"festivity" poems
The heady perfume of the
Arabian Attars
is
in the air!
A lunar litter
brings Eid
Antimony sulphide
of the downcast eyes
and the pinkish nails
have been painted with henna
Eid is a glorious gift
Bliss is blossoming
The blessings are blooming
The fragrant roses
and the white jasmines
are being elated by
a joyous colour
of the festivity
The nameless
nightingales
are singing the paeans
We're being showered
with Salams
Eid Mubaraks
are echoing
The cheerful children
are being
over the moon
Eid is marvellously nice
and we sacrifice.
Jul 20, 2021
Jul 20, 2021 at 9:21 AM UTC
don’t tell me “I love you” ~by Roxanne, for Cyrano~
<>
that’s a verse I’ve heard many too times before,
that’s a curse of low majesty, a quatrain too plain,
if that’s your best sally, retreat, say no more,
too simp verses, or ungolden silences, agents of dissatisfying pain
I need the best of your taste
the finest visions that you eyelids occlude,
make haste for my mouth grows exceedingly
impatient for the other senses to do their tandem wooing
slap only my face with the creature comforts others savor,
words of diamonds and pink pearls mined from your breast,
the bejeweled words that will decorate my evergreen,
that never dies, lest, unless and until,
you want my mortal affection suppressed
give me your linguistic promiscuity, wake me from the stupor
of ordinary, arouse me with thy tongue coiling, a bee sting delivery,
a wet poem that makes all my orifices!|offices weep, your mouth,
my souls recouper,
your wizardry bewitching,
answer my inquiry with unbounded festivity
then and after all, the plain simplicity of an “I love you,”
will be edged with sublimity, my mercies, your mercies
our jointed, sharp pointy, introverting, interlocking,
*our futures becoming
our pasts*
11:07am
19-9-30
<>
https://thenewgroup.org/production/cyrano/?gclid=Cj0KCQjwz8bsBRC6ARIsAEyNnvoENpdnWyqeUEwq0avNStgWCf4CocB1i239c2mHdNSFF8gOlWZtfjsaAls4EALw_wcB
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
Summer is not beautiful in Iraq; it is old and it is standing on a long failure. The summer here, like me, loves watermelon, but it is a bitter love. The watermelon here is something hidden and wondrous, full of secrets and magic, and our ancestors often tell us about it strangely, until I thought that the watermelon is a mythical being. When I return from my long absence, I will go to one of the doors of my grandfather's small orchard, and I will paint a small watermelon on it and I will celebrate. I will invite all the birds of the earth to seed the grain of watermelon in the fields of the Iraqis in order to make a big celebration; it is the festivity of the great Watermelon.
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 4:57 AM UTC
to be
kneaded,
in squashy,
jelly ecstasy,
falling over
tumultuous,
a largess of
festivity,
woman,
not as much
as your walk,
talk or nature,
but that one
boom-rocket,
eminent, salient
feature,
lickety, suckety,
twistety, pressety,
lurety, bitety,
fever,
closety, graspety,
claspety, grabety,
clungety, playety,
severe,
twins to be
tended, a little
gorge, to lash
tongue betwixt,
to be clasped,
lurch after
each tip,
tender,
half-earths,
cast on a
potter's wheel,
sun baked,
shaped in
rain's fluidity,
winter's rigidity,
summer fire,
lover's calm,
luster's oasis,
sumptuous,
lush spread,
breeze at
a tree top,
monuments
in rhapsody...
