Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Sin of Semantics

Inherited by a sentence
What is it that weeps
Inside the frontier
the rivers and mirrors?

Darkness s  p l   i  n  t  e  r  s  as my sun

And I   —   f   a  l  l
into a
That stems from you

Wounds bloom like morning prayers
Flush of glass-doors
The paisleys
of my shawl —
Broken stars are
plucked wicks
On the roof of eye..

Light pregnant with Silence
was coppice
              of dotted lines

Oil-lamps glimmer
On birth of wet letters
Cold, dark
Floating on killed papyrus
Noah’s Ark
Ferried the corpses:
Chopped words don’t always
Die in a gutter

…the gray patch is curled within
Deep wine voice
Moony blossoms
Announce the mist of past:
Archangel of waiting lines.

As unripe harvest of commas
Cascading on
Rain curtains
That in your world
Never found a name

Between a blue and a red
Night bled

Will wake up
the next autumn
In the leaves that flew in periods…

Mahmoud Darwish
Waited too long
For Frisky Air
To build its nest
On his palms

Olive years burn
With what
Saba Arwah s…p…u…n
          loop, lament, and laugh
the white night
for a black moon.

Labyrinths always have
doors in c—o—r—n—e—r—s
of lapis-lazuli.

Or perhaps visions will still
be stuck
in blue flood
seeping from footnotes!!!

END (Won First Prize in a contest of  Wordweavers – an online journal)

No comments: