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Franz Karma Poem
If Aprils bumbling cheerfulness won't keep me going,
it must be the sun,
or the bees or the trees
and their sloping branches, willowy flowers.
No, it's a plaintive push,
from the bed to the desk.
Write, write, write.
Why do you write?
If it's so taxing, why do you try?
My mother, with all her exacting logic and precision
wouldnt understand.
If resistance plagues my art then the verses will wither and die
If resistance makes a home in my willing bones
Then I can never write
without a thousand glittering excuses
Choking up my hands.
And then a few months later,
Days glued together with sticky static and youtube marathons.
Someone around you, someone will overcome their resistance
And get an article published or win a moot.
And out of your mouth will drip a backhanded compliment
Like a slap to their face.
Between the salt and the sting and the pregnant silence
You will wonder who you have become.
Like a rotting plum, resistance will ferment and stink up your very being.
Therefore I must write and remind myself that the sky is blue.
And pray that the following day will be an iteration of the last,
Happy and unassuming.
Meanwhile the months do not falter,
April skips along, chrome yellow and cheery
A bumbling fool with nothing to offer
but heedless to resistance.
Copyright © Franz Karma | Year Posted 2022
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Franz Karma Poem
From its pillowy overlay, the Sun emerges
Bright saturized yellow, ultraviolet rays,
Enough to burn and blind and sting,
glances down on mankind,
To see what they got up to during the night.
A peasant family, with seeds in hand
Plants them across a barren land
Sowing their hopes, their dreams in soil
Awaiting a future of brilliant gold and oil,
born out of hell-bent toil.
The Matriarch of the family looks up at the sky
Looks at the Sun square in the eye,
holds her gaze,wills him to listen,
to heed their solitary cries.
A ripple of amber, a flare of bright light
Somewhere a bud blossoms, somewhere a flower dies
Somewhere someone takes their final breath,God sighs and rolls his dice
The sun understands, he must grow the crops right.
Fat drops burst from foreboding clouds,
Whipped and thrashed the land on which young saplings sprout
The Sun couldn't see, the clouds too thick
The family prayed for their crops to stick.
Early Summer, in the balmy heat
The Sun climbed high in the sky
Looked earthward, towards his favourite kind
The family tilled and plucked and picked
Filled woven wicker with bursting produce,
The likes of which they could not predict.
Rows and rows of rice and beans,
Red oranges and collard greens
Like liquid Gold the wheat field gleams,
Ripening fruits with bursting seams
Broad smiles and accomplished dreams
It's time for the perennial Harvest to reign supreme.
Another year, transpired and gone,
Another harvest, picked and sown
The Sun, with triumphant splendour
Dazzling yet alone, rises on an orange morn.
The youngest child of the family, shields his eyes
Gazed at the sun and smiles,
The sun reflects a twinkling shine.
He knew the Sun was unruly, brazen and bright
But just for a moment, the Sun was mine.
Copyright © Franz Karma | Year Posted 2022
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Franz Karma Poem
Why does it feel like there's a fishbone
stuck in my throat.
A large one at that, pointy but girthy
No banana, rice, apple, idli, peanut butter mash could dislodge this one
It's almost funny,
If it didn't hurt so much.
It's a part of me now, a permanent organ
How my words die out.
And how I almost choke and cough at inopportune times
And endure the pitiful glances thrown my way,
When I quit a sentence halfway through.
I avert my sorry eyes,
As my fishbone stings.
My. Wait, when did the fishbone become mine?
Baking soda, apple cider vinegar, belly breathing
I've tried it all.
I've read a dense medical journal
Exclusively on fishbones
So now I know a lot,
On its prognosis, diagnosis, pathology, causes, effects and risks
The section on remedies and cures exhausts me though.
And my parents think I'm kidding
When I have to leave dinner halfway through
Because my fishbone just scraped against my throat pretty bad,
And now I must go to my room and breathe.
“What a dramatic plea for attention”
“Well, don't give her the attention then”
So the fishbone stays,
I'm learning to speak in spite of it.
And no matter if it doesn't corrode and melt,
Or if truckloads of pity come barging through my phone
I'll pretend it isn't there.
Because after all the shame, humour and fan-fare
My fishbone is mine to bear.
Copyright © Franz Karma | Year Posted 2022
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Franz Karma Poem
Mom and Dad, Dad and Mom
So opposed in their roles, yet unified in their wants.
It's a bitter shame to be old and grey,
Look back at the longest commitment, the largest role in the stage of life,
Marriage and being a spouse, kids and mortgages
And have nothing good to say about it.
Till your spouse's signature takes up one half of the ‘sign here’ box at the end of your divorce papers.
You look at the comforting curvature of their initials, the hurried ink.
One you've seen a thousand times, this time the last name isn't yours.
And words rush into your throat, gratitude chokes you up.
Thank you.
even though I couldn't think of one good thing to say about you a few days ago and wont find a single compliment to give years from now if you held a gun to my head,
I'm glad we ran this Act through.
This scene concludes, the epilogue ends.
The velvet drapes fall like well timed snow,
Soft and punctual.
You take a step back, sigh in relief.
Hear the muted applause,
Guilty yet absolved.
Hand in unlovable hand.
Dad and Mom. Mom and Dad.
Copyright © Franz Karma | Year Posted 2022
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