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
well then shepherd in the mess why does that sharpened cowl of wheat surround those sweet yams in the satchel, some scene of loosening transgressions, no pear ripening itself one dull, and one unfulfilling afternoon, rolls down over its branch of sister and brother father and mother Bartletts from the stem, only to make its way into the bottom of that stretched out tawny hide. Where by the wayside every other nobody can see straight inside when a hand moves in, sweeps its fist and then goes deeply down into that can of rotten novelties we all hate, but you feel keeps us in suspense. I wonder will it ever end? Bells busting from the insides of their guts, another candy shock, up and bounces, popcorn kernels, roasted almond slivers, and some preceding green vegetable posted on the 8th St. Diner marquee display on 9th, another advertisement fighting at the sore, devoured hunger for that silhouette following closely behind the moistened wells where my brush dabs lightly into the cup before the gouache and paint mixture begin to dry, that is where I wait and wonder why? Why? Pained with hunger but besmirched with fright, skin sweaty, knotted like muslin yards growing weak against the coil. So humbling were the groans that nearly a decade crossed swiftly across his face, only five or ten minutes had passed before another twenty years flowed into the vast matrix of the rivers of blue sweat marked by estuaries, creeks, and streams across the brow, down the cheeks, and ultimately across the neck, lazing down into the chest, before settling its heavy panic soaking in the guts. Where a heavy glass brick has been vitrifying in the sun, never have two people seen the steamy and piping-hot quarry go from its conviviality and festivity of life, into this shriveled up tree having found its way into the prairie where giant winds bend its branches and enormous thunderstorms nearly strangle it with its own roots. Frisked by sin and pangs of nostalgia in which a thousand thoughts intersplice the whorls imprinted upon our brains.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
I am not your accessory
a statement piece
to your spineless connections
The thousandth image-oriented festivity
That you thoughtlessly threw
Due to the boredom of your own reflection
I am not a string of pearly witty conversation that you casually bring up when you aren't capable of employing stimulation
I am not a magenta lipstick you reach to cover up your mindnumbing gossip about the neighbors indecencies
You try to duplicate me and slip your right, then your left foot into vintage leather Jimmy Choos
Oh but your archless perception of life
Doesn't quite fit your soul next to mine
Empathy was never your strong suit
Oh but a tailored cold charcoaled judgement suit--that fits just.right.
Still you try to wear me, despite discrepancies
And oh how you hate the way I mock your silhouette
I clash with your champagne clings
You try to bash me against silverware but I remain mute
"Oh but if I can't make her an accessory, I shall make her an appendage!"
Oh how Christian and courteous of you
In the same way you asked your bridesmaid to step off the alter when she came out to you on that heavenly day
You ask me to be your brothers appendage
Oppressive and aloof
Asking was always a waste of time for you
You expect.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
Anticipation rising
as our holiday nears
My gosh, Eid ul Fitr
is already here
In the early morning
on your way to groom and a bath
I know it's so because
I too clean up to be on the same path
Squeaky clean
the skin on our faces shine
A gigantic goal accomplished
oh we're feeling really fine
Who needs Christmas when we've got Eid
a festivity that includes all Muslims even those in need
Decorative clothes we wear while extending our hearts to each other and offering a good cheer
it isn't hard to tell our love of our religion is near
From the same community we come, it's known we throw a fun-filled Eid party
"Because this is my holiday" and our festive spirits aught to be really hearty
Allah hu Akbar, the accessory and ornament of our special day
along with a duo and nearly two billion others, you'll hear me loudly say
When little girls, Atefeh's and my enthusiasm about Eid blossoming as we sang an Eid song perhaps trying to compete
"From sunrise to sunset, no food did we eat. All praises are due to Allah, our fast is now complete."
Mehdi whose thoughts of his beloved in the distance too busy with his boys climbing trees and ducking low
a long time friend of two families to witness a wedding and a start of an Eid tradition that brings the community together, what a show
So here's to Mehdi and Atefeh, Eid enthusiasts among a few
showing you gratitude and appreciation, for we've heard it said "It takes one to know two."
by: Najwa Kareem
Jun 4, 2019
Jun 4, 2019 at 7:05 AM UTC
oh.have.the.heart.to.welcome.a.stranded.soul
1.
If you’re given the jolly gift of a green ribbon
Would you use it as a link to answers
Or to hang your pretty neck?
2.
If a tree has been yearning to the sky for more than sixty years
Would you now stub out your ciggie in its folds
Or embrace its giving energy?
3.
If such books have been written many millennia ago – saying a multitude
Would you shut your ears to debate and follow blindly
Or respectfully ask bold questions?
4.
If a man kneels repentant in the dust to wipe your shoes
Would you offer a hand up
Or trample on his fingers and spit on his bent head?
5.
If the insipid cashier annoys your sensibilities
Do you leave it unattended
And later sickeningly vent and shout at the wrong one at home?
6.
If a once-beautiful cat lies dead in the road
Would you let your rapid wheels contribute to its messy mince
Or do the ***** job of humanely scooping away its remains?
7.
If a powerful dream comes mayhap to honour you
Would you ignore its seemingly-confusing message
Or follow its signals (in a maze) to certain life-enhancing enrichment?
