The plaster in Rick’s place was always flaking near the doorway,
eaten away by damp heat and cheap tobacco smoke
that hung like dirty lace off the cedar joists.
Back in the corner sat a stunted, yellowed box—
a five-octave upright slapped with salmon and faded gold,
its pedals worn down to raw, scuffed brass.
It wasn’t built for concert halls. Just a pine-cased crate
that smelled of spilled Cointreau and stale olive brine.
Heavy teak doors kept the street noise out,
but couldn’t block the shuffle of black-market transit papers
passing under the low oil lamps.
Then Sam laid his knuckles on the keys,
cracked ivory, half-sticking from the salt air,
and the room went dead quiet.
She stood in the entry, silk coat catching the light,
asking for that song from Paris
before the tanks rolled in.
Rick didn't yell. He just stopped dead in his tracks,
watching the smoke curl off his cigarette
where it rested on the edge of the wood.
“Play it,” he muttered, his voice flat as gravel,
and the little wooden box gave up the only thing it had left.
Ore occlusion occident.
Zephyrus blue pshent.
Ichor wicker nicker sent.
Bent to leave a dent.
Chaotic code core commode.
Resonant red road.
Cackling crest cockerel crowed.
Roundabout reload.
Serendipity sprite see.
Toll trill tympani.
Yucca yawndrift yellow ye.
Xiphoid xylem xi.
Ravine ricochet relay.
Dread dead dawning day.
Alabaster planchette play.
Houses holy hay.
Fricasee flock frailty fold.
Broken bow old gold.
Baneful bell blossoming bold.
Cross child city cold.
Heliosphere haunt gaunt jaunt.
Grimace gore gauntlet.
Warlock whippoorwill weird want.
Blackening blind bet.
Psychology psychopomp.
Cheer career severe.
Dervish whirling stump sump stomp.
Pump it out of here.
Watch white wailing widow.
Frequency freak mystique.
Nuclear fine fission glow.
Tan the table teak.
Voices in the head, play dead.
River, rib, rill, red.
Thunderbolts within the tread.
Gold, be made to lead.
Tornado, blue widening gyre.
Belladonna, byre.
Lyrics of the liquid lyre.
Orange funeral pyre.
Mandrake, when you start to shriek.
Canine, thy bad bane.
Feline, tremulous top teak.
Wading through green rain.
Paranoid, schizophrenia.
Thought-spark, white shirt hurt?
Lachrymose the languor law.
Arrowed, O black quirt.
Severance? Gone, thine own way.
Hell and Heaven, hay.
Doubt, dread, doom, dung disarray.
Away from me stay.
Coral reef, the legal brief.
Cases, caught a cold?
Cannabis, thy pressured kif.
Brown the grizzly bold.
Nanotechnological?
That means very small.
Mother Entropy, your call.
Sword, halve. Vine, vinall.
Tyrannosaur, how you roar!
Kill floor crimson gore!
Lava volcanic null door!
Wind up war before!
FOLDED PAGES FILL BOXES AND BINS
FINGER PRINTS STAIN WHERE SPIT
WAS USED TO TURN THE PAGES
MY NOVEL SCREAMS OUT FOR
RESPITES FROM MY TEAK WOOD
DESK MEMORIES FADE BECOMING
DIM ABRUPTLY SHINING A LIGHT
AT THE BOTTOM OF THE DOOR A LEAF
FALLS WRITERS BLOCK HAS GONE HOME
FOR A SEASON I SUPPOSE AN YET
I'M NOT WILLING TO PUT PEN TO
PAPER I'M NOT WILLING TO WRITE
I'M NOT WILLING TO TYPE WHY I'M
NOT WILLING TO LISTEN TO MY MUSES
CHANTING FROM AFAR AS BANGLADESH
DANCES COLORFUL CHIMES GEMS JINGLES
AS THE ELEPHANT CALMNESS ABODE STANDING
THERE STAMPING HIS FEET THE DANCE OF
A LIFETIME UNFOLDS MY PAGES ARE FLOWN
AROUND MY ROOM AS LEAVES THIS BLUSTERY
FIND MINGLING WITH MY MINDS EYE LEAVING
A RED DOT ON MY FOREHEAD MY GREATEST
NOVEL FINALLY SAY'S THEE END
Teak heartbeat beneath
my body on the old bed —
the doors are listening
My bones are like corroded iron bars.
I am weak like termite-eaten teak trees.
My physique and psyche have many scars.
My inner organs, like winter blooms, freeze.
I get up and sit on my bed to pray.
I am unable to pray. I fumble.
Am I a damn donkey? Why should I bray?
I accept. I know that I am humble.
Do all these affect me? I don't think so.
