Sunday Poem #4
On the balcony of our house in Bombay,
my mother grew dragons in pots. Their
shimmering heads emerged from dark soil,
wobbled on delicate necks, grew muscular,
breathed gusts of fire. Their scales were iridescent,
light shimmered in peacock folds on their backs.
Eventually, they smashed the pots with their tails,
their leathery wings opened and they flew
around the house, hovered above the balcony,
settled on the terrace. At night they slept
under my bed. One dragon had a tongue
of silver. One breathed gold. One scorched my
eyebrows when he laughed. One bit a hole
in my heart, planted a dragon seed, which
grew and grew. Now a baby dragon flicks
its tail between my shoulder-blades, between
the shadow and its whisper:
wings, wings
……………………………………………………….
(As always, Sunday is poetry day here at The Flourishing Muse. If you feel moved to, please share your poems in the Comments. Let’s play and celebrate poetry together.)
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My Sunday poetic offering…
I watch her competent fingers
move across the neck
of the violin; her right hand
manipulates the bow and
a sounds emits.
It cuts through the