8.
If constant calamity touches your being on stretched resources
Would you keep popping those three sublinguals with alarming ease
Or try to surrender and accept the pain under arborescent canopies?
9.
If an old woman suffers a stroke in the heart of festivity
Would you refrain from visits while sending easy bouquets and fruit-baskets
Or take the time to help her struggling steps to the toilet?
10.
If the moon shines tonight on your wretched suffering
Would you hurl silent abuse and curse its half-light
Or glance up to catch perchance the echo of your deepest wishes in the air around ...?
*you.can’t.honestly.say.that.it.matters.not
for.it.touches.you.too*
S T, 16 July 2013
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 12:52 PM UTC
Home is the place where all hearts turn
When Christmas comes again
The place that draws you through the fog
The snow the wind and rain
To take your place beside the fire
Wherever it may be
And hope for peace, and good cheer
And gay festivity
Year by year the same old words
Of greetings we repeat
But never seem to tire
When friends and families meet
So rejoice right through to Christmas night
And over the world's dark shadows
Cast some some heavenly light
Keith Wilson. Windermere, UK 2016
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 6:02 AM UTC
Try your best to escape and free
Your mind is not your identity
Your genetics, your family tree
Your looking glass eyes can see
Through the window an fatefully
Change your perception of reality
And redefine who you are to be
My new persona is in a coma down in Barcelona
Now I'm Jonah in love with Mona from Arizona
Drinking corona with Fiona in the streets of Verona
Creativity is a proclivity that unshackles our identity free
Journey with me far from the vast sea of mental captivity
Exclusivity of proactivity creates a glorious life of festivity
Consent to your dreams to the absolute umpteenth degree
Augment your schemes and forget about the no guarantee
Reinvent thee extremes, and you will never be a life absentee
Remember as you read that we are all connected eternally
On this marble together spinning we are all just guests
Wandering around trying to solve our personal quests
Humans being we happened to be, but only temporarily
May as well attempt and squeeze life to death and manifest
All your aspirations and ambitions should be put to the test
All so blessed with a mind, and a beating heart in our chest
So why not invest the rest of our time to aspire to be the best
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
Into the masquerade
Of her unyielding dream,
I see her flash into ambiguity.
A vestige of fluorescent
Transcendental light particles
Rising into the zenith,
Through a liquescent portal,
Into the reminiscence
Of her fanciful bloom.
I meander through the enigmatic
Labyrinth of her
Never-ending rumination.
Through the postern door,
Into a frolic of festivity;
A jamboree of her
Effervescent frivolity.
A sudden vision
Of our exuberant youth,
The romantic tryst by the fountain.
Our souls interlaced,
weaving in the wind
As we gaze at her fragrant,
Celestial moon.
The ambience of her earthly silence
Conjures the emergence of a stairway
Into her intuitive star.
Our ephemeral dalliance,
In an evaporating mirage
Of unrelenting fortitude,
Of what was once forgotten.
I take my enamoured bow,
With ardent strings of burning light
And fire fervently to seek
Her euphonious heart.
May 20, 2019
May 20, 2019 at 4:43 PM UTC
730 days of ambiguity,
Searching your soul,
Finding a cracked China doll,
Fragile, yet beautiful,
With a tragic past.
That one holiday in New London,
A mere ride on the Ferry away,
But we took the long way,
Simply to have more time.
More time, how I wish… we had it.
Our excitement as bold,
As our love for each other then,
You watched that Mohegan Sun rise,
Through that gaping window, overlooking the lake,
As you studied my sleep.
A holiday festivity,
Experiencing Siberian music,
In this Native American palace,
Dining like royalty,
And smiling in harmony.
730 days of highs and lows,
Despite how it all ended, and it did end,
That one, quaint little memory,
Reminds me of one simple thing,
We’ll always have Mohegan Sun
Nov 5, 2023
Nov 5, 2023 at 12:53 PM UTC
They tell of a land to the North
with misted valley's and of glen
Where red deer wild roam
as they make splash upon the fen.
Strong and hardy is the stock,
many with deep red hair,
Raised from their day of birth,
on naught but deep fried fare.
Custom demands of each a thrift,
and preservation of everything,
this all born out on coinage in pocket,
bearing the head of the last king.
They are true a hardy race,
of this many can contend,
and rumours abound all over,
of them tossing trees end on end.