My arrows often seem to boomerang.
It's life. I don't know from where the winds blow.
Can I sing again the songs I once sang?
My poems don't have the flair they once had.
Though I feel blithe sometimes, often I'm sad.
QUEEN Afareen designed a perfume bottle
she herself exuded a scent of untainted ambergris, orris wafted as her heavenly cue
lime with jasmine spritz her exuberant brew
a black swan neck curved crystal female form
this bottle crafted in alexandrite, mirroring her
pharaoh shaped silhouette, gold sun rays embedded facade, stopper of opal warm
ruby inlays rested languidly at bottle base
slivers of pearl and aquamarine laced
replica of Aphrodite she encased in Myanmar teak, sculpted with elk ivory, reclining bottle
in Muga silk before a river lilting lily wattle
then gifted herself her own bottle, liquid tomb
nimble fingers twisting opal top for perfume
her unique irreplaceable exuding essence
imperceptibly drifting reverent presence
drinking the last undistilled drops from
edenic perfume bottle, QUEEN Afareen
extinguished herself gracefully into muscled
arms of Adonis, as bottle drifted downstream
towards turquoise ocean emptied, beamed
a sorrowed counterploy buried, it screamed
____________
The sun slowly peeps its head in the east, A bird barbet flies towards its nest, Labourer follows the landlord with the beast, Blue heron sits on the teak tree for rest, The big temple bell is rung by the priest, Children run towards the river with vest, Village maiden prepares the harvest feast, Babies feed milk from the blouse less breast, All the events have taken place at least, When the dawn sunshine appears very best, God has done all natural phenomena like Trieste, By which the children of the earth are blessed, We thank the creator for the peace,we assessed.
Steak, a versatile food,
So easy to prepare.
Seared, broiled, or grilled, my choice.
Searing steak, I prefer.
Savory, meaty, and
Smoky scent in the air.
Seared rib eye steak, yummy!
Salad fresh, cool, crisp with
Sweet onion dressing tossed;
Salt and pepper a must !
Spinach added for health;
Sprinkled herbs for delight;
Steak strips added is nice !
Success paddles forth on a teak-crafted boat,
God’s blessings now shine in a glow to adore.
Your foes only watch as your fortunes take note,
Your blessings now match every sand by the shore.
God made you a beacon of love evermore.
I sit quietly, yet happily.
Melancholy could enter my soul, but
I’m trying not to allow it in.
I have moved.
Hopefully into a cottage that I can call a
home.
It’s been four moves for me in less than
four years, and it’s wearisome.
Nervousness captures my heart.
New people, new sounds, new rules.
More space for all my beautiful teak
furniture, Persian rugs and nice
stuff though.
I am a senior citizen as of a few days ago.
Lord, will this be my final move?
And the most intimate truth is:
Will I find a gentleman to share my pretty place
with me?
May 5, 2023 Pick -A-Title, Vol 36, Edmund Ibeh
OLD AND NEW 2 : BOARDROOM
Jackal preyed on dimpled dolls
smiling gold on slender wrist
nosing down a slippery path
scowling schoolboy promoted
beyond his mediocre castle
Mammals sat on polished teak
coiffed moustaches, tonged peaks
feeding unclipped grapevines
old words and wounds
eating raisin muffins
Falcon scribbled notes
watching eyes serving
newly ordained masters
legalese from a previous
age flowed from fine shifting
fingers in a cage
Overgrown thyroid sat there
his infantry lost in teeming
townships blaring transistors
interrogators of another time
peeped at a polished tiger-eye
on his seat
Minds like noisy tools
drilled atomic holes in
the boardroom table
beaded headdresses falling
from fat oozing french seams
They will learn Christmas carols
in mint retirement homes
when the table losses its legs
©GhairoDanielsPoetry1997
let me give you some history of the Republic of the Union of Myanmar
is that Burma?
it used to be
they won’t let us have more than two children
they persecute us daily
we cannot travel freely and are refused citizenship
I wonder who “they are” so I ask.
rohingya people.
we cannot own land either.
the Burmese are holding a grudge, angry with us.
why?
our ancestors sided with the British
when?
1948 when they came into our country to steal our resources.
which ones?
jade, gems, oil, teak, natural gas
I try to get away from this crazy person.
there are fifty-four million other Buddhists living here.
surely some of them are more positive.
it begins to rain; a monsoon is not much easier to take.
It's not about the now dull walls
Or the shiny tiles
Or the tinted glass on the windows
Or the sad-looking stairs
Or the new teak coffee table
Or the painted countertops
Or the new tawny couches
Or the jagged mosaic rag
None of that could make me leave
It just doesn't feel like home anymore
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