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Sara Mehadar Poem
The Missing Season
27/07/2020
Whiffs of summery air grow startlingly unfresh
Dying like a withering dream yet almost deathless
Ruffled by an impasse of a senescent, uncrossable viaduct
that goes beyond my knowingness, beyond my conception
Of an unknown poison instilled merely into my air
Blossomless springs, rainless winters and sunless summers
Yet the missing season is still an untold story of a tired self
Trying to winterize itself for the soon-to-be winters ahead…
All of the un/randomness -of wintry possibilities- maddens
She, all the same, awaits for thousands of summers instead
Away from the insufferable stuffiness that strangulates her
She willingly remains afar yet unwillingly she goes further
Not in the dark does she detachedly dwell, nor in a beacon
In a semi-dark room of her own, she scatters her thoughts
to get drowned into their boundless, unfathomable oceans
toward the innerness of thoughts she steps back and forth.
Dreamless nights very drearily resemble her dreamy nights
Those of the dying birds. On her own she fancies the Quail
That reminds her of the once brawny nest by the mountain
One season with an orphic symbol is still forever unfindable
And the pretermitted leaves remain rigid though shriveled
Unwilling to be vulnerably wept, they embrace summertime
A summer of their own from the figment of their imagination
Softly it drizzles upon their souls, and again they are revived.
Copyright © Sara Mehadar | Year Posted 2020
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Sara Mehadar Poem
My scars belie my smile and my eyes bereft of sparkle.
Oh God, estival whims cannot bring back my sparkle.
The ruthless stabs of his tenderly touch my heartstrings,
and I am evermore sentenced to remain without sparkle.
His unapologetic absence renders me homesick at home.
Iron man, did you not sense desire through my sparkle?
Perhaps there is not a road to your callous heart,
I, all the same, walked towards it and lost my sparkle.
Of Lethe I shall drink and forget the unforgotten days
that we once relished when your eyes shone in sparkle.
My heart aches in Mid-September and the azure sky bleeds.
Oh God, fragility becomes me, yet I long for my old sparkle.
Winters and summers ahead, memories of the yesteryears,
And I still dwell in your present absence, bereft of sparkle.
September 10, 2020
Copyright © Sara Mehadar | Year Posted 2020
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Sara Mehadar Poem
Intense and absurd is the ecstatic sorrow of Fall,
Could it be ephemeral craze or the rust within my mind?
Easeful summers and beatific springs placate my angst…
Balmy feral winters palliate my soul and my sense, yet
Eylul remains the ufindable season of my earthly craze.
Ruthless is the depth of the iceberg that depletes my sense!
Greenish and yellowish leaves are now under my feet, and
Estival budding love still haunts my restive, whimsical heart.
Into love-ish whims I subterfuge blasé of the yesteryears,
Haply my ephemeral insanity becomes his sane lunacy,
And all that comes along is but proof of humane lucidity.
I soon becomes us and the magical bond dispels my fears.
Is it a mere reverie or am I back to my olden deferred dreams?
Easeful is the thought of his shady iceberge in the daylight,
Yet the nocturnal darkishness it is not saccharine as it seems,
Still into love-ish whims I subterfuge blasé of lunatic insanity.
30/10/2020
Copyright © Sara Mehadar | Year Posted 2020
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