"cheque" poems
If I travelled, across the landscape of my mind,
And, I chose to take you with me – guess what you might find?
I’d talk you into many things,
I’d make you see the sea.
We would buy some wood
Pay by cheque, which you would check
And build an arc upon an ark.
And you’d, set sail with me!
Whether we had the weather or not
We’d sail a week, and you’d feel so weak
You’ll beg me for dry land!
And so, we’d end the feat on our two feet
And, tow; toe-to toe.
Until ashore, we land.
We’d shout aloud, if that’s allowed?
To see if we’re alone?
We’d find we are and start to panic
But get woken by the phone.
Steve Collins.
24/8/10
Aug 24, 2010
Aug 24, 2010 at 1:06 PM UTC
"Getting sick of married life?
Tired of your ageing wife?
Well, you can create her face anew
With plastic skin and pink tissue!"
"Yes, in only three short days,
She'll be worthy of your praise.
Just send a cheque to this address
And trust us, friend, we'll sort the rest!"
The bill-boards scream in the night
As wolves in the canopy.
Like lasers, they seethe and cut
Through the diamonds of your wet eyes,
Convincing you all too soon that
You are not already perfect.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
Love Making;Sex.
Text me;
****
You are;
next!
Bend backwards;
cheque!
Lips, tongue:
peck!
Take your;
breath!
It's no;
sweat!
******* your;
breast!
Touching your;
pet!
Like Imma;
vet.
Kissing your;
neck!
**** Toes?
yep!
Want Sum?
yes!
Mind blown;
trek!
We just;
met!
Can't ***
bet!
Toes Curled;
check!
One big;
speck!
Bed Sheets;
wet!
Lost your;
bet!
Love Making;Sex.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 2:29 AM UTC
In London zoo a lion escaped
They forgot to lock his cage
It disappeared into the night
Hungry, filled with rage
Poor old Brian had lost his job
His life had hit the skids
His wife moved in with his mate
She also took his kids
He hit the bottle pretty hard
He started to get ill
His grandma died, he got the call
Turns out she had a will
She had millions in the bank
And she left it all to Brian
But on his way to cash the cheque
He was eaten by a lion.....
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
This Day, two Biped Ponies each of you ride,
Strolling along the lane Lovers enjoy
To watch this Sweet Scene from way far behind,
A Cheque I'd like to cash-in this Friday
Yes, for Pence-Tales of Romance and Success
Thinking to Follow is easy enough
How many, do those Squirrels squeak at-less
The Time which Currency states on the Rough
I guess Luck's Fair in Friendship does depend
On a Brisket-List sorted in custom
To where each of you in Common does spend,
Well, better than sulk out of sheer boredom.
The Bullseye's paid, admitting my Defeat,
Licking my own Fab's whilst hugging the Street.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
We're standing outside in a cold, blistered wind,
for a quick pull of smoke and the chemicals within?
A quick rush of joy, euphoric train wreck,
a cure made illegal for a chemist's blank cheque.
Plant matter burning, charring my lungs,
an irritated throat and a cough soon to come.
Pass it to a friend and beg them to be quick
so I can burn my lungs again - let my blood run thick.
Serotonin chained and forced to make me feel good,
yet a non-addictive substance, apt misunderstood.
Less harmful than tobacco, alcohol still worse,
a sadly brainwashed nation where impression's pre-rehearsed.
Generations plagued with loud misguided cries.
They say it makes you stupid, another heartless lie.
We'll strap a gas mask to a monkey, and force it THC.
Forget about the oxygen... I wonder what we'll see?
It seems their brain cells died - it has to be the drug!
Government made a discovery? They ought to be less smug.
But back to my friend, and I in the cold,
forced to be hidden from long outdated scold.
Celebrating beauties in the world that were forgotten,
we're told it's overrated, like fine Egyptian cotton?
I know from experience that this has to be divine:
it could not exist if the sun could not shine.
The wind has stopped blowing, the rain takes it's place,
to feel divine beauty of liquid touching face.
