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Picnic
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My friends laugh elsewhere on the beach
while I sit here, alone, counting the waves,
writing and rewriting your name in the sand ...



Confession
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your image overwhelmed my vision.
As the long nights passed, I became obsessed with your visage.
Then came the moment when I quietly placed my lips to your picture ...



Rain
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Why shiver alone in the rain, maiden?
Embrace the one in whose warming love your body and mind would be drenched!
There are no rains higher than the rains of Love,
after which the bright rainbows of separation will glow with the mysteries of hues.



My Body's Moods
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I long for the day when you'll be obsessed with me,
when, forgetting the world, you'll miss me with a passion
and stop complaining about my reticence!
Then I may forget all other transactions and liabilities
to realize my world in your arms,
letting my body's moods guide me.
In that moment beyond boundaries and limitations
as we defy the conventions of veil and turban,
let's try our luck and steal a taste of the forbidden fruit!



Moon
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

All of us passengers,
we share the same fate.
And yet I'm alone here on earth,
and she alone there in the sky!



Vanity
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

His world is so simple, so very different from mine.
So distinct—his dreams and desires.
He speaks rarely.
This morning he wrote: "I saw some lovely flowers and thought of you."
Ha! I know my aging face is no orchid ...
but how I wish I could believe whatever he says, however momentarily!

Keywords/Tags: Perveen Shakir, Urdu, translation, Pakistan, love, passion, picnic, beach, vision, confession, rain, rainbow, hues, forbidden fruit, body, ***, orchid, mrburdu



What the Poet Sees
by Michael R. Burch

What the poet sees,
he sees as a swimmer
~~~underwater~~~
watching the shoreline blur
sees through his breath’s weightless bubbles ...
Both worlds grow obscure.

Published by ByLine, Mandrake Poetry Review, Poetically Speaking, E Mobius Pi, Underground Poets, Little Brown Poetry, Little Brown Poetry, Triplopia, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, PW Review, Neovictorian/Cochlea, Muse Apprentice Guild, Mindful of Poetry, Poetry on Demand, Poet’s Haven, Famous Poets and Poems, and Bewildering Stories
Simp May 6
For most of this year I dreamed of a picnic in the spring
Maybe we’d get out of the car during our lunch break for a change
It’s a shame all I can do now is practice making the food I’d bring
It’s hopeless now but I hope you don’t find the idea too strange

Maybe we’d get out of the car during our lunch break for a change
We could have sat under a blooming cherry tree this week
It’s hopeless now but I hope you don’t find the idea too strange
It’s unfortunate how much our daily life has changed

We could have sat under a blooming cherry tree this week
That’s better than listening to the news go on about unemployment and ill fate
It’s unfortunate how much our daily life has changed
Now all people can do is wait in miles long food bank lines and hope they’re not too late

For most of this year I dreamed of a picnic in the spring
It’s a shame all I can do now is practice making the food I’d bring
That’s better than listening to the news go one about unemployment and ill fate
Now all people can do is wait in miles long food bank lines and hope they’re not too late
My mangled try at a pantoum
daffodil May 2
Soft brown bread easily cut into
teeth seek out seeds to split
slight crunch of salad
green and still a little wet
brown spread of pickle
just a little, not too strong
save strength for the cheese
salty and satisfying, addictive
simple sandwich uncovering
memories of simple times
always sunny all the colours
seem brighter when I remember
family picnics games of rounders
wildly swinging the bat
I always missed
lounging on the green grass
gently placing crisps
with extreme precision between
the soft brown bread
Writing about a sandwich as part of an exercise from Writing Magazine. This was fun!
milkweedangel Feb 14
the cherry blossoms that grew alongside us
have bloomed early again this year
and the bread your hands
taught me to make
is warm from the oven
wrapped inside a worn cloth
placed in my wicker basket

i see you from across the meadow
as your white sundress blows in the breeze
and your hand grips the hat
that the wind is so apt to steal away
and you smile,
again.
as you often do these days

and the warmth in my heart tells me
that this picnic date will be
even better than the last one
but not as quite as lovely
as the next will be,
my love.

i’m so happy we’re alive.
for mari <3
Shannon O Sep 2019
the clouds mouth at the wind,
missing her sweet scent just barely
as she whispers on by. in the grass,
below, the two of us do not miss
our mark— we are a
perfect bullseye— and the clouds
can only watch in jealousy. they are
an unwilling audience to your
sticky lips on my jaw, just
resting there, just tasting the
condensation on my skin
like there's never been
a sweeter nectar (though
it may just be sweat).

i'll tell you a secret: i put on my favorite perfume,
gave some to the wind, and her
hands touched my cheeks as
she passed on by, giving me a gift
even as she was on her
way out. maybe she thanked
me, but i didn't hear.

you told me i smelled nice that morning,
hugged me real tight with
your nose in my neck. high above, the clouds
tried to give the wind a kiss, but she
was much too quick for them
to catch.
Megan Hammer Aug 2019
Turning the clock back, searching the face of this man
And he sees me - stands in the lobby
Frowning and sad
Ask me your questions, tell me your name once again

He’s taking a group to the lakes
And he’s holding some whiskey by the picnic table
Hit me
He throws back his head and laughs

Standing beside the river
Where our hands touch the edge of Montmartre
Back to a beach where I’m quietly waiting
On the rumors of summer, on you to come meet me

Lay out a blanket, bring something to feed the birds
He watches them fly back to our place
Where I fall asleep as he reads in bed
As he closes his eyes, dreaming of a church on the mountain

Come back, I’m dreaming of a flight back from London
Where you stand at the gate like the first time
Take me to the basement
To the old hotel room I’m still in

Answer my questions, I’ll say your name once again
Frowning and sad
Because I can’t turn the clock back
Searching for the face of this man
Ray Dunn Aug 2019
take me to the nearest mountain.
i’ll bring snacks, the blanket,
you’ll bring you and a map.

we’ll sit and eat snacks under the stars,
all until the floods make us chew
with our mouths closed
i’m in a weird mood tonight idk i’m kinda in love with the moon and the color green so i’m gonna roll w it
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