She kept her scent in the refrigerator
off and on upon the rack of Chenin Blanc,
or, in the door, with grey poupon and sour milk
where it, perforce, would topple upon the floor
when opened with any gentle, manly force.
At times, it would be lost among the yellow
golden citrus within the crisper drawer
or, it lurked, disguised behind an OJ carton
pretending to be a jar of marmalade:
so way, way beyond the ken of him to find.
And yet, with her, a flick of the door, a spritz
of Jasmine, gardenia, basil, orange, peach,
which pursued the flowing silken scarves she wore.
“Come, let’s go, we have a party to attend.”
She’d say, “What are you staring at, my sweetie?”
Just an empty perfume bottle, by the milk.
Glancing at the glaring green of Summer,
wanting to wake the leaves and snow,
get on with aging’s beauty and bone-chilling
sacrifice of warmth. That is when I wrap
my flesh in scarves, boot-up my strength
to taste flakes and kick-up variegated fall
of shapes. A plot of hearty pumpkins; blink
of time; it’s childhood scent and scoop.
Engaged in Starbucks’ hook of latte, festive
espresso, pumpkin, and seasonal spices.
Don’t let me get started on those finger snacks.
Candy corn and Diet Coke, go together; we
go together, naturally, having an October birthday.
Shouldn’t…I can feel the finger wags; and the scolding.
Poetry written for a week, at a time, with no rests.
Lyrical chattering, children of mine; I should leap
to my feet. It’s one-something and I still need to eat.
A thousand different notes one hears
from the flute-like whistle of the thrush
to the chirp and twitter of the sparrow,
blended all into a single song;
Earth's welcoming of spring.
Sat there,
basking in the sunlight,
(the first in several weeks)
Spring's weather,
a hint of the summer to come.
Around us,
the wind whispers gently,
"Rejoice humble grass, it's time to break free"
and trees hurriedly recreate their leaves.
Spring is a time of freedom and growth,
as the horse which slept in its stable
hemmed in by the bitter cold
now roams the fields, completely free.
Amidst it,
dove white lilies and orange tulips thrive.
Nurtured by the glorious spring showers,
they sway and dance in its breeze.
Layered in scarves, gloves and a coat,
winter's icy embrace locking up her body,
nevertheless, under the frosted willow tree,
her eyes carry hope of that time
a mere three months beyond January.
desert sand kicks up with a mind of her own on occasion
nomads know to wear scarves and layers in which to hide
camels shield them from her wrath, when she turns full blown
ruins in the distance hold a secret scroll, her exact location hidden.
the scroll seeker opens up his map, searching for clues
terrible treacherous sandstorm is approaching from the east
he can tell by the brightness of the sky, she means destruction
wanderer on camel settles down next to the ruin, readying himself
the trunk of my car hides things I do not remember owning
sixteen Christmas presents that probably did not get delivered
because this is mid-May and Christmas is in December or January
three or four sweatshirts I diligently searched for in February
but did not find until today
notebook paper pages have been torn into bitty bits by mice
I am glad they enjoyed trunk of my car this winter
It is weird the rodents did not nestle in my scarves and hats
knitted in soft yarns in blues and whites
I sort out my car trunk for twenty-six and a half minutes
It seemed like two days of dull boring sorting
I resolve to sort the rest of it in the next year or so
All I needed was space for my suitcase.
Each month a craft fair,
is held at Pyree Fields in the open air.
All the local crafters are there,
proudly showing off their homemade fare.
Behind each stall, a pair of eyes stares,
hoping you will buy some of their wares,
or better still, admire their works and cares,
in making things, every devoted crafter shares.
Step right up to the craft fair.
Baskets, blankets, knitted ware.
Soaps that smell like orchard rains.
Scarves crocheted from woolen skeins.
Leather belts, and rings of brass.
Goblets and bowls of colored glass.
Jams from berries, wild and tart.
Paintings brushed with love of heart.
Patchwork quilts and scarves of dreams.
Homemade fudge, sweets and ice-creams.
Pottery crockery with glazes that swirl.
Wind-chimes and vanes, ribbons that twirl.
Wooden goblets and bowls, timber-scented schmooze.
Wax candles set, in solemn rows, pining like pews.
All around, the crowds have streamed,
past stalls half-baked and well esteemed.
With every artist standing up so tall,
So sure their work outshines them all.
So let's not disappoint them!
Join in Folks! Cheers!
linger-longer
wait-a-while
to perceive
the cadence in a smile
echoing a beat of heart
in a chest of draws
with namesakes
hidden
under the knickers
hankies
scarves and socks.
By Imran Ahmed
The Veil Of Beauty Once A Shield
Has Faded In The Name Of Fashion
Now Darkness Stains The Faces Bare
Their Lost Light A Silent Confession
Sisters Dance Before Their Brothers
Daughters Paint Their Lips In Vain
Seeking Glances Meant For Shame
As Purity Drowns In A World Profane
The Hungry Eyes Of Strangers Lurk
Hunting Souls Still Wrapped In Light
Teachers Whisper Sins In Halls
While Power Preys Without A Fight
Money Rips The Scarves Away
From Mothers Daughters Honored Wives
Fathers Trade Their Girls For Gold
Blind To The Ruin In Their Lives
Tiktok Screens And Vloggers Views
Auction Modesty For Fleeting Fame
They Sell Their Honor To The World
Forgetting The Weight Of Their Name
Oh Allah Save Us From This Storm
This Trial That Burns Our Souls To Dust
Let Us Die With Faith Unshaken
With Hearts That Never Betray Your Trust.