So too there are tales of a legend,
that gives some despair to the soul.
that they smack a ball all over hillsides
until it falls into a wee hole.
Cultural music is a strong tradition.
and dance often accompanies that,
with much joy and merry festivity
to sound of someone neutering a cat.
An ancient tongue they sometimes speak
that gives cause to a certain lilt.
But ire them not for revenge is sweet
as they turn backs and raise their kilt.
Aug 26, 2021
Aug 26, 2021 at 9:16 AM UTC
Two contrasting social situations
Putting central function
On the requirements of oneself
On best interests of others
Pining
Set outside perspective
Leading towards enlightenment
Lead towards an idea of truth
Festivity
Following from this
Purposeful conveying
Purposeful connection
Okay.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
*''My imagination of a poet and poetess
sharing their first conversation.''*
Poetess:
Gazing upon your clay-cup,
My eyes judge that you are alike,
So raise your crown, and wake-up,
O' my dreamlike!
Poet:
My soul a boundless wave,
Seeks a ray of light in solitude,
You seem a queen and I a slave,
Perhaps your eyes are hued?
_______
Poetess:
O' ruler, disguised in veil,
Thirst in your eyes an ocean for me,
And my soul has pined for such zeal,
You are bliss on earth craving for me.
Poet:
Aroma of your gentle devotion,
And a stir of my visions have raised the wings,
My passion is scattered alike dust in the winds,
O' wise and brave, what is your emotion?
_______
Poetess:
Your presence before me, an arrival of moon,
My heart opening its eyelids to a new majesty,
And the soul is dancing in the rapturing monsoon,
O' beautiful, my yearnings lay in your agony.
Poet:
O' elegance of such heavenly delight,
Your beauty a messenger to my heart,
And my soul lay in extremes of your excite,
O' pearl of my pride, my image and my art.
_______
Poetess:
O' merchant of intoxicating whispers,
Ecstasy arises from within your tongue,
New clouds of joy are unveiling in my heart,
And may such unity never be apart.
Poet:
O' morning dew, if you dare come close,
My affection wants to hold you in its arms,
Waiting are my kisses on a throne of rose,
And elating are your splendid charms.
_______
Poetess:
O' beautiful, O' flowing stream,
Embrace my soul in your captivity,
I desire to be seized in your esteem,
And my heart rests in such festivity.
Poet:
O' blessed wine, O' sweetness of my existence,
Your love arose like the morning sun upon my chest,
Elevating me and pouring like a spring within my breast.
✒ ℐamil Hussain
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 5:34 AM UTC
While the festivities were going on
Laughter was in the air
Drinks being poured by the glasses
A grandballroom full of spirits
Exchanging throughout
Being a gentleman of exquisite taste
I heard a kindly sweet voice called my name
A sudden twist in faith
She was there sitting quite comfortable
Pacing towards her with each step seems promising
Gathering my thoughts on what to say
She greeted with a smile of mesmeric elegance
Beautifully in her black garment
Appealing one's notion
Her aggressiveness
Speaks volumes
To her fixation
Catching a conscious man withering
As the music stops
Attending to other guest
I take one last glance with arrogance
Knowing things will never be
How can a lover be a mistress?
A question I ask myself
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 10:15 PM UTC
I saw you looking at her
in the midst of festivity,
when everybody else
are shouting and jumping,
joggling and rapping,
all that there is to say.
I saw you looking at her
and your eyes are fixed
as the moment froze
and I know how you’ve felt.
It was exactly how I felt.
I saw you looking at her
and I was crushed in an instant
like a thunderbolt
like a thunderbolt
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 4:20 AM UTC
Inside the walls of my citadel's
keep, i wander haunted halls
and rooms, broken images of
continuous life flashing light
randomly around, an epileptic's
nightmare, beamed in from
beyond, playing dangerous
paranoid games with my mind.
My grandfather's apparition
stalks me silently,
inching to the couch,
guarding the bathroom,
verifying the existence of
gravity behind door
number three, on the bed.
He approaches!!
SQUEAK-SQUEAK!!...RATTLE!!...
(Darth Elder and his walker)
SQUEAK-SQUEAK!!...RATTLE!!...
i evade his ghost of Christmas'
passed, darting to the porch and
in another entry door.
Each time i look up, his
spector stands frozen in
silhouette, spurring my adrenal
response, yet only imperceptibly
creeping, ever closer...
