Long Outwardly Poems
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In our Asian-cum-Eastern land
No one prefers or admires
the dark-skinned or tanned
Gosh, as if the fair-skinned alone
belonged to the so-called fairer sex
And here, 'black is beauty' a phrase unheard
All falling for the light skinned almost in reflex!
Bachelors on the hunt for a non-fictional Asian 'Snow-white'
Even an ugly heart will do if the skin is white, pale and light
For them lighter skin tis brighter and better at beauty
even if superficial and skin-deep
The dark-skinned maidens thereby left single to weep
But while the ebony dark- pigmented
go on applying whitening and lightening creams
The white Westerners frequented
the sunlit beaches for dark tans from sun beams!
So in westerners females wish to look browned and tanned
Thus the opposite is preferred
so to that end they may sun bathe for hours on beach sand
Ah and though from the point of view of my motherland
I am luckier that God chose
to model me from a peachy whiter lighter clay,
I still feel this tug-of-war between complexions
needn't really join the fray.
For when you and I glance at Naomi Campbell
we know beauty can be white, brown and black as well
Like love, beauty knows no colour, creed or race
As proved by this gorgeous black supermodel.
Besides, we all have come across
both dark-skinned angelic saints
and fair-skinned folks with sinner's taints
Ah, Black Beauty, or Fair and lovely
Beauty has never known any bounds
For God He distributed beauty rather equally
No argument can last on these grounds
Oh, a soulmate's inner beauty ought to be earnestly sought
Too bad lustful passions fall for those merely outwardly hot!
Place: Honourable mention
“Oh, my dear mirror!
You show the queerer,
The beautiful and the ugly,
As they are!
Everything on the left
Stays on the left;
Everything on the right
Stays on the right.
What you see, you show,
Neither less nor more!
You’re the best judge,
That we all know!
Even for the sake of fun
Against none,
You never show
An iota of grudge!”
When I ask, if it has anything
to say on the contrary, it humbly says,
“If I’m curved inwardly or outwardly,
I show you the things quite differently!
If I’m broken into many pieces,
A shattered image you get from me!
I’m impartial to the core when I’m flat,
And reflect exactly what is before me!”
You are portrayed altogether differently
By the people with crooked minds!
People with plain minds portray you as you’re!
A great lesson from the mirror, we’ve to learn!!
My dear friend.
The first time we met,
as I held a door open for her stride,
I saw not the eye's image, not yet;
I glimpsed, outwardly, her beauty inside.
I did a double take at that smile,
heard her thanks and silently rejoiced;
her normal visage I saw, after a while,
and 'til now this thought I had not voiced.
We walked inside, and with so many others
we covered that room in song.
Unfamiliar, not yet in practice brothers,
nonetheless not a thing could any find wrong.
Music quickly became our bond,
leading to so much more.
Of her humor and spark, I am quite fond,
life near her never close to a bore.
With the clarinet she made art,
but too, just so with her hands;
the lady with the large heart
your attention her muse commands.
She's told me of despair complete,
of feeling all hope, at times, gone.
She found a way to fight, compete;
to win out to a new dawn.
Faint of heart, weak of gut,
none can accuse her of having been -
we've discussed disease, pain, smut,
her sensibilities speaking falsely of sin.
For in her I can detect none,
one just wanting to forgive, smile and laugh.
I often help her get the latter done,
both drinking deeply from friendship's carafe.
Once so long ago, for so short a time,
we were somewhat more than friends,
kisses and walks shared in a courtier's clime;
never been strained since - just the way life wends.
Then, thousands of miles apart,
we talked not quite so often;
then, difficulties pierced her heart,
my words the blows to soften.
Still she's suffering, sadly,
still she's stuck sorrowed;
yet some small slice of it I have to see gladly -
at least that it's my solace she's borrowed.
For she's recovering some of my sanity,
giving me that much more connection to home -
to the therein found sample of humanity
that's solemn upon seeing me roam.
Just today, she's helped me all anew,
drawing the weeping wolf, in exchange for this -
envisioning what will be my new tattoo,
a new mark on the flesh, to reminisce.
No matter what trials befall her in this life,
she simply must know that she's never alone;
during the tribulations and strife,
she just has to pick up the phone.
My dear friend.
Hospital visit
I sit in the waiting room there are no magazines
to read anymore, everybody has mobile phones look
at photos of themselves and friends.
I drink coffee from the coffee dispenser is bland as
the hospital walls
Two women sit nearby; one has her hair in a big bun
the other has a smaller on-top of her air, middle-aged
worries about the grandchildren, but outwardly calm.
A woman sitting in an electric wheelchair rolls in
she is not well, opens a plastic bag and throws up
A nurse hurries into the room; this is an emergency
wheels her into a treatment room.
My wife comes out, a big smile on her African face
no, she has not got cancer but needs knee surgery.
She is a colourful sight and wears many rings and bracelets
today, she is dressed in bright red and green, lights up
the dour hospital ambience.
We drink coffee in the canteen while she tells me about
her painful left knee
Our sheep, goats, and cattle have been brought in, for in autumn,
they have no need of Alpine pastures. Foods we store in autumn.