Modesty is not
Dresses and scarves
But action and thought
Gentle and measured.
I wear a satin scrunchie
On my wrist, it reminds me
I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
There is strength in softness
I do not hide the beauty of femininity.
As my scrunchie is kind to my skin,
So am I in word and action.
I refrain from idle gossip
And do not speak ill of
my family, friends and neighbours.
If I slip in word or thought,
I adjust my scrunchie
And quietly try again.
In Autumn
In Autumn pumpkins hang out in
hedge mazes, corn visits wreathes in
Finland, spices go to
music festivals, photos of
chestnuts do
the splits, marsh mellows make
prank calls, haunted houses tailgate
tourist buses and
fire trucks and
ambulances, porcupines stop
thinking, umbrellas talk
24/7, squirrels read
encyclopaedias, jam people pretend
to be dead, candle people pretend
to be deaf, scarves wear
boots, maple syrup gurgle
nursery rhymes, hens learn to
play the
banjo, chickens lay
cell phones, cherries chase after
bunnies, cupcakes plant
trees, wallets take out
the garbage, and
mittens dip themselves in
cream cheese.
Snow Angels, Snowpeople, and Evergreen Trees
When winter comes, children know how to have fun.
Laughing and catching snowflakes with their tongues
Or lying flat on their backs with arms flapping up and down
While swinging their legs in and out in unison,
Then carefully standing up to step out of the area
To marvel upon the angel shapes they’ve created.
Or roll sticky snow into balls piled upon each
To form snowpeople with stickily arms and no feet,
And coal chunk eyes and smiling lips, and buttoned-up chests
And old scarves wrapped around their necks,
With carrots for their noses and old, worn-out hats on their heads;
That almost made them look real, so the children nodded and said.
And evergreen trees they love to decorate to the hilt,
With pretty ornaments, hanging icicles, and tinsel strings,
And swirls and twirls of twinkling lights wrapped around the tree
And a star of wonder, shining innocently, adorning the top,
With presents underneath wrapped in colourful tissue paper.
The first one to sleep is the first one to rise, come Christmas morning.
***
Silk scarves, whispers,
a tapestry of ambition,
woven with threads of hope.
Sunlight through stained glass,
a kaleidoscope of dreams,
each faces a story untold.
The air was thick with anticipation,
a silent symphony of ambition.
Red paint bleeds
a splash of defiance,
a brushstroke of courage.
The canvas stretches,
a battleground of ideals,
a fight for the right to speak.
The echo of a thousand voices,
a chorus of dissent.
A crown of thorns,
a victory forged in fire.
The weight of expectation,
a burden carried with grace.
The echo of a thousand voices,
a chorus of dissent.
A cracked mirror,
reflecting shattered dreams.
The weight of silence,
a heavy cloak of defeat.
The echo of a thousand voices,
a chorus of dissent.
The sun sets
a fiery kiss on the horizon.
The women walk,
their steps firm,
their voices strong.
The world watches
a silent witness to their journey.
The echo of a thousand voices,
a chorus of dissent.
The day out,
a day of struggle,
a day of hope.
The Day of Women,
a day of change.
Snow continues toppling from darkling gray skies.
And by dusk, the flurries will bank on the ground.
Landscapes painted by Nature's hand, the artist
Hallmarks of winter ~
Embers turn to ash; darkness gives up the night.
Sunlight's shadows lengthen from pine and blue spruce.
Melting ice is dripping from gabled dormers.
Morning is frigid ~
Hushed, the silent world until creaking resounds
Footsteps crunch and crackle on beds of hoarfrost
Woolen scarves and mittens for warming cold hands
Sleigh rides o'er hill sides ~
A woman in a shop
She sat in a shop that sells jumpers and scarves
doing some embroidery for a wealthy client who
wanted his name in big red letters to make it clear
his exalted sanding, but also as a person who
bought wares made by hand
When the man who runs a famous site had
gone in a fanfare surrounded by sycophants
she tied on a silk dress of untold value and
we embraced at the foot of hell
the dress was not for the intended bride
The girl, artis with needles and threads, had
green eyes as a bottomless sea impossible to
read in bedroom light or in a shelter waiting
for the bus to take us heavenward in the sin
of greedy sex and thorn lips
Oh, this heavenly day, a haze of dreams
most of them unfulfilled, lacking in the truth
as something partly remembered, a line
a famous poet wrote, but whatever it was
she stung me with her needles
the back of my hands are spotted
with brownish red splotches and dashes
they are as wrinkly as a Chinese dog
blue veins are popping up in ugliness
so this is why old women wear gloves!
the same reason they wear scarves around their turkey necks
I was never prepared to get this old
did not realize it was a possibility
until I began wearing my grandmother’s hands
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