Shiny flask full of fun,
Shall I fill it with whiskey or ***
Wanting only to refresh my day,
Maybe with coconut from Parrot Bay?

After all, it's my best drinking buddy
That always makes me witty and funny
With never a shout, cry or pout,
That is, until the whiskey has run out!

The man at the studio doesn't like us

we aren't pretty as the teens
not dazzling like the newly weds
our faces are pretty grim
smiles are once a river
foreheads dry riverbeds
eyes hold no commotion
but he does it for money
and winds up quick.

We walk to the river
where under the grey February sky
she plays with our reflections
babbling and breaking us
into unreadable pieces.

Young love,
Bitten by the Rose’s thorn
Giving the lovers’ their first blush
Powerful imagery stirring memories
Of first love, of true love

There was a time when
He would have suffered
Her pain as his own
So connected were they
That even in dreams they were one

Sadly, Rose’s thorn
Left its poison behind
And betrayal cut
Deep and true
Its ravaged scars
Leaving an indelible stain
Upon their souls

Bonds torn asunder
Young love’s blush
Turned scarlet red

How I yearn to warn the lovers
Of the Rose’s devious ways
Slyly infusing their love
With betrayal’s bitter pain

For in that moment
When they thought
Love was won…
Well, I guess that’s why
First love’s wound
Colors forever one’s love

Kelly Rose
© January 27, 2017

This poem was inspired by an image - The Thorn by Charles West.  Here is a link to the portrait is you wish to view it.
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:CharlesWestCope-The_Thorn.jpg

Thanks to Hello Poetry for the recognition of the Daily for Mid-age Graduate.
Thanks for all the support from fellow poets .
JRap.

Infinity tattooed on her hand
Flinching using a looking glass,
It’s smothered thoroughly
By the tides of war
She turns black and gets offended
For racist elements persist,
Her image is burned by a nemesis
Making a mockery of herself,
Her fingernails clip off
But it still rests in her desires
Slitting the plank on racism,
She shells out all her insults
And burns it like crumpled paper
Sitting in her brain- a meme,
It grins at her, dead feelings underneath.

# PREVENT RACISM # BLACK LIVES MATTER.

I.
The cold concoction between us gets mixed up,
And sails with our boat away
Into a far, far away land
Landing in the ballerina’s footsteps – so elegant
With every twist and twirl setting us into motion,

II.
We kiss the lilac sky for purple reigns in soon
And red turns my jeans green with envy,
It’s worthless but worth a try, for a trial is limited in life
Abstract rumours stick like labels on my ankles,
For it is meant to wear off and die

III.
I hear every single untainted bell ringing in me
So, is Moses or Allah supposed to reside in us?
Or is it the temples where I have placed my mind
Near a well-lit hearth ?

IV.
I outcry my pain for pure pleasure,
And my tears justify the cause for my psyche thoughts
For it scrambles like whiplash streaks on my backyard fence
So fine that even I forget my existence as an introvert in this world,

V.
The pentagonal set is no different since it outshines the rest
And by the rest I mean the crack-laden windows of my home,
The place where I reside is a mere symbol to admire,
For my virtues are dearth in meaning;
I rest with my feet laid down

Before we take on our foot,
we are treated like cotton rags
a rattle in one hand, and a bottle in the other,
yet we **** up our salivating tongue
using our tiny limbs and pebble-sized fingers,
we are shown as dolls in museums
dolls who collapse, yet their struggle
is shown as lightweight and fed to the vultures,
—
Our ankles press against the sand grains
under the sweltering of the sun
and the rising of the moon,
we rise from our berths undead
to haunt our freedom and rights given in books,
—
I start the Mandela effect in 1800’s
manufacturing slaves as robots,
still our mascara hides underneath
and our stick is glued to our hand,
a hand of slavery.

Doves sit in the square of marble,
and sunlight entombs the jewels
on top of the holy crescent – Islam,
a world full of white dotted capes
and those who pity on Jihad know this,
they are blind to his faith, his pattern
to lay in the glory of Muhammad,
hooking the world with blistering sins
9/11 a myth around, Syria to my heart,
the world sits abound to watch the hate
and the racist get away with my skates,
poorly lit candles line the streets
to the road defining my conscience and fee,
a long stubble of fleece flee the marketplace
eaten by the souls in Ramadan and Eid,
Europe is caught by the chaos, sadly odd
but satisfying for the gloomy eyes staring
at the long pages of Quran – Allah O Akbar….
I set my feet apart to the horizon of Qawwali
a prayer on the mat of holiness and a play-
ground for my state.

My hijab is a piece of imagination
a symbol of Islamic populism,
yet I get carried away by racists
misjudging my outer belief, only
for the sake of white extremists,
I cry and wet my birth certificate!
why am I a Muslim? Is it my choice?
I see a minute third-piece frame
down the lane-a sorrow to share,
it chokes my individuality- an insult
to my devotion for god, for life ;
yet, people have the time to call
us terrorists when they roam naked,
some pretending to be feminists
and lovers! Reality is a bitter piece
of chocolate melting away as time fades,
as it erodes the values we held before,
20th century is still marred by those
who wish to keep their history books
unfolded, un-kept and unstated;
a wish down the memory lane is needed
for it will awaken the senses of my fellow
brothers and sisters fighting over a shawl
covering my head!
 
I am curious and this curiosity is not a mere
joke, its the curiosity weaved into a cloth
hiding my sensitive and strong brain
from those “all-seeing” eyes around me,
pretending to expose my hair as if it was
something of utmost importance and value,
but friends,  it’s nothing, it’s a trick
by those who seek to humiliate me and
my faith for god, and I am sure that this
will echo for the decades to come,
for me, a hijab is – “ a piece of head
covering worn by women of the world”;
and I am sure that our fight for the right
to wear something will reprimand
and will be carried out by my fellow
successors and those who shed light
to our cries and woes in this big world
of ours!
[AMEN]

Once upon a time,
Too long ago, when ones' life depended
On sour candies,

I made an "ant backyard resort",

It is dedicated to give enjoyment
To the well industrious ants,
Not foreign to our land.

But a tragedy struck their fates,
With thuderstorms and ocean hurdles
They drowned lifeless,
And I saw their souls
Flying to heaven. .

I know they were mad at me,
For killing them. .
But such a fortuituous event!
Not my fault. .it rained that day!

That day they're suppose to be hiding in colonies. .
But they entered the shuttle going to the resort,
And they left the door opened.

The day after, the resort went bankrupt.
Nothing was left, just like magic that turned it to hardened sand.

My mom is kind
I want the sky either
In my room, I draw birds
I love your small eyes
I love my mom's hands
I play with mommy's scarves
I can feel the smell of her bag
I remember my childhood dresses
She bought me colorful shoes
somedays
Our hands reach the sky
I hold my mom's hand in my tummy
I'm pregnant with my mom's hands
Mommy is not like granny
And I'll like my mom's ******* in a ****** relation


مادرم مهربان است
من هم آسمان می خواهم
من پرنده ها را در اتاقم نقاشی می کشم
چشم های کوچک تو را دوست دارم
دست های مادرم را دوست دارم
با روسری های مادرم بازی می کنم
بوی کیفش را هنوز احساس می کنم
لباس های کودکی هایم را به یاد دارم
بعضی از روزها برایم کفش های رنگارنگ می خرید
دست های ما به آسمان می رسد
من دست های مادرم را در شکمم نگه می دارم
من دست های مادرم را حامله ام
مادر من شبیه مادربزرگش نیست
و من
در رابطه ای جنسی
...سینه های مادرم را دوست خواهم داشت