It is something natural, and comes from within,
wow, I'm still standing in a cold blistered wind.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 10:48 AM UTC
I
This is the night mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.
II
Dawn freshens, Her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends,
Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
Men long for news.
III
Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from girl and boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or to visit relations,
And applications for situations,
And timid lovers' declarations,
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.
IV
Thousands are still asleep,
Dreaming of terrifying monsters
Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston's or Crawford's:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
But shall wake soon and hope for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
4.7k
God was tired that day
After all
Six days shalt thou labour
And on the seventh
Shalt thou rest
And he'd be slaving away
For eighteen days nonstop
Mainly because of the offer of
Double overtime
Had proven irresistible.
He'd written out these great rules
On how to live,
All eleven of them.
And God yelled out:
*"Oy Moses, you fat bearded ***
I got some tablets of stone for you
So move your ******* kosher ****
And Moses came out of the pub
And picked up the first ten
But, being a bit the worse for wear,
And nine sheets to the wind
With cut-price passover wine,
He never noticed the eleventh one:
*"Never accept a personal cheque
Without a bank guarantee card"*
Is what it said,
And you can't argue with that
No ******* way.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
Your life consists of working hard hours, for not enough pay, hard days
Good, great people
But nothingness consoles you at the end of the day
Nothing to live for and nothing to fight for
You have become a waste of space
You don't contribute
You second guess
You
All the time fighting the same battles
Your heart, your tongue, and your liver, your mind set and your waist line
You are so far removed what you wanted ten years ago
Fell into a pattern of pay cheque to pay cheque
Living through decisions and then later, they're regrets
You need a huge change. It is scary, but dockside was the best decision you have ever made
Step outside, from your shredded sheltered comfort zone, and branch out a little more
Do what you always knew you were born to do!
Go take photographs, that mean something
Make your life important again
Not another bottle and not another regret
Do what you want to do!
Go to war, take pictures
Make your life mean something
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:57 AM UTC
**WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF CASUAL ***
True romance is dead
it is buried in the dense rocks
eroded from the cliffs to the valleys
it's silenced in the pitch of a symphony
It's a poet dream
to write sweet sentiments
kiss in the nothingness
sketch love as if a masterpiece
Now a Tinder
where you can plunder
curves and bossoms
with no responsibility
Then Ok Cupid
where conversations
tender and ponder
before unleashing the game
There is always POF
where fishes dare in a swim
kissing and pinching
punching and finishing
True love is an illusionary debt
a cheque in deficit
An emotional injustice
the unrighteous pursuit
It's a poet's dreams to love
count the stars and watch the moon
nurture emotions and connections
The probability is the world won't let us
It won't let us be
Ladies just undress and expose the jubblies
Men just undress and measure your *****
the world won't let us be
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 11:38 AM UTC
Bounced
a mother figure
to two, a name
on a Christmas card
to four
when I realised
I was still a
child
and bitterness
wasn't an
option
I grew up
like a broken
nose
out of joint
Bounced
at the service
there are tears
beside me
I imagine a
body burning
and feel
warm
the lick of flames
on gray skin
my indifference
grows like I
imagine the
fire roaring
behind the curtain
heating up
Bounced
the house is
empty and
smells
unusual
like something has
been left in there
too long
they are not
there now but
it lingers
I tried to take
her dresses but
she was thinner
as a girl than
I am now
jealously
is a feeling
I'm familiar with
and it's easier
to understand
Bounced
we are waiting
for a buyer
and I imagine
how it feels
to have a piece
of your heart
trapped in bricks
and mortar
Bounced
one time,
I wanted to ask her
how it felt to
take notes of
the war
if she'd ever thought
of waving a white
flag and crumbling
drowning in the
rubble rain of
The Blitz
I wanted to hear
her say something
human
so I could
visualise and
see a bit of
her in myself
Bounced
I'm still caught up
on the autopsy
like a piece of
fatty tissue on
a scalapal
and my thoughts
are metal and
cold
the number of
zeroes on a
cheque
Bounced
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 5:36 AM UTC
It could Satan's cohorts cause, what portly
Political figures earn, to forsake his camp
And anon join the fray to the fat fiscal treasury
Of the country squander; and that to a cramp.
