Hounded by neighbors and ruthless schoolchildren during the day, their nocturnal, air-rending cries of hunger keep me vigilantly awake. Stoning is the most lenient fate that awaits mums, puppies, or the already lame. My ears have attuned their nerves to catch the slightest bark that has a tinge of dread as it squeals its alarm away. A stray dog has …
How many yolks are whipped into your discourse?
For half an hour you have dwelt on the repose
of a primrose
in flamboyant prose.
You whisk the yolk of your words
with a trickle of lushly pollinated thoughts
that drips from the amber of yonder rose
wrapped up in a clause.
With how many yolks have you exposed
the layers of gold that streak your odes,
the saffron of fire suffusing your tropes,
the dandelion permeating your metaphors?
Our ever engrossing attempts to make the perfect omelette. – mh clay
It was the center of attention in a modest real estate office. I brought it and fixed it without the owner’s permission knowing that it would flatter the flamboyant side of his pretentious character. It was a crystal-like globe with a blue tint that endowed each ray of light that was refracted with the azure of the skies. My intention …
I associate the eve with my father’s bustle
as he lent our kitchen an apocalyptic hue,
with an upheaval of shopping bags and a blowing trumpet
as he played on the last evening his favorite tunes
to the fragrance of fish bubbling in garlic and olive oil.
He always finished the banquet-eating two hours before
the chiming of the twelfth stroke
and snored despite the roaring firework
that illuminated darkness with festive rainbows,
dreaming of Brigitte Bardot.
I associate the eve with my dog’s satiety,
who kept a vigil by the table’s plenitude,
consuming large portions of mutton and bones,
overindulged by all,
in token of the auspicious year to come.
Now both are dead,
I spend the eve reminiscing over the void
of a year devoid of friends and joy.
Chased by a bad year into a new; qualifiers yet to come. – mh clay
This urn is yearning for a memory’s ashes
that I had scattered far from my hearth
amongst a heap of cigarette stubs
in a frequented pub
where our eyes had first interlocked.
You had prepared the pyre and brought the urn
to immolate the love that you hard-earned.
You fed your eyes on consuming flames,
a ritual befitting kings and queens.
You asked me to cherish what had remained
of a love in whose permanence I trusted.
I place the dust of what was lost
in a rubbish bin
but keep the urn for nuts.
Ashes to ashes, dust to nuts. Remember how you must. – mh clay
It was not the torso that Greeks and Romans sculpted for generations to immortalize the ideal physique; neither the Celtic mane of a Scottish highlander nor the stature of an Amazonian warrior. It was simply the freckles on his irises that brought it all about, an obsession that changed the entire course of my life. His eyes reminded me of …
Our calendar entries have dwindled to a score
of random meetings that you cannot afford,
your memos congested with customers’ calls.
First went our breakfasts in the afterglow
of executive schedules that made my cereal bowl
bereft of yours in an excessive lack of decorum.
Then went our lunch-hours, the much-awaited-for.
The pigeons in the park yearn for crumbs and corn
delivered by hands, so difficult to disentangle before.
My evenings are haunted by nostalgic thoughts
for departed intellectual and visual joys,
for competitive Scrabble, for movies’ euphorias.
I anticipate more omissions to follow,
the script of our life to run out of color,
for more ellipses to connote what is hollow.
… – mh clay
An auspicious event, a job interview, but what was I to wear for such a formal meeting? One suit could do but it needed matching shoes. The allowance money that I received every two weeks would have to be sacrificed. A pair of designer shoes on display met my eyes the moment I entered a grand store. I could not …
He spoke of the menace of ‘embers of Corona’
when coupling with flu in a joined force.
I thought of his use of the word embers
as a very inappropriate metaphor
and wished he’d stripped this hideous topic
of any aesthetic discourse.
The word is redolent in memory with beauty and hope.
When a child, I watched the embers of our fireplace
fade into a heap of paling gold.
Every log unveiled its secrets
in a spectacular, ashen form.
I adored their remnants
because from their midst a phoenix could be born.
The embers of a sunset always linger
for hours in my bosom.
I wait for the embers of a glowing word
to cool before I utter my response.
Even the embers of a dying passion
can warm a lonely soul.
Use pretty to dress pretty. No lipstick for the pig. (We welcome Susie to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of her madness on her new page – check it out.) – mh clay
Thrice you pleaded guilty before
a jury of four:
a rake, two ruffians, and a flamboyant bore.
The charge is feticide
of the puerile mind
that lay un-hatched in its paltry womb.
Thrice you puffed away your yawns
at judge and pawns.
The prosecutor began to snort
at your flagrant contempt of court,
at contaminating nasal ports
with the stench of a voracious tongue.
Thrice you gaped at the bleeding dawn,
awaiting execution on a new-shorn lawn,
no stake or twigs
or a to-be-crucifix
visible within your dwindling zone.
Thrice you felt the dragon gore
inside the marrow of your thoughts,
ravishing your ores,
depleting your wisdom with a bony straw,
dipped through a hole
they surreptitiously drilled into your subconscious core.
Pray there comes a count of four… – mh clay
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