Short Minaret Poems

Sun is brightly shining …
Minaret echoes throughout 
haze hides verdigris...

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Halo of hallowed air
rising from six strings

walk over my bridge
minstrel minaret
magnified maple

ovate oak
viral wings
open in harpischords
playing archangelic 

a myriad

of elphins
dancing...

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I think about my dreams ;

and i think about the nightmares 
they carry on their wings !

My dreams they fall like sweet rain
from the clouds on the minaret ;

but still hard to satisfy...
The Gods in the tone of nightmares they cry.

(25.02.2022)...

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All decisions are made
at a desk in another country. 

They pass through 
‘in’ and ‘out’ trays, 
collecting signatures along the way. 

Then, one day, 
they become a concrete wall, 

where once a few 
tired weeds grew. 


Afghanistan, 2017


First published in Blue Minaret...

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Russian balls 

Russian 

Glass 

Atop 

Spires 

 

Orthodox 

Spine 

Tingling 

Last 

Breath 

 

Car 

Exhaust 

Counting 

Change 

Pink 

Carpet 

Gold 

Entrusted 

Box 

Open 

And 

Dark 

 

One more onion in the broth 

Make the sign of the cross...

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A black cloud 
rains selectively 
on the dispossessed, 
a wretched lot. 
 
My billowing abaya 
now clings to me, 
revealing my form. 
Their glances lacerate. 
 
The road stretches 
to the horizon, 
but has swallowed 
my expectations.


Palestine, 1948


First published in Blue Minaret...

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poised
above the minaret
a crescent moon –
a woman in labour
holds her husband’s hand

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
A Strand (1048) Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand

© 3rd December 2021
Note: The crescent moon is related to life… a sign of fertility. 
The ‘curve’ refers to the moon and the belly of the pregnant woman....

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What do I know! 
What do you know!  
And the sound’s,
Warble from church tower 
And minaret  
 
And the spring, river  
And the wind 
While continuing their flow 
In the ground  
What do they know? 
 
And the spirits busy 
Without even knowing they are!
And I who do not saw things  
As you see it 
How could I know things that have never been seen?...

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The famed archer perches on the minaret
While the waxing moon disappears
He studies the dancing silhouettes 
Waiting on the reclusive premier 
The scant light of a torch coyly dances 
And soon the moribund ruler emerges
The bowman knows where his allegiance is
Soon the realm will be singing dirges 

The arrow hits the heart and it is rent apart
And so departs the tyrannical tetrarch...

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Are you following some   path
to a schizophrenic's neverland
are you trying to teach me 
your sophisticated alphabet
did you just fly from someone's 
dungeon dream
into the minaret of mine
are you dancing with fairies
or just a stumbling sky drunkard

maybe your just an erotic dancer
flashing your wares for 
jiggers of forever nectar
whatever the case may be
I will forever cherish your 
no touch lap dances...

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Do  you envision a creeping fear
climbing the minaret
to reach the moon ?

A debate has started
between believers and non-believers.
Why not he who lives

in eternal emptiness climbs down
and settles the dispute of hymns
in the scortching heat of words.

I just want you to read
the script and don’t say, a sky
has wept

drop by drop on the nakedness
of human beings
who could not cover their shadows.



Satish Verma...

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Do  you envision a creeping fear
climbing the minaret
to reach the moon ?

A debate has started
between believers and non-believers.
Why not he who lives

in eternal emptiness climbs down
and settles the dispute of hymns
in the scortching heat of words.

I just want you to read
the script and don’t say, a sky
has wept

drop by drop on the nakedness
of human beings
who could not cover their shadows.



Satish Verma...

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‘I’m a failed Muslim. 
I drink raki now,’ he says. 
A bottle twinkles 
on the upturned orange box. 
 
On the unmade bed, 
a punch-drunk pillow 
lurches in a sea of ruptured quilts. 
 
‘I never pray,’ he adds, 
as hawk-eyed Ataturk 
retreats to an ascetic frame 
and glowers at the room. 
 
And we who are too precious 
to confess our faults 
feel awkward in the silence. 


Turkey, 1990


First published in Blue Minaret...

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Go with the wind Oh! my pigeon
And sit on the minaret of my Beloved
Kiss it softly, gently and sacredly
And come fast, pierce your beak
Deep into my heart to feel that touch
Of love and devotion.

Do go over the lovely vales
And do pick the scent of roses
Do go over the velvety rocks
And pick a touch cozy gentle
Do go over the Oceans' deep
And pick the sheen of cool breeze
And don't forget to pass over my ailing heart
For every pulse ,there , looking to be healed....

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Music  

Like a raindrops, 
When racing October, smoothly, 
Shaking upon ember pulse 
Ah _ I adore its talk, 
When fear roars into myself and calms

And when the minaret of the village, 
Exclaims my name, 
Like a successive waves, 
On the banks of sorrow

And when my old friends,
Taking a farewell look,
It’s lying down next to me
As a white star, 

Dancing between five sleepless angels 
Upon endless greenery land,
Playing grief tunes; the tunes of the end...

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