It's clearly blatant in the cyan smudges knelt.