NaPo 2020   (The Hodgepodge Chronicles) 22-30

30/30
The Topsy-Turvy World

There’s an encyclopedia of little people  
in the inverted topsy-turvy world
of my turkish coffee cup
with little feet, teensy-weensy teeth
swinging itty-bitty toothpicks like swords
quarreling small talks and big thoughts
with their army of red ants.

They swarm over ravine of swills
muddy hills; a black & white kingdom
moonless
sunless
godless, tunnels and streets.

Jami’s toll announces
الله أكبر
tongues tied in knots
nailed to palms
pilgrims sit cross legged on Kilims
woven in blood of Cochineal
playing chess
bartering for goats and oats
mustaches twirled like Omar Sherif.

Their giant ears interlard gramophones’
wing-ding jabber spiraling into a dark storm
looming on the black forest
swamped in murky tears.  

Tentacles rise from the depths, snaking
circumference of trunks in discontent
the subterranean revolution of wars
of a war
for a war
no one recalls which one
but the fight must go on
in the little world
of twirling dervishes, teeny imps
mini talks, big thoughts
herd of goats
and
gigantic
monumental
egos with no oath.
============================================

29/30  
The Wine  

Will we plant that vineyard we always talked about  
across the big house painted in mulberry mauve  
aslant to mid-hills, sprawled with visceral offerings  
each vine twisting in pleasures of here and now.  
Limbs upon limbs, flesh flushed with a slight tint  
dipped in writer’s tears rewriting the book of love.  
Warmth of the light, cool of the dark, mellow’d wine  
overflow from the golden chalice one last time.  
 
O’ Gods of the earth, bless me some.  
 
No shadow can sustain what flawed heart knows  
no poetry, no prose with exquisite metaphors, veiling  
the lines dripping from side of the mouth, veined like  
an orison hymn. Eyes wide shut we bury the seeds  
in the bosom of the earth, pouring rivers of dreams  
evolving, encircling upon itself soaking the void within  
yet; I cannot satisfy the longing I crave for your lips  
pearling ruby pearls to whispers one last time.  
 
O’ Gods of the earth, bless me some.  
=============================================
 
28/30  
Rehearsal  
 
Morning danced on its back  
finding a way at spring’s step  
unearthed from long sleep  
green carpet rolling like sea  
the maiden fern, lily and oak  
brown mice, hawk and fawn  
running from winter’s paragon  
golden days and warm yields.  
 
Old prevails nurturing the young  
robbed from their rightful parts  
sap weep from perished woods  
emerging tenderness from shroud  
geometry of distance and twigs  
anchor sparrow, wren and finch  
breaking to rise mating songs  
holding peace to spread wings.  
=====================================  
 
27/30    
Requiem For A Dream  
   
When my heart no longer shouts upstream and    
the world fails to captivate curiosity.    
   
When love stops at threshold and I sink with every    
receding footstep, engraved in memory.    
   
When the quill slashes my tongue in half and poetry    
cease to exist in its glory.    
   
When my eyes fail to see colors shimmer on oceans    
and twinkling smile of newborns birthing purity.    
   
When my ears ignore the extraordinary music of Mozart,    
Vivaldi, Chopin and Tchaikovsky.    
   
When I stare at the Sistine Chapel and Taj Mahal, my      
sight fails to build what the third eye sees.    
   
When the moon and the stars become another novelty    
leaving me unimpressed with astronomy.    
   
When I start walking on my hands instead of feet    
mocking the fortitude of humanity.    
   
Dig a shallow grave without a headstone & renounce me.  
===================================================  
   
   
26/30    
Dr. Kevorkian’s Legacy    
   
“When history looks back, it will prove what I’ll die knowing.” Dr. Jack Kevorkian    
   
   
(i)    
The finger that pulls the trigger will be mine    
I’ve pointed to the sky    
I’ve pointed to the ground, and    
to my reflection in the mirror one too many times.    
   
(ii)    
The sound of shotgun    
penetrates through the conundrum    
drumming through Sequoia trees.    
A flock of birds take flight storming the sky    
not knowing which direction to seek    
and the branches lift with a sigh    
of relief; weight of burden.    
   
(iii)    
a.    
There are many reasons to die and one too many ways.    
Literally and figuratively: illness, accident, age;    
heartache, sadness, madness.    
At times, sheer boredom of life: things, people, monotony    
but more so of ourselves.      
Although, death by one’s own hand will leave    
everyone aghast, unforgiving themselves.    
   
b.    
The road narrows with darkness hovering in thick dank clouds    
time marches backwards coiling unto and round itself    
the umbilical cord rewinds, tightening like a noose around the neck    
rippling outward from the center to be pulled inward into vortex.    
   
(iv)    
Doctor Kevorkian knew all along,    
life is not how long the journey transpires but the journey itself aspiring    
Colors, sounds, curves and knocks    
and we shall know when it ends with dignity, grace and pride.    
   
(v)    
A cigarette will burn itself to the same distance    
either way: between lips or abandoned in an ashtray    
and there will always be handful of ashes    
in someone’s pitiful palms thrown carelessly    
to tears rolling over mouths clamped by guilt.    
   
(vi)    
Death by design; a grandeur notion of    
an ideology of free will.    
Slowly curated, deliberately sacrilegious    
rebellious, unlawful, unfailed.    
   
A masterpiece.    
==========================================    
   
25/30      
Rations of Rationale    
     
(2020)      
There’s too much food in this house      
and not enough mouths to feed.      
The pantry is full of jars and cans      
I’ll never eat..      
this month or any other month      
things i’ve stopped eating for years.      
     
The freezer is full of neat packages      
congregated in a cold cell, perfectly      
wrapped cellophane wraps;      
parts and pieces,      
contorted, detached.      
Somewhere      
eyes roll, longing for a grave, unrest.      
     
     
(1982)      
My grandmother was a child of      
genocide during first world war      
knew pangs of hunger, poverty      
starving in the desert of Deir-Zor.      
Sixty years of prosperity, hoarding      
was part of her anatomy;      
bits of bread, olives and herbs      
re-created nightly to new meals.      
     
Her cellar stocked of muslin bags      
flour, sugar and wheat;      
the kitchen shelves lined with jars of      
salt, olive oil and honey.      
“Everything is for us” she’d say.      
“Including wars.., we must learn to      
ration, to appreciate with gratitude.”      
*      
*      
*      
I look at the loaves of bread      
crowding my table, knowing      
it will never be consumed      
as these thoughts consume me.      
Someday, I will tell the children      
every generation has its war      
and this was ours, to keep.      
===============================    
     
24/30      
The Angry Man      
     
Would he have been different if he had a different (out)look      
cloaked in layers and textures shielded in a hazy nook.      
     
Signs of tenderness kneaded in the clay ground      
rim: baked, cracked, veined      
vines of shallow lines.      
*      
*      
He comes in as large as a mountain      
and here’s an example;      
you can’t move a man from the mountain.      
     
He is a mountain,      
except this mountain is barren, inhospitable      
treacherously unpredictable      
erupting volcanic hot lava rocks.      
*      
*      
The dialogue changed often but the tone remained the same      
absent of sympathy, no crossing t’s or minding p’s      
pausing from time to time to catch a breath in the step of steep.      
     
A macabre.      
Who’s the bull who’s the matador—tis a dance of Pasodoble?      
*      
*      
There are no morals here. No twists, no turns, no warnings.      
I ask him skirting, sweeping the obvious.      
     
What happened to you,      
Who’s anger are you carrying on your shoulder      
     
We were all children once with pulchritude smiles      
born to sweet delight but here we are      
lost in forests of misery.      
*      
*      
Somewhere..      
the sun sets behind a mountain      
over spindly trees.      
Somewhere      
a shadow recedes      
and an old man cries on his knees.      
     
Somewhere, this story repeats.      
======================================      
     
23/30        
Adaptations      
       
Do not turn        
       
do not look        
beneath the surface        
staking the easel with ease        
drag the charcoal on brined sheets        
splitting the kith of storms, varnishing myth.        
       
Truth shifts        
       
triptych sheaths        
glazed over last winter’s light        
reducing feathered detailed tints        
winking tones, tempered neutrals        
with indecisive grays sphinx-like, stealth.        
       
Nil desperandum        
       
dun of debt is near        
dawning lazuli blues, lilac eaves        
outstretching hands of olivine, flax gleam        
shy dust of remanent; breadth & syne, synch        
the damask of life: Perseverance against all fears.      
=============================================      
       
22/30        
Sometimes        
       
Sometimes when I dream        
my hair is short and footsteps slow        
trudging over stones and pebbles, culling        
the best ones for the pond and rock garden;        
a clathrate of countless storms forged.        
       
Sometimes we make love        
one nap at a time the way we used to, living        
in a rented house on Lakeview Drive in Algoma        
desire flared dismissing the algorithm of flesh        
sinews and heartstrings, mellowed with time.        
       
Sometimes I’d feel the chill        
knowing you’re not here        
to come running carrying scent of        
pine, birch and breeze        
your face fiery red        
stabbing the air        
with a child’s fury.        
       
“Where the hell have you been?”        
       
“..in hell”, you’d say.        
I’d wonder,        
If there were the same        
shared space        
but somehow the signs misplaced.        
       
Sometimes I hear the slap on skin but not feel        
sometimes bruises heal but protest loud and clear        
sometimes the blood gushes other times it congeals        
sometimes I see the words splash on the screen        
sometimes I laugh when I need to cry        
sometimes I don’t know why        
sometimes the windows are ajar        
sometimes the doors are unlocked        
but at times they are unhinged.. open.. wide.