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?

The boil

featured in the poetry forum August 24, 2012  :: 0 comments

In parts, in a bleached mirror,
I hide behind the rusty patches
and realize
that life ain’t so beautiful
when relations rend.

I see my eyes disillusioned, my nose bashed,
my heart pierced, my mouth anemic.
Lines of painful sadness slither in my face –
I sniff
and remember
the wild blue of the blue mimosa
that bloomed in the front yard of my father’s house
years ago when I was a kid; now
the tree has long been gone. All I can see in its place
is a barren front. Splinters,
just a few splinters – if I may find of it.

Oh hell, how the fire of that cold winter
charred my interior!

True! I’ve got a boil on the butt.

editors note:

Think always of the bloom, give the boil the end of your attention. – mh

To people big & tall

featured in the poetry forum June 1, 2012  :: 0 comments

Your name is my name.
Your blood is my blood.
Even your home is my home.
But first you gobble and barely I get some.
O people – big and tall!
Do you care how I feel?

Where are my ribs and bones?
Just a flattened mass of flesh I am
dragged down from my skeleton
and drying in this parching sun.
Who ripped them all? And why?
To have bone marrow soup?

You plant creepers
and call them parasites.
O people – so strong and brave!
Put your clutches aside!
I’ll be the happiest person
to see you walk on your own.

Your bigness didn’t fit in my brain
and your tallness so sharp and thin –
overnight you grew up like a bamboo shoot,
tore the sky and pulled it down
to make a wall between you and me.

O people – so generous and kind!
I really need a little more reason and compassion.
Could you just tell me where
you’ve buried them?

editors note:

Eat well, but eat no one. – mh

Bleating shepherds

March 31, 2012  :: 0 comments

Beside a flooded river
some shepherds are bleating back
for their sheep are out of control.

It’s sleeting like shots aimed
and they have just only started
making a shed.

They sound like they’re mad
at their master who
is probably absent

and the madness climbs
cold mountains
here, in front of my eyes.

Poor lambs look like cotton fiber
blown up in the air. Their mothers call
for forgiveness but the shepherds –

bleating shepherds.

Sigh for a signature

featured in the poetry forum March 31, 2012  :: 0 comments

You are a frequent migraine.
I’m a dull head.
You suck my life. I sigh

and wait, for a time,
like a cold mountain waits
to shoot up sprouts in the spring.

Unveiled is your visage now
and my home is on fire.
I don’t have a right to put it out?

editors note:

A dotted line, empty; a look to dry the wettest ink. Find another underwriter. – mh

List of questions

featured in the poetry forum January 26, 2012  :: 0 comments

A large group of kids
and following
their cattle
to the forest.

Across the vale
on the sunlit slope
a bell ringing
as low as the bells
hung on the napes
of these hungry cattle.

Down on the river
a broken, single wire bridge waiting
for the big people from the big city
for some years now

and up here on this passage
I’m a list of questions.

But who is to answer?

editors note:

Poets will ask anyway; we make our own answers. – mh

The tilt

featured in the poetry forum November 29, 2011  :: 0 comments

Two people together
trying to tilt toward themselves
an umbrella – unfurled
and so
with stretched tiny holes.

Is the sleet something?

editors note:

Is it? Well, only if you feel the cold. Is everything something? If not, that would be something anyway. – mh

If she were a witch

featured in the poetry forum October 9, 2011  :: 0 comments

If she were a witch, I guess you wouldn’t be living.
There was no earthquake in her screams, she was nothing
but wounds all over – red, blue, brown, purple –
bleeding on the junction – a matter of extreme curiosity for kids around
peeping from below your hips, or running after your footsteps.
Perhaps her busted head was a football!
Perhaps your boots, canes and stones were not enough, so
she was yelling at you to drag and thrash her more!

If she were a witch, I guess you wouldn’t be living.
Either she would surely escape flying on her broomstick
or just vanish with a simple click of her fingers right in the beginning
or furiously hurl you into a dark cave where
she would avenge by forcing you to eat human feces
the way you forced her, or, she would hammer your hands and legs
and teach you a lesson by pulling out your teeth
with more force and fury than you used to display your bravado.

If she were a witch, I guess you wouldn’t be living
and your children wouldn’t die of dysentery or of fever. Possession
is what you did to her, not what she did or did not.
She – just a single finger, and you – an entire village,
what a mad swarm of bees stinging a life to almost death!
Neither she spoke scary words nor called a thunder down.
What’s black magic? Why would she only leave the marks of her teeth
on your thighs or arms when she could have the whole of you?

editors note:

And since we are living, she can’t be, after all. Oh, my! All this blood on our hands. – mh