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—

exposed—

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)

* * *

Detour

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,

waiting.

© 2015 Jacqueline Henry Hill            

Los Angeles, California       

Jacqueline Henry Hill (photo provided)

  

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