Tonight we will feast, then sing and dance to the beat of drums.
Love for our community we outwardly pour in autumn.
Although the moon glows tonight in our clear skies,
my thoughts of gloom I can’t ignore in autumn.
Those who live outside my village cannot know
the beauty of our ancient lore in autumn.
Lahore and Islamabad lure our youth away.
They flee the Fairy Meadows’ splendor in autumn.
Oh, apricot and walnut tree and vine of grapes,
won’t they be missing you all the more in autumn?
Golden leaves, pines and walnut trees and snow-capped peaks!
Here is Heaven, which many adore in autumn.
Our young may stay, becoming guides within our mountains.
Nature’s beauty the tourists come explore in autumn.
Pollution from the outside world is changing things.
Still we live long and strong, and we soar in autumn.
As a simple Kho, I say all changes I abhor,
yet I smile, welcoming you here when you’re in autumn.
percussively
I think my way as rhythm
over cloud peaked tops
mountain points like metered dots
and on them stand and pluck, oh see
my breath transcends eternity
introspect
I aim my gewgaw outwardly
to a passing world
and yet it seems I’m not as bold
it searches inward with effect
I am my own play’s architect
meditate
a friend who soothes
who heals at home
I play for me and my ear alone
a remedy of beats I incorporate
in my therapeutic style of late
sanctuary
my sound is that
of a honeyed waterfall
hear breath, it’s grace over boulders call
a harmonising of beauty’s key
be vibrant yet my soliloquy
Tears are wet to the palate
salty to the taste --
we cannot not live without
the water...nor salt --
and their expulsion associated with
many miseries, many deaths.
My focus though is on joyful tears --
laughter that pains the
ribs in a good way, after a funny story
well told -- a child overwhelmed
by a blessed gift becoming happily
emotional. We are lacrimal in a very
poignant sense~ for what reaches the
surface, through trial and error, while
intense, outwardly drippy, is substance
of a great connecting conduit. And despite
ambient fluctuations of internal springs,
over-all life is devotedly nurtured by a
Maternal Sky~ keeping dear watch,
moistening and drying according to
the ripening needs of her children.
She was still young, just a simple and irksome dilettante.
Her airs of arrogance and misplaced confidence were difficult to bear.
She played the piano but without an ear for it.
She abused her carte blanche, pleased, believing feigned interest was genuine.
She was all too easily duped by bona fide politeness and false compliments.
Be it avant-garde or baroque, the cacophony she created was no anomaly.
Déja vu for the captive audience, it’s a rerun from last year’s crude recital.
Guests are stunned and in shock, but too polite to outwardly show ennui.
With élan they applaud voraciously ever so very thankful it’s all over.
They clamor feverishly so there will not be another void needing to be filled.
AP: 1st place 2020
Submitted for contest TEN WORDS TEN LINES 2 sponsored by SILENT ONE on January 14, 2018 - RANKED 2ND
Form:
Do you paint with words?
Well, maybe you are a poet!
Of course, all words, by themselves
are morgues for art~ stores for outwardly
portraying
one’s private thoughts and feelings in
colorful, expressive ways. The baby
paints her own basic language – cries her
picture gestures,
hopefully appropriately responded to
by loving parents, often challenged
to transcribe
a vaguely familiar, long forgotten
non verbal~frantic vocabulary –
So, words are clearly voice: while liquid,
like blood and oils – they are colorful, the
pigments of flowers and death --
and when a relationship fails, the essence
of words are what
we frame and tearfully regret.
Boot juiced abiding
by ruff dogma, with joie
de vivre, which oft times witnesses
me being a decoy
occasionally feigning
tubby an Anchorite, ahoy!
Life in the K9 corps
aint so ease zee
absolutely daunting, hence
lemme share with ye
haunting, and unnerving, the whee
kid nasty, short, and brutish
ways, and truth be told,
I would rather be outwardly
hidebound, gagged, and flagellated
(threatened tubby slowly
strangled to death by vee
numb muss snakes, me scree
ming bloody murder,
sans resembling
caduceus), or re
peat head lee bitten
(till death do me part)
by vampire bats pre
dominant lee inhabiting
spooky attic, nee
above cattle crying
abattoir, bovines me
ting grisly demise, cuz prowling
the murderous gang
infested mean streets -
of corpse lee
ving shot up desolation
(think skidrow) role much
more blood curdling, key
ping adrenaline heart pounding,
and sweat pouring directive he
ping helplessness 'specially,
when this gree
gear re: us macho foo fighter,
accompanied by my greatful
dead cutting crew - on free
key Friday the 13th
assigned directive to man
the most crime ridden, and be
dev filled violent bailiwick,
(donning head to toe
bullet proof suited vests),
nonetheless fraught with
horrendously extreme
difficulty, and more
challenging, end
during, and grueling
than surviving training
undertaking associated
with elite military clique,
and attendant rightfully
earned linkedin prestige
joining: Raiders of United
States Marine Corp,
Green Berets United States Army
Special Forces, or Navy Seals.