The pay plus pecks in a year they receive
Will most citizens in their lifetime never sniff.
So some who covet crazily such a mega-cheque
Also seek the same office for the easy favours.
Since our paunchy purse will at their own beck
And call be, they thus make elections endeavours
A dagger thing;--that if they cannot God's gross
Gold get, they must anyhow have the devil's dross.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC
I refuse to participate
In this race
so corporate
Where nothing but competition rules
Where competitors
get thrown to hungry wolves
They call it survival of the fittest
And elimination
of the weakest
Competition they say breeds innovation
As if a creative soul
needs any confrontation!
They corrupt you with conviction
Of wealth, riches, fame and
instant gratification
They put a noose round your neck
With a cabin
enclosing your desk
You toil night and day
To keep
the wolves at bay
You die a little every day
Dreaming of things
to do your way
Only you can these fetters break
By doing what you love
Even if it is for a smaller cheque
In the extra time that you have
Gaze at the world
with wonder and awe
Go paint on a canvas, or weave a web of words
Or simply go watch
wild animals and birds
For when you finally go up for review
He will treat us all
with the same view
He
for sure
will ask
Did you laugh, did you cry
Did you
Your precious life enjoy?
I refuse to participate
In this race
so corporate
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 7:09 AM UTC
Check - work nine-to-five, eat, sleep, draw again.
Surviving the day, nothing more, c'est bien.
Or call - easy choice for the hand you were dealt.
Just settle for average; win, lose; both unfelt.
If you need to, just quit; to accept it, just fold.
Be resigned to your fate; easy just isn't bold.
If not, you might lose; see pain, heartbreak, and death.
Bracing for blows that will knock out your breath.
So you didn't call a bluff, didn't sees players who cheat?
Or they raised you too much, now you're feeling the heat.
And life may be a ***** she deals hands unfair.
She's the muscle who beats you; detached, doesn't care.
But here's the kicker, dear life's only tell -
There's so much more out there; fight right to the bell!
'Cuz quitting the game after one bad beat?
You'd risk every win, for fear of defeat?
Not even one pair? Means no partner for life?
No falling in love, no taking the dive.
I guess if you're scared, that's a dangerous risk
Probably not worth the bet.
No three of a kind? No partners in crime?
No best friends for life, no slowing down time?
I guess that you're busy, with your job, for your cheque.
Probably not worth the bet.
And no full house? Means no family to kiss...
No building your future, no dogs, and no kids?
I guess it's hard work to lay down those bricks;
Probably not worth the bet.
No royal flush? No laughter, no tears?
No joy and no sorrow, no fun and no fears?
I guess if the bad scares you more than the good,
Probably not worth the bet.
For you, at least, that all may be fact.
You'll hold back your gambles, buy-in if you're backed.
You save up your chips for just the right hand,
And don't see that they are all equally grand.
For life may be cruel, but she gives loans for chips,
So keep playing the game until your luck flips.
So, me? Hit me, life. I'll stick out my chin.
In this game we're playing?
Hell, I'm all in.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 9:14 AM UTC
The Banker's Fate
They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.
And the Banker, inspired with a courage so new
It was matter for general remark,
Rushed madly ahead and was lost to their view
In his zeal to discover the Snark.
But while he was seeking with thimbles and care,
A Bandersnatch swiftly drew nigh
And grabbed at the Banker, who shrieked in despair,
For he knew it was useless to fly.
He offered large discount--he offered a cheque
(Drawn "to bearer") for seven-pounds-ten:
But the Bandersnatch merely extended its neck
And grabbed at the Banker again.
Without rest or pause--while those frumious jaws
Went savagely snapping around--
He skipped and he hopped, and he floundered and flopped,
Till fainting he fell to the ground.
