Sheikha A.

it was like doing the cha-cha on a sheet
of glass; the side street was carpeted
by pebbles,

I could as well imagine walking my feet
on tiny rubies, emeralds or diamonds
crunching and grunting

but the watchmen’s children invented a game
substituting marbles cleverly

their laughter filling the air like the sun
sparkling on thin windows, the light
falling on their hair like a crown of prisms

their beams reaching to the sky
telling the birds to join in the play

maybe it had rained stones
the night before
or snowed grey/black crystals –
nothing can be a bad thing
happiness can be transparent, after all –

The carnival is long gone
and I’m still waiting in line

to buy me a love poem
by poets who still remember

what these are; can it be spoken
about dreams that bore your face

or ought they best be buried
in code in poetry I should learn

to master the art of divulging
without really telling;

or should I speak eloquently
without slipping over my words

with the tongue of a tot
clumsy but of what you manage

to hear, believe the words
since they may be like fragments

on sand hard to recover,
but they’ll carry waves of the air

unseen, without definite form
but complete like the night

that never shows without a moon.

I threw away college
page by page into the bin
but keeping the pages intact
knowing full well some poor
boy at his father’s vendor stall
will probably use them to wrap
his future in them for thirty rupees
per burger and a guesstimated half
a dozen fries.

Under the netted shade
of a straw, makeshift gazebo
in his ancestral garden
on a day of peaceful spells
amongst budding orchards
opening legacies forlorn
or the scent of love secrets
burrowed within seeds,
searching for heart,
he sits with his comrade pen,
silver, glinting variations
of vested perceptions
vociferous to ooze through
the tip of an unused heirloom.

A few sparrows skitter
and hop in wavy circles
peeking inquisitively
either in or at a business
not their own.
He amuses at their careful
approaches; a hop forward
followed by craning,
more peeking, pretending,
peripheral glancing,
hopping two steps aside,
fluttering their wings,
ignoring the subject
flying back a circle
repeating the process.
He smiles endearingly,
at the persistent exercise,
as a sparrow glares
suspiciously first,
haughtily next, upon
realizing the spotlight.

The hours quickly dissipate
into a darkening horizon;
birds and orchards retract
as night time deepens
over intents dulled
by the end of another day,
he trundles back to the house
where banished memories
await the weight of his soul
that he may visit
in hope for inspiration.

allowing winds
to douse your ferocity;

for clouds to billow
wildly, unbridled
across your numb

face. Your dawn
disoriented, perishes
before birthing;

allowing dim shades
to nudge your glariness,

for roofs to construct
over your unsheltering,

for trees to flutter
their leaves in breeze;

for bees to settle
on flowers longer
than dictated.

A winter and spring
are unfettered in battle;

mischief unbound,
abound brooks
and streams rousing;

dishevelled is calm
sans your breathing.

Beware

maundering sun,
you are allowing
way too much…

Writing a poem
for a submission, succinct
I try my words to appear –
stylish, bare-less, brisk,
like baked-crisps they snap
in classy (as can be), proving
like a piece of bread, set
aside like a soliloquy in play
of the protagonist, not vice
versa; verses drizzle runny
missing flour and yolk
to hold together the contents
of an otherwise crumbling
(edible) delicacy.

I take myself out
of the kitchen, figuratively
of course, return a pint
of sense to the ledge
by the larder, housing
a few empty jars (airtight)
that once contained
secrets to cooking
a wordy piece.

I snap all my cookies
caught helplessly
in a cicada of exchanges
between my head and fingers,
refresh, reboot, restart,
fall into error, turn
off, I drift into sleep.