I want myself back, my crescent moon

featured in the poetry forum October 22, 2016  :: 1 comment

My crescent moon, I was like you
Many, many years ago — idyllic, and free
Of dirty treads, of wounds and pain.
You’d beam bright upon my being
When I’d be down in disturbed liquors,
Pull me closer to you, my crescent moon, you’d
Create havoc in hell and heaven,
Calm me down, my crescent moon, you’d
Wake my soul up from extreme exhaustion
And I’d see you riding on dinosaurs,
Up and high in spirit to win the world,
My true warrior, you’d show myself
Calm and compassionate in the beasts’ eyes;
Oh! I want myself back, my crescent moon.

editors note:

Yes! Bring back the days when the Man in the Moon was you! – mh clay

Off the shore

featured in the poetry forum December 24, 2015  :: 2 comments

The oars are stuck
and so the boat
in this exotic high land
far away from the shore.

But no, no problem!
I’ll see to it, fix it
and go on with
rowing, rowing, rowing

to places unknown
from where I was
or where I am. There, too,
I’ll be off the shore

though far and beyond
I can see, I can see
many a river
and many a sea.

editors note:

On this, of all eves, wherever we can be, defined by whatever we can see. – mh clay

Dreams in the Kingdom of Chaos

October 9, 2015  :: 0 comments

There was a man in the kingdom of Chaos. His name was Melodious Music. He was all contrasted by the warring elements of the kingdom, by their uproars, their thundering beats and plays. He was silent, all pervading among the syllables of coarse voices, hence being-less the passers-by believed him to be. For decades there came no Columbus. And one …

Oh my eyes!

featured in the poetry forum April 11, 2015  :: 1 comment

Seven women
in red petticoat
bathing in the
slender Sali nadi—
now plunging, now
stooping over
and now patting-
squeezing their hair
as the thigh-high
holy water washes away
their sin; and my sin-
ful question to the
teeming crowd of devotees
busy on both banks
cleaning their faces
or sprinkling the water
over their heads, or
making holy
their unholy mouths (?)—
by the sip of the
same waters
running down to them
from those women’s
purged bodies.

editors note:

Cleanliness is next to body-ness! Believe what you like… – mh

Ha !

featured in the poetry forum April 27, 2014  :: 0 comments

Stray dogs
keep on barking at people
in rags, but

they just let them go
without a single further bark
if they offer them some

crumbs of bread…

Ha !

editors note:

Distracting detractors can’t dissent with their mouths full. – mh

SUFFOCATION

featured in the poetry forum February 24, 2014  :: 1 comment

My days begin with short sighs
and end with a long one.

Reluctantly, I look back
at the miles completed each day.
They resemble the scribbling
of a young child. Meaningless—
like a dream lost in the waking. My desires
are red coals in a furnace. My soles—
on sharp edges— moving to re-realize
that change is like a slow, painful death.

What zigzags and circles
this life has become!
Like strands of straw entangled
on the spike of a moving bicycle,
I’m just making much noise of myself.
In the extremes of angry thoughts,
I curse and confess. I explain
to my people why I’ve been so negative.
And all they do is sigh with me!

Thwarted, my life is— a creature in a cage,
restless; a fish on a hook, gasping and giving itself
to the hookers. I see them enjoy
the dish that they turn me into. My sweat
is their salt; my weakness, their strength.
They’re black cobras that don’t stop following
even in my dreams. I don’t feel sorry but mad,
mad at these sinful souls.

They stink from afar. I see my flesh
stuck between their teeth. Their yellow teeth
that I want to yank. Their treacherous tongues
that I want to sever. Their whole system
that I want to put on fire. Shameless!
They dance a naked dance in their vanity
and lose sense of who their mother is. What,
what can be expected in these crowds of bogus people?

editors note:

Make more noise! Allow less of bogus people (except their transformation into fellow noise-makers). – mh

Pearl and pebble

featured in the poetry forum October 18, 2013  :: 0 comments

I was in search
of a pearl

while deep in my dive
I thought I got one

so soon out
I came with a long sigh—

but only to be dejected
when it turned into a pebble.

I then furiously hurled it
to the cliff nearby

and guess wha’ happened? Nothing
but a bump on my forehead!

editors note:

When in the path of your own wrath, it’s best to duck. – mh

Recurring Dream

featured in the poetry forum January 5, 2013  :: 0 comments

I’m trudging, alone, in a weird landscape— dry,
yellow straw scattered far off to the vanishing point;
brittle things breaking under the precautious footsteps;
black clouds being churned overhead; the eclipse going in
perhaps for a long nap; the wind howling like
the indignation of my heart; mad— mad thunders
split the dark curtains as if to show me the way; and the gasping field
is about to be all water, but this fucking dream
is only a dream— nothing happens to squeeze the sky
but me: The sparse bare trees transform themselves
into gigantic snakes and fly to me, breaking open
their cave-like mouths. I try to run away but realize
that I’m in the grip of a thousand snakes, all black, glinting
and hissing in the field. Where the hell am I? I scream
only to wake myself in a thorny bed of questions.

editors note:

Not Jung enough to understand; I’ll take waking and inquisition. – mh

An appeal

featured in the poetry forum October 21, 2012  :: 0 comments

The world
is a door
to my heart—

Come in,
Come in— O pain!
Come in— O joy!
But please

come in
like the love
of mother
or the reproach
of father.

Come in
like the fresh fragrance
of jasmine
or the lulling gust
of spring’s breeze.
But please

do not bang
the door—
my child
is eccentric.

editors note:

Solicitors are OK, but not the hard sell. No ginsu knives, miracle cleaners or magazine subscriptions – go away! – mh

The sick man’s questions

August 24, 2012  :: 0 comments

The more I run, the more I’m buried
in this dirt. This dirt

that I never wanted, never needed,
and never thought of. But now

this shit on my toe. It made me vomit
till I lost my sense. They looked at me

as if I am a sick man. I am! But in a different way.
They called me sinful. I called them barbaric.

They reminded me of ‘our culture’.
I reminded them of ‘the culture’ they make

to rob a man of his innocence,
of his peace and autonomy. They roared

to frighten me. I roared back to make a way out.
They retorted to prove that I was blind,

that I got caught in the net of her lies. Who,
who is blind? Me – who always wanted clean things,

or she – who thought she could use her people
to keep the matter subdued? Who,

who is blind? The one who doesn’t want to get blind
or the ones who want to make blind?