Crossword

featured in the poetry forum May 7, 2023  :: 0 comments

Yesterday I waited
At the doctor’s, crossword in hand
Every now and then
New people came in
Like palms unfurling new leaves
Tender in illness.
Their words luminous on phones
Fireflies on trees,
They take off, noiseless
To their lands of love or dreams
Rain, sorrow or wars.
A nurse draws blood, fluid words
Alcohol laced words
They gush out and stain my wrist,
Words tiptoe in and out of rooms
Trapeze walk of life
Passing footsteps,
Moons of manicured nails
Hold words, clenched
Covered in skin
Feverish in truthfulness
I sit repeating life,
In a crossword.

editors note:

A figure of speech applied to an object or action to which it is not literally applicable. 8 letters, starts with “M.” (We welcome Jaya to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of her madness on her new page – check it out.) – mh clay

Sunday morning

featured in the poetry forum February 5, 2023  :: 2 comments

When you spoke nothing,
I dreamt of the sea,
Between us,
Calm and silent.
When the tides came,
I waited for the lull,
To forget the storms,
Till the day break,
The oceanic chaos in me,
Waiting for words.
But the radio rumbles on.

editors note:

It’s not just words can calm the sea, but words from close proximity. – mh clay

STOLEN SHORELINES

featured in the poetry forum October 17, 2022  :: 1 comment

The azure waters
Lured me to the shores
The vivacious waves
Washed me to lands unknown
And the men on the shore,
Filled my plate every evening.

Like a magician playing
With the pigeons hidden
Under his elbows,
The rolling seas cooing
hand me the corals and atolls
Shells and dreams of mermaids too.

What do i gift to you, in return
Oh, folks on the shore?
I snatched your fishing nets,
I stole your golden shores
I erase the sand on my heels
On the wall of boulders

The blue walls of your tiny houses
Crumble, and i crowd you
In dark rooms, of no relief.
I huddle you away
From the waves and my heart.
In your sleep, your heart sings
The songs of the seas.

The fury of the storms and
the saint on the shore lament,
“You are the man who gives stones,
to your children
when they ask for a loaf”
Nature still laughs the last laugh,
For sure, it is as hard as the shore-lashing waves.

editors note:

They take your all and call it a favor. The curse of colonialism. – mh clay