The Bandersnatch fled as the others appeared
Led on by that fear-stricken yell:
And the Bellman remarked "It is just as I feared!"
And solemnly tolled on his bell.
He was black in the face, and they scarcely could trace
The least likeness to what he had been:
While so great was the fright that his waistcoat turned white--
A wonderful thing to be seen!
To the horror of all who were present that day,
He uprose in full evening dress,
And with senseless grimaces endeavoured to say
What his tongue could no longer express.
Down he sank in a chair--ran his hands through his hair--
And chanted in mimsiest tones
Words whose utter inanity proved his insanity,
While he rattled a couple of bones.
"Leave him here to his fate--it is getting so late!"
The Bellman exclaimed in a fright.
"We have lost half a day. Any further delay,
And we sha'n't catch a Snark before night!"
2.1k
In this moment,
I want 3 things
And here is why
A new job,
One, I love again
Like my last but in London.
More money,
So I can see my parents on day,
With a cheque for their montage.
A relationship,
To fall in love
And not be alone anymore.
I currently stand
In a decent place and position
But being human, I always want more.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC
I came home late from work today
My wife was hopping mad
She said "we've got to put him somewhere"
"I've had it with your dad"
I asked what was the problem
She said "The second you left home"
"He was out back in the garden"
"Sitting, talking to a gnome"
"I see", I said, that isn't good
"Then the war games in the trees"
"The next time I looked out he was"
"Crawling on his hands and knees'
"I went out to go and get him"
"He threw me down and slapped my ***
He said "you have to get down low dear"
"Or you'll be spotted by the ***
I suggested that we look about
For a nice old country home
He could play his war games in the woods
And I would let him take the gnome
My wife said "Make it happen"
And I heard through the back door
"It better happen quickly"
"Because I can not take much more!"
I called and found a nice spot
Princess Patricia's Old Vets Place
It was cheap and fit our budget
And it sure had lots of space
We went up for a visit
Before we put my dad in there
I mean, if it was not to his liking
Then it would not be quite fair
The head nurse gave us info
About the hours and the fees
And we told her of how Daddy
Liked to play war games in the trees
She said "He's going to love it"
"It sounds like he's a real good sport"
"The vets here have a Navy"
"Out on the tennis court"
"They strap bed pans to their feet"
"And they go skating down the hall"
"Some unhook their catheters"
"And have duels upon the wall"
"They see who shoots the highest"
"Which one can write their name"
"And every time we show a war film"
"It all ends up the same"
"He'll fit right in, no problem"
"I can sign him in today"
My wife just stood and smiled
Pulled out the cheque,with which to pay
Dad, not really caring
Watched the woods for an attack
I don't think that he cared much
If we ever did come back
He's happy at the moment
Giving orders to the gnome
Out deep in the country
At Princess Pat's Old Vets Home
Life is back to normal
All is well for her and me
Although lately I've seen soldiers
Hiding, watching in the trees.....
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
A family man, running spandexed and puffing
reaches into the stroller at the crest of the hill
as the day sighs away the last of its dusk
hands a three year old a flashlight
and makes her a secret-wink promise.
*You'll move so quickly on your path,
it's your duty to carry a light with you
to keep you and others safe.*
A stern man and a hot scratchy washcloth
removing a Spice Girls bubblegum tattoo from
the nose of a seven year old, molecule by molecule.
*As soon as you get caught up in superficiality,
that's when you'll make mistakes. Don't make
mistakes that will last.*
A medic man returns from a surgery
from a rural village with more kindness than money.
Lays a basket of apples and a banana loaf on the table
in lieu of a cheque and says:
*There will be opportunities in your life for
your actions to define the kind of person you are-
always take them-
and never forget your common humanity.*
An animal man bursts into the room
with a puppy as new as a sparrow
gamboling, loving, seeking faces and laps.
*When choosing your first dog, look for
one that has more loyalty than shrewdness.
Choose your friends that way, too.*
A tired man breathes deeply instead of shouting
at the quivering teen and the confession of the bumper
and the scratch that shouldn't have happened.
Hurt softly with the truth.... but never with lies.
A romantic man recounts his history
raising his eyebrows at the score of his frolics
and makes me swear to fall madly in like
with every soul who my heart should kiss-
*but Love, reserve Love as the most sacred
of words, deeds, beings. When you Love,
you and he shall become one another,
and be one life.*
A sentimental man wears a silver crown
at the head of his dinner table meditating in
silence after the laughs and mayhem of his
family clan have subsided to the fireplace.
He looks at his daughter.
She looks at her father.
The fullness of her adult face
and Polish eyes reflect in his irises
blue inside blue inside blue inside blue-
making any separation between them
redundant, intangible, like-
mirrors facing mirrors-
as the roots of the
Tree run as deep as soul itself
and he murmurs:
*The day you hear the cry of your firstborn child
is the day you discover the meaning of your life-
and nothing will ever, ever be the same.*
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 6:34 PM UTC
Equality For All
Why do you despise
Those who must fight to survive
In our lands
The lands of the free
Those who walk the cracked concrete streets
High on the cannabis ****
The dull glaze in their eyes
No will to survive
No hope, no future in sight
Hispanic and black and *** country white
Painted with the same ***** brush
Their only crime is the place they were born
Born on the wrong side of the track
But they to have rights
Be they black brown or white
They to have voices to be heard
You live in your big house
With untold wealth
The taxman to defraud
Fancy car and swimming pool
A room filled with fancy shoes
Yes shoes never worn more than once
Then left there on the shelf
You write a cheque for a million dollars
But never give a thought
For those on the other side of the track
Down trodden whites, Hispanics
And the un educated blacks
yes, our lands, the lands of the free
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 6:19 PM UTC
*i've been to kenya, all that these "charity" adverts are fuelling
is ignorance, they're presupposing
all the african nations are like kindergarten,
they're insulating them... it's like that:
give a man fish or give him a fishing rod,
i.e.: give a man money or give him a
method creating & subsequently circulating wealth:
these charitable companies are insulting
african nations to be at a loss,
they're only feeding european bureaucrats
who are really the only worthwhile
charitable pay-cheque givens, odds 4-5.*
a retired lady selling poppies
for a feeling
committed suicide
being hunted by ninety-nine
charity organisations...
charity organisations...
start-ups akin to apps of
cue: shaved face, young, eager
****** venom ****** statues
of jealousy...
all the bankers' wives have
a tier system, the origin of
charity companies
(surely a wife can't be as pristine
as her husband):
first two don't count,
third: modern art "collector",
fifth: philanthropist,
seventh: possessor of an O.B.E.
and as one bemused englishman said:
king arthur and the zimmerframe table
of knights with walking sticks rather than swords:
money made people lazy, less adventurous,
let alone less tribal and communist,
adventure just became predictable,
tourism...
the modern shopper is envious of
the hunter gatherer... so envious
he wants to look the part, but live as modern
lazy allows... after all... all the gym sessions
can't go to waste... got to run standing still:
hey! don quixote! leave the windmills!
check out the treadmills... you see a caveman
anywhere in the sweaty parlours?
i don't.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC
I'm in the gutter, skinny and pale
God bless me with a poetry sale
got lots of words but got no food
somethin to eat would improve my mood
words could be my bread and butter
i can type them all , without a st stutter
someone send a cheque to me
and put my poetry on tv
21st century pam eyres
I really hope that someone cares
let the poetry spill from my lips
as I'm dreamin oven chips
(c) p skez and ms rigs 07/10/2014
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
the blatant frustrations of live feed editing.
enter the tablet, joystick free, one touch games,
quiet interesting that it’s so hard
to get a gaming addiction with such games
as candy crush soda, family farm,
bubble witch 2...
you will not see an adrenaline tornado on these
platitudes, no movie like involvement,
no plot... just time contraints, money constraints,
the adequate reflection of life: hey mort! when you coming?
hey forthnight debility cheque! when you coming?
(i too thought tetris originated in japan,
but it was actually of soviet design!
so in conclusion: games designed to be as reflected
by someone doing a crossword - i'm crap at
those, being bilingual is obstructive -
i'm in constant translation mode looking
for picturesque synonymity - or doing sūdoku -
which i'm not too bad at.)
a bit like that jesus debacle, so gott insisted on giving
proof of his existence to a baby... bad move...
the kid grew up in a bubble and thought he could do anything...
elijah just said to the priests: but if your god doesn’t exist,
what’s the point of having you? later he repented
on mt. sinai where god was but a whisper...
like the whisper of the dream of what rome was at first:
a republic. i believe in republicanism, i don’t believe
in that shamble that’s known as democracy, and is currently
the biggest export from america... exported to usurp
other nation’s republicanism - the elders of afghanistan
will never be modern family mr. jason wordsmith and
mr. jack wordsmith, raising an adopted / surrogate mother’s
kid... not in a million years... nor will revised buddhism
in western europe ever be original shinto of japan...
not in a million years... we’re not a monochromatic people.
back to jesus: there’s not one shred of christianity in
jurisprudence (philosophy of law /
etymology: prudence of having a jury) - but when you’re faced
with an enemy who’s a lawyer, and has connections...
and you’re a poor idiot who was forced into a paranoid schizophrenia
simulation for 7 years... you don’t set out to attack
and get compensation like that woman schopenhauer pushed
down the stairs... you set out to prove god -
and subsequently leave the ******* in his own waiting
line for karma - i hardly think there will be an oliver twit
in him to ask for some more.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
1
if and when I'm retired
I'd expect the world to be kind
and reverential:
so I'd expect when I drive
all people get off the road
when they see me approach;
and at the bank
for all to step aside
for a man whose daily 3-time meals
is nothing but baked beans
2
I'd expect the world to be in awe, and to admire
so the women would say: *
”My, look at this retiree
in his psychedelic shirt and rainbow hat
and his bell-bottoms – real cool, baby”*
and the men would concur, dazzled:
“Owww - this guy, what planet is he from?”
3
and
of course I'd expect
the govt
to send me my cheque
weekly –
no, wait - EFT
will be the way to go;
and the Minister for the Retired
should call me every 30th
to ask if I’d like a raise
4
Also I’d expect
to wake up each morning
to find a cup of coffee ready on my table
and I’d turn to my wife and say:
*“All our lives, you always put the ****** salt
in the coffee”*
And I’d expect her to say
(cos that’s always been the way):
*“If you want sugar in your coffee
fix your ****** coffee yourself!”*
5
And all these things I expect
of the world (except of my wife)
to be kind
and reverential
if and when I’m retired -
but then again, I might just die
at my table at work
after a coffee I fixed myself
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 5:50 AM UTC
We rode to Ta’if on a flying carpet
— a Toyota with a missing hubcap
sweeping through fattened clouds
which clung to the hilltops like grazing bison
arriving on the otherworldly plateau that wore
the death shroud of an old hermit’s mystery
which our Prophet reached in sandals as ******
as the deck of a Nantucket whaling ship
Arabian Himalayas. He climbed like a yak
and the Lord strengthened his steps
Our taxi driver — as lost as the cheque in the mail —
poked at his satnav and called his mates
The Almighty’s beloved followed the angel and
never lost his way. He strained with pain
Our driver’s mirrored eyes intruded while we
held hands on the back seat and yawned
The Lord smiled down upon his aching friend
and eased the pain in cramping calves
A sagging mosque now hunches where the ignorant
had cast away the chance of a lifetime
Oh think if they had taken him in — Medina
would sit as a happy king on a mountain throne
I immortalised my love in a photo in that mosque
praying as a saint where our hero had struggled
I adore my captured shaikha and the memory
of when we followed in the footsteps of our Prophet
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC