Details |
Miguel Mendoza Poem
(Transit Lounge, Dubai International Airport, circa 2007)
He answered
that he was from far Kazakhstan,
“Exotic place,” he added,
which I know but could not pinpoint
on my mental map.
She smiled
and said, “I am from India somewhere
farther to the northeast bordering China.”
“Hence her fairer skin,” I thought.
And she piped in,
“From Ethiopia,” and I could not
but think of just how much she paid
to have her curly hair straightened.
From the counter
of their air-conditioned, compact
caravanserai, they all chorused
the suggestion that I opt
for king prawn salad
which, indeed, was so delicious
to the hungry eyes but just so rich
for my already travel-thinned billfold.
Thus I settled
for some salmon sandwich
and a bowl of curly noodles
that the Chinese had perfected
long ago in those steaming kitchens
of their fabled silk road inns.
“Fragrant tea
from out the hot and humid hills
of southern India,” the Ethiopian
said with flourish, bringing me
my mug to wash away
the fishy taste still lingering
along the silk roads
of my taste buds, as I vainly tried
to pinpoint far Kazakhstan
on my travel-weary mental map
while waiting, sleepy, for the call
to put me, once more,
on my way.
Copyright © Miguel Mendoza | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Miguel Mendoza Poem
Akin, somewhat
to childhood tale of avian maidens
molting downy wings in haste
lest mortal eyes espy them
bathe in waters silvered
by the lunar light,
and having laved would vanish
winging with the night winds,
to the vastness, infinite,
the stars, east of the sun,
west of the midnight moon.
For we,
like them, have shed our fabric
wings to swim in pools of dusty
tungsten light in rooms,
and having loved, would gather
plumage strewn in haste, preen,
part with furtive glances, both
to blend, diverge in traffic din,
the fumes, the dust swirling,
the smog, west of the moon,
east of the setting sun.
Copyright © Miguel Mendoza | Year Posted 2009
|
Details |
Miguel Mendoza Poem
Today
the hands of time wound
back the clocks to
morning,
mourning-mired, clocked at
forty-six past eight
exactly
when wanton wings wrought
terror's shocking stat:
two
thousand forty nine! All ground
to zero with the towers twin
turned
dust-cloaked debris choking
in a cloud of acrid smoke
and
all shed tears are gathered
now in limpid pool of
pained
reflection roiled by roses with
their thorns, in silence
piercing
hearts again, their old wounds
yet unhealed by salving
hands
of
time.
Copyright © Miguel Mendoza | Year Posted 2009
|
Details |
Miguel Mendoza Poem
Let children's laughter
Lace the wanton winds,
Their sea-washed bodies
Crease the oozing sands,
Hold still O Time
Your flitting seconds
Just enough for watchful eyes
To cup in heaving heart
This sterling instant,
Lest the waves all wash away
From beach of memory
Its having ever come to pass.
Copyright © Miguel Mendoza | Year Posted 2012
|
Details |
Miguel Mendoza Poem
In here, the coolness
is other-worldly.
On the conveyors, the passengers
seem to float towards their destination.
Down on the tarmac, a plane's wing
welcomes in more passengers
departing, walking from the shuttle bus,
their feet unseen in the rising evening fog.
From somewhere
trails a haunting nocturne
as a disembodied voice calls out
to milling throng to follow dociley
as lambs.
Some stay a little longer,
to indulge in tote-home vanities:
XO, Dunhill, Toblerone, Joop. . . .
The list is long,
as are the queues
to gates, some moving
the other way, a lot with luggage
bowed, a few with only gate cards
and their tickets sticking out
from jackets' pockets
like brazen tongues.
Some read the monitors
with vapid faces, others doze,
babies whimper,
many take a last bite
at "The Wonders of the World."
Again, the disembodied voice
seems to intone:
"In my Father's house
there are many mansions."
The angels of cleanliness
sweep the leavings
from the tomb-cold floor.
Copyright © Miguel Mendoza | Year Posted 2006
|