When she turned her gaze upon me,
I was a mote of dust
caught in a beam of sunlight
I was huge and beautiful
and bright.

I laughed and danced
and shone.

And when she turned away,
a cloud moved across the sun
and I was extinguished.

I wonder what these clouds are
A veil or an illusion
Concealing away the blinking stars
Fading away the moon & sun

I wonder where the birds fly to
And where do they come from
Soaring together
I wonder what do they hum

I wonder what the lightening is
Welding the broken sky somewhere?
And what is the thunderous noise I hark
Dacoits firing guns in some affair?

I wonder who painted the sky blue
And who puts the rainbow there
Where the sun sleeps at night
And who blows the vibrant air

I wonder these things & many more
But do not have innuendo to
I ask them about it, they say "don't know"
I don't fathom how to solve without a clue...

*© by Ruman Hafsa

To my friends
who can write
fresh-smelling
bouquets of words
with splendid color,
I offer my envy.
Mine are the blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the cracks
in pavement,
or forcing their way
to light around
overbearing rocks.
Some useful
in their own way,
edible or flavorful,
some with a
pedestrian beauty,
but few that one
would bring home in a bunch
with a box of candy.
More appropriate
in a grimy, young fist
crumpled in love,
destined to be vased
in a water glass
by a doting mother,
or shredded petal by petal
for the sake of soothsaying...
he loves me, he loves me not.

..
I long for an ideal love,
But I cannot spin on a reel,
Tape myself with magnetic
Energy, that lights up rooms.

I pine for an ideal love,
But I cannot enter a screen
That flashes imaginary truth
In dimly, dear lit theatre halls.

Why is pain so real, so concrete?
Why is joy so abstract, illusory?

I ache for an ideal love,
More actual than godly stars,
Lovers living within golden light,
Always faithful, printed on film.

*Why is isolation so universal, so dark?
Why do only movie idols glow, spark?

Sometimes
I still shake
From things
That are over.

Sometimes
I still feel
Sullied.
Blackened.

But sometimes
I put on your sweatshirt,
And I feel safe.

And sometimes
I hear your voice
And the tears no longer
Threaten to fall.

Sometimes
I'm not okay.

And sometimes
I am.