SQUEAK-SQUEAK!!...RATTLE!!...
He is everywhere!
EVERYWHERE!!!
Frozen in time at various locations,
practicing being dead on his bed,
re-living the now, back then in
his head, inside my head!!
There is only one solution.
i have spoken to the others:
no Christmas tree this year,
we will wrap grandfather
in colored lights and
garland, and help him
celebrate life in style.
A slightly motile tree, a
blatant festivity.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
At parties I try
to leave soon, always longing --
for festivity!
Dec 21, 2022
Dec 21, 2022 at 3:55 AM UTC
i always aimed at returning Nietzsche's ping-pong serve of poet-philosopher, as philosopher-poet... well, you know, any vanity project will do these days, given our current celebrity culture... there's nothing celebratory about it, so my little festivity of hope in establishing a self-style vocabulary might be too much for Gucci... but you got to try and whiff up a tornado of absinthe sweeties in licorice black (lee ko reesh).
there's only one argument i cling on to,
it is theological,
i'm biased toward the theological argument
always,
because i've seen the ontological argument
become desecrated by oncology -
every theologian argues the same:
there's a god, because, to be frank,
whatever ontology provides us, it leaves us more
bewildered than anything:
how we expressed our freedom will
never be compensated in terms of how
others expressed theirs...
so even Kant said: my ontology is based on god...
so his contemporaries said:
my theology is based on no god...
which is why Kant professed a theology
without an ontology, and his contemporaries
professed an ontology without a theology -
or as the other, in existentialist terms might have
suggested: timing - but no one desires a godly status,
so even his promenade timing made affinities
with serfs begging for a watch rather than watching
their shadows dwarf at noon...
this is called
translating rhyme into philosophy, or philosophical rhyming...
words of close proximity are prime exponents,
given the spelling, i.e. the suffix - but which are totally
antonymous - they look so alike, but then thinking
provides disparity of intention, not so lazily done
with red
and dead...
head
and Pb... is it?
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC
Where did this start and when will it end?
I step closer. Reaching. Trip on my own shoelaces.
Head curls under, trying to find a warm home in the sidewalk crack.
It's a love thing. Let it shower and let it whither softly.
As the seasons change I can feel the clear weightless shift.
Never stopping, never never never returning the same.
Out of bounds? Back into the core of being.
No, this is not lonely. There is festivity. There are balloons.
This is birthday.
May 13, 2012
May 13, 2012 at 12:33 AM UTC
Yesterday;
Voices booming.
Laughter filling the space.
The Aroma.
Food on the table,
Yet sweet perfume overpowering.
Us;
Up in my room,
soberly singing,
blasting music.
The Night;
went by to a tee,
but too quickly.
Dec 25, 2010
Dec 25, 2010 at 4:18 AM UTC
I've solaced by you
I treasure your amour
I know you dote upon me
A blessed feeling!
A wave of bliss is blowing in every nook and cranny
I become soulful
My mind is bubbling over with this romantic comedy
I'm trying to speak
But I'm silent
My eyes are telling you the truth
I'm thrilled with joy by fits and starts
This starlit time is luminescence
May the time stop flying!
The allaying fatigue and mitigating sorrow time
Please, don't fly!
Let's have a candlelit dinner
Let's go for a long drive
Let's have a barbecue
Let's cut a cake and celebrate
My heart desires for festivity
Now,
I'm free from stress and difficulties
I'm smoothly spending time
I never felt so light and buoyant before
The time is laudable
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 3:12 AM UTC
Having embraced the calamity of advancement and mocked the simplicity of sporadic rodent behaviours, can we now cross into the alternate galaxy where ancient and accepted Scottish rites were birthed in an Ayrshire cottage of culinary festivity?
I am aware that it truly is a matter of taste. But who will officiate amongst us?
Your deep lamentation is acknowledged, amidst this order of ******* symbolism, despite those Northern and Southern hemispheres of demonic expression and convoluted discrepancy.
The percussion is a sign that the offal festival has begun.
Spiritual alchemy is not without its price on this winter night of dank precipitation.
Let us loiter in the depths of depraved chambers as the mist hangs her weary head over diurnal and nocturnal disagreements.
This is my first offering, so we must form a magic circle.
It feels like netherworld to me, on this twenty-fifth day of the first month.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC