I rise

featured in the poetry forum December 5, 2020  :: 0 comments

Quarantined evenings,
father ties knots on fresh handmade kites
under the small light bulb on the terrace.

He touched those 40 years ago
in the open fields of his village
and flew the kites on full moon nights.

I don’t have many memories with him.
I don’t have his stories.

The sky is
milky, pashmina*, opal stone,
blooming mogra* of my mother’s heart.

I cut my finger, I let the sunset enter and stay there.
Father releases the kites and for the first time
I rise…

*mogra- a type of jasmine flower, pashmina- hand crafted cardigans of Kashmir

editors note:

Memories, strung to our heart. (We welcome Sufia to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of her madness on her new page – check it out.) – mh clay

Kissing my crescent moon

featured in the poetry forum August 21, 2020  :: 0 comments

Past 2 am, the crescent moon is my lover tonight.

Its half-lit face on the eclipsed window is my sadness tonight.

On my bed, my sleep isn’t going to wane my craving for a kiss on my nightmares tonight.

My eyes desire to caress the unspoken words before its disappearance tonight.

My palms cup the lonely moonbeams and urge it to settle on my bosoms tonight.

My heartbeat wants to be held by a heart in the sky of love tonight.

My lips want to rest on the lips kissing my crescent moon tonight.

editors note:

Lovers; jealous of the moon, jealous of lovers. – mh clay

‘Own’ the conundrum

featured in the poetry forum June 19, 2020  :: 0 comments

‘Own’ is aimed to keep things in control and ‘owning’ is
the ebbing and crashing waves by the lighthouse in my chest.
Let it come and see my naked body
walking around in this room without a sky
releasing what I believe is the pulse of exhaled sighs
leaving wanting outside this space.

I find it baffled by my choice of understanding ‘the self’ –
some days it understands the continuum of growing organs of loneliness, other days it asks me to follow the clock of conditioning built inside my mind and
submerge wholly in mechanical design of things.
It doesn’t have a name to attach itself to a feeling –
I can call it whatever I desire and comfort my raving mind.

The meditating pigeon in the rain is
the monk who has found it all
accepted the disapproving paths and made peace with it.
Who owns the road to realizing the islands of broken watches?
Everyone sets and reaches some place;
my body is stuck in the stillness of passing through the conundrums.

editors note:

In the place between choices, owning or owned. – mh clay