there was a young woman from Tashkent
whose desire was to live in a convent
she met the man of her dreams
in bed went to extremes
and decided she’s not ready to repent
a shipmaster in love
The boat that left at sunset didn't have red sails
but fading sunlight painted grey sail red
even though the vessel was not going to China
not this year or any other year, the Oriental
wanted to know why he lost two wives
in, the short span of seven years
His third wife sees the boat disappear from
the safety of her verandah she doesn't like
a vessel moves and stays at home
She is secure, and pregnant, a feat his other wives
managed, hence that's why he sold them to
a bordello in Tashkent
the boat is a brigantine made of Canadian wood
the timber has the habit of groaning when
sails have no wind and days appear longer than
when a storm is brewing
The captain has a shopping list for his third wife
gave him, about buying figs in Sumatra and
coconuts in Congo, the captain smiles, his wife
she has never seen a map
My road to hell began with good intention,
Floating up then crashing down more times than I can mention.
Tripping through time in a parallel space,
The scars of my life reflect upon my face.
Mistakes interwoven with guilt and shame,
I’d justify it all, but there’s no one left to blame.
A path of wreckage trails behind me in my wake,
I smile and nod but it’s all so fake.
Disengaging from the world, I tremble at the thought
‘Cause space can’t heal what time has brought.
Overwhelmed by the tashkent depleted from the guilt,
Love cant’ always climb the mountain dope has built.
Mending from one, another takes ahold,
I watch my pass so I take heed as things unfold.
One straight shot is all you need tom play the game,
But the voices in my head till call me by my name.
Stubborn and cold, like a frozen shoulder,
In the closet of my mind; on a shelf in a folder.
Rising on up like a Phoenix from the ashes,
I’ll ride the wave of freedom ‘til the buzz inside me crashes.
I’ve been shown a door and got to peer into my passion.
Fleeting but stable in its’ own unique fashion.
Rounding the corner, approaching the gate,
Diligent and solid; redirecting my own fate.
THE LAWNS OF PARADISE
Dim road in Moscow’s winter taxi.
Maybe our Uzbek driver’s memory
Drifts to Bukhara,Samarkand and Tashkent:
The shifting sands and the caravan’s load,
Blue-gold minarets, mosaic tiled rooms,
Sunny desert oases along the Silk Road,
Bountiful grapes, scarlet pomegranate blooms.
30 December 2018
…………………………………………………………………………………………..
Note
After I wrote this poem, I researched and discovered
a beautiful similar verse (translated) from the 16th century:
Poet Zayn ad-DinVasi (1485–1556), dedicated these lines to Tashkent:
“Oh, what a kingdom! None of the lawns of paradise
Can be compared with ancient Shash.
And the one who settled here for good
Will forever forget about paradise groves.
Perhaps, to die in Tashkent is better
Than to live a dragging life in another place“.
..................................
NUN FUN IN THE SUN
There was in hot Tashkent in the orient
A religious uprising - a convent dissent.
Army was ordered in with gunnery,
The soldiers targeted the nunnery.
Here are the events in vista:
One lovely sista was forbidden a mista,
But a certain young soldier kissed her
Unaware of the portents
For the jewel of the convent’s contents.
In her cell he wanted his love to foister.
(She had made his cloister moister.)
His inclination was to osculate ;
The incident threatened to escalate.
Her kiss made him forget his gun,
Which overheated in the sun.
The magazine cooked until done,
Then bang, their love was gone.
There was once a young man from Tashkent
Lost his job and couldn't pay the high rent
His landlord was clear
Pleas fell on deaf ears
So our renter moved out into a tent
There once was a young man from Tashkent
whose job was very hard and it bent
him double. "No trouble;
I believe a pub'll
unbend me," he said, and so he went.
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