Day 4: Barghout, Morgan, Pant, Haty - This is aaduna's National Poetry Month Celebration



Endurance

Each time risen.
broken bones collected 
from
coffins over coffee. 

Once we’ve finished pulling 
blades from our flesh,
we can have breakfast. 

Maybe next time 
we can try our weapons 
against lurid institutions
instead of ourselves.

At the end of the day
the sky envelopes those survivors
who did not succumb to
death threats.
 
Later,
we crawl back to beds made warmer
in comparison to the cold,
inside and out.  

There is nothing left to fool us
into optimism.  

Except us. 

© 2015 Mary Barghout
Minneapolis, Minnesota   

Mary Barghout (photo provided)
      
























* * *



Morcant’s Dream

See the embers glowing, bluest seeds beneath
The field we’re sowing how the body
Is graced in time by fingertips of pines
Soft wings brushed in sight against lost porch light
I’ll glimpse you barefoot in the trees, into
The water while high above, the valley is
Painted shades of gentle dusk, blue into
Purple, purple washed pink, See the stars -- o!
Crashing to the earthy ground, see candles,
As their nightly wicks have all but burned out
I know I’ll cast my gaze upon your frail
Figurate, dancing, dancing throughout
The land, hiding otherworldly and alone
Among the shells along the grand shore, the sky.


    What have you done to the Natives’ land?
    Go and tell the armies of God that I will not die by their hand.


    Van Gogh painted streets shimmer glass in broken moonlit terrain, café terrace at night.
    The knights have removed their armor to stand naked upon Dawn’s doorstep as she softly draws the blinds and gazes below; clocks are ticking forth in a march against time, the walls are trembling and the canvas is breathing aloud.


    The maidens are sleepy in the heavenly glow from above, the lanterns have burned toward the witching hour; bell-tower clock virgins, no longer, clinging through the air as they disappear against the wind.
    Haunted travelers hide behind tombstones and ride from horseback in fright, the darkness is alight and Dowland sleeps at last.
    ...I saw the light, such delicacy, the most beautiful girl in the world…
    The band’s in swing,
you and me,
your skin that smells like wine,
my soul that is to die.
    Tapestry torn, imagery worn, the morning light is nearing sight and he is dressed in sheets beside ce n’est pas un vers.
The swelling dream in his mind has ended upon awakening to the song of lovelorn sailors lost at sea, of elderly muses and junebugs on wing and of vagrants longing for the Heart.


© 2017 Austin C. Morgan
Jasper, Indiana 

 
Austin C. Morgan (photo provided)

                                  


















* * *

 
My Perception

You look beautiful Rose!!
When tagged in the button of blazer
Ironically
I’m a poor
I’m a scavenger
So rose I can’t see your aesthetics
I don’t have infatuation for you

Snowcapped himalayas you are the icon of amour proper
I came to know when I observe poem about you
Ironically
I’m the porter living on your foot
Never-ever able to raise the head
So himalayas you are not my inspiration

River! Your ripple and burble is music
The dwellers holding DSLR camera says so
Ironically
In each monsoon this river flows my house
My happiness and love gets eroded
So river
I can’t feel the music in your fiery tides
I can’t hear the songs in your ripple flow


Icons in the temple you are omnipresent lover of all
It’s all you who lies in through thick and thin
Ironically
I’m the duum* created by you lifeless
My status isn’t more than the stray dogs of street
So god
I can’t sing your carol and hymn
I can’t accept your existence

Note: Duum=Untouchables according to hindu barna system


                                                                                                        
© 2015 Dinesh Pant
Mahakali Zone, Baitudi District, Nepal


Dinesh Pant (photo provided)


 

















* * *


1976

I’m a lost world within. I reach out for the hands of faith and discover they were never there. All the praying and belief that never was. I am a broken, soulless, joyless being who is alone. I am yearning for a spiritual abode but I am unfortunately cast down into damnation as an abomination. No one has ever loved the pained woman I’ve become.

I want to be a little girl again who stands in the sunshine with bright orange ribbons in her hair  made of yarn wearing handmade patchwork and denim holding hands in the non-physical world with her soulmate while standing on the earth waiting. Now surrounded by the new dreaming flowers and the silent yellow dandelions in the grass. Walking hand in hand adorned in the splendors of gold and the luminance of green jasper, moving across time from 1976 directly to the ancient city towards the rhythmic sound of the sistrum in the exotic Temples of Bast extolling sacred Egyptian Gods.


© 2017 Tiffany Haty
Seattle, Washington               

Tiffany Haty (photo provided)





















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