"clayey" poems
i
a wee shaft of beam
across
a sea of chilly darkness:
dashing on, dashing long
a chain
of disturbing crispy waves.
a haunting pitch
of sirens, of winging gulls.
…then
a whistle in the dark
ii
i have bled.
and ever bleeding
is resurgence.
the stones are stained now
not all are stained yet.
but i can hold no more.
no more.
iii
to listen would have been enough
but spoke i
to deaf-mutes, clayey forms.
and every uttered little word
faded like receding undertone.
and then
conspiracy of silence,
misquotations,
sharing of once
too friendly shoulders.
a nod would have been enough,
or a pat,
or any like gesture;
they turned askance
and i fled… fled away.
iv
back to my chambered shell
back to my cradle
where there are many whispers.
and every fateful swing
of the pendulum
i reel and ride the wheel of fancy,
embrace false idols
like one fearful of his god
if only to escape the haunts
of conscience;
tremble at approaching footsteps,
shriek at every shadow.
v
i shall walk barefoot again
past leafless stumps
windborn, heated, and bowed,
‘cross an oasis grown desert dry,
past anthills now dunghills,
‘neath rapid flutter
of widespread murky wings,
past cliff edges
where resound pampered echoes,
while arched in deceitful hues
a rainbow.
…i scan the blue… i pause…
vi
i await a lily-white stork
or there shall be no curtain speech.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
I am a coffee mug,
Earthy, clayey, rotund and pouty.
I feel loved, embraced and wanted by you most times, other times I wonder.
I would rather be in your hands, kissing your lips and at least by your side in the outdoors or by the soft yellow light by your bedside where you linger with me and the brew lost in your thoughts or a beautiful book.
I live in harmony with your favourite blue wooden tray- my carriage, the small silver spoon- to stir up a storm and create music in me, and that cane worn out coaster that fits my round ample bottoms so well.
I dream of holding magical coffee brews from lands close and far, dark.
Robust, wholesome that would make you moan in delight.
I sometimes dread that you read too much in wellness and what if you get influenced to drink less of coffee and fill me up with some detox potion, oh I worry about that so!
I am so majestic, grand and covetable and you love me so, so many options you have,
but to me is always where you go.
I stay awake humming while you sleep, in the morning I pour love into my crevices to welcome the brew just right for you.
The best thing I have done is to never give up on you but I just reciprocate what you do too💕
I sometimes carried brews so yucky for you,
Despite your love, I feel guilty of needing constant validation from you.
My favourite time is bringing in the dawn together with you or watching the rain while you lovingly caress me watching the pitter patter of raindrops on your windowsill.
The point of my life is to spread joy and give lovingly and empty myself for you.
I would like to be remembered as your forever favourite, giving, loving, being held till my last crack and then you make me into art to lie by your bedside as your favourite coaster to welcome the new one
but I will be your forever one☕️
Jun 13, 2021
Jun 13, 2021 at 10:42 AM UTC
Arteries benumbed
Reading pharmaceutical's inserts no fun
Reading your mind even worse
Print so small
Foldings such as a roadmap
Those molecular models delineated
Moods might just as well be
Translating cuneiform
You wedge-shape marks on me
Deceptive blinks cut my clayey gray matter
That mascara you wear
Like kajal on Persian Princess
Ovular pills with spider legs
How do I defend from?
Enigmatical ellipses
Narcotic exotic
I look for, but find no
Adjoining pamphlets or warnings
To all your strange side-effects
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
A pine forest is the hand,
The soul of the palm fans out in fingers
Like the clayey striations of the sun.
The forest has no sound but the bonebreast
Wandering round of a similar hand,
All but shut now except for the unspoiled nest
Of browning needles and the ancient realmless mound of love.
Aug 31, 2019
Aug 31, 2019 at 7:44 PM UTC
We are the brothers of suns; our winter chants have a very delicate roaring, and our mumbles have a wide love. We are the sons of old farmers know the magic tales of our rosary rivers and comb the golden braid of the sun at its smiley morning. You know; the brother is a smile, and the brotherhood is a gift so when you have a brother you will be an endless happy bird and a timeless openhanded tree. Yes, We are Iraqis; the son of this land; the land of brotherhood; our Hilli beans inherited the magic songs from the Babylonian clayey tablets and our amber rice has learnt their peaceful colors from the white souls of our ancestors. Yes, we are the sons of the magic land but this strange world always -and without cause- trying to **** our dreams. Here, in our land, the land of brotherhood, the souls are smooth and the hearts are delicate but the roads are grey and the winds are rough because the blind world has a very black hand which don't stop the stealing of our chants. Yes, we are the endless chants and timeless songs but you should plant a red rose in your fields and lodge wild deer in your lands to hear our magic and to see our colors.
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 9:47 PM UTC
The little girl sitting on the floor
knew she wasn't that little anymore
and now was time to stand and think
how much has changed in a blink
of an eye; that how messed up
this sullen world is like a cup.
Cracked and burnt and full of things,
like dusty stones and shiny rings.
All twist and turn in a poky space
pushing each other, it's like a race.
It didn't make sense, it's almost wry
some laugh hysterically while others cry.
She wondered, pondered, trying to comprehend
was this the beginning or the end
of her life she just found out;
she's just a tiny speck in a crowd
of million others of her age,
blank, naive, on the same page;
but she knew how it was,
like a clayey knoll in a blanket of moss.
But when the wind hits at times,
the green is cleared and out it shines.
And she will too, betwixt, she knew;
and face the fire when it will roar.
Oh, she isn't that little anymore.
A.S.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 6:40 AM UTC