Continue the party: Kamaruzzaman, Betrand, St. Amant, Hill - aaduna NPM: Day 23

Another Day, Halfway Through The Loneliness

Another day
Into an another end
Something more
Than the courteous death
Like in a flowering sun
That breaks the slowing light
Into another finality

I see the forgetting face
Of hers, not known her ever before
As if not letting me
Kiss the corpses of darkness
Of an another day same as
The pugmarks in another moon
As the colours of silence
Knightly deface her olden death
More than the breathless soul
Of my half-way aloneness as always
Through the consonance
Of another day into – another finality

The other day
I saw her own death, with me
Rising and uprising
Like a mannequin in a harem
Of my lockjaw warmth
Of glassy orgasm
Of body and soul together
In longing lapses
Of slowing moments for another day
To leave behind the pugmarks
Of another moon
In my halfway loneliness
So together with her.
And so forever.that I know not
Who is she or who was she.

© 2015 Kamaruzzaman                     
West Bengal, India               

Kamaruzzaman (photo provided)

* * *

My Loss

It all started
With a little doubt
Everyday it grew
To an extent that
Weakened your love for me.
In my eyes you changed
And that led me to believe
You would leave
So the obvious took over me
But my heart keeps telling me
We are meant to be.
I know the petty questions nag you
But in the end
You proved me right
Cause you left.
Now i sit here
All alone
With a confirmed analysis
That is nothing
But useless
And so my mistake
Is now my loss

© 2015 Marthe-Elise Bertrand                                                                                                   
Coral Springs, Florida  

Marthe-Elise Bertrand (photo provided)


* * *

Sunrise Villas

White, grey, blue
airy poufs of clouds imbued
with countless, disjointed memories
like a broken necklace from antiquity.
They float above wilted, crumpled shoulders
but anchored
to the pallid and industrial tiles.
A loneliness that stretches for miles
with glimpses of loss, persistent and stubborn
collapsing into the deepest caverns
of their muddled minds’ eye.
Wondering if their distant visitor
will finally walk through that door
as their feet brush against the cold, rigid floor
as they watch through the shatter-proof glass
at the cruelly-placed playground teeming with thick grass,
bouncing color shapes, light squeals,
the promise of hope hanging in a canopy among the leaves.
Gazing blankly ahead with a desperate hunger for touch, for affection
but only finding a faint reflection
of an ever-shrinking future
in the indifferent, second-hand, oak furniture.
Under the stark, fluorescent bulbs, they wait with chagrin—
the light shining on their translucent skin
and a labyrinth of prodded and tired veins.
They dimly recall a vibrant youth and beauty whose remains
are now washed away by
the sharp, frigid waters of time.
Cards staring from quiet walls, askance
Drawings from forgotten children blanketed in dust
Abandoned to-do lists and remodeling plans
Gardening tools, china dishes
hastily given away at yard sales, passed into selfish hands.
All there is left of their golden years

© 2015 Desiree St. Amant                 
Fullerton, California 
Desiree St. Amant (photo provided)

* * *


another errand,
same instructions.
go straight there. don’t stop. don’t talk to nobody.
stay away from those boys.  come right back.
a dripping sticky moistness attacks  her hairline,
dark visage,  patent leather-shiny and dewy damp.
an adventuresome spirit whispers a daring detour,
safety secured by villagers, seen and unseen.

just two doors away, inside the front porch of her cherry red bungalow
mrs. jones languishes alone, chatting to no one.  inviting her up the steps
the neighbor presents  ice-cold, wonderfully-sweet lemonade in a tall, sweaty glass.
daring to hope for more,  the girl settles on the steps, grins, and mops her oily wet brow.
all orange hair and scarlet lipstick, mrs. jones waves a pale, delicate hand.
go along now. i’m going in for my nap.

across the narrow street
the  pony-tailed twins beckon from their shady porch.
wanna watch bandstand with us?
standing by  the  screen door,
the girl pretends to watch fleeting shadows dance on the small black and white  screen.
instead she steals sly glances as the suave older brother improvises his own nimble steps. 
sashaying off,  she relishes the momentary freedom.

energetic skipping  propels her past  a lively game of jacks at the flournoys.
nosey aunt dora,  on her perch, points a gnarled finger and nods.
the girl prances on, sweat rivulets streaming down her back.
as the sun parades across the afternoon sky, 
chocolate- brown, ginger- tan, and  golden-skinned boys 
crack bats and race around the verdant grassy field.

she hurries along,
destination closer,
nodding  at the misters  and missuses
who  throw up their arms in greeting.
afternoon ma'am; afternoon sir.
yes ma’am,  i’m jennie’s girl.
the forbidden high school boys clustered by the market
ignore her furtive admiration.

she quickens the  pace.
until her breathless arrival at nana jen’s threshhold.
rapid, anxious knocking hurries nana to the door.
embarrassed, the girl stutters the message.
nana jen motions her inside,
presses tightly-wadded bills into her hot palms,
and folds  her fingers around them.
take this to your ma. don’t talk to nobody. go straight home .

she dashes through  the short-cuts,
scurries past two empty lots,
darts along a worn dirt  path near the neighborhood  vegetable garden,
and crosses the street to home.

her mother stands,
right foot beating a steady rhythm against the sidewalk,
one hand on hip,

© 2015 Jacqueline Henry Hill            
Los Angeles, California       

Jacqueline Henry Hill (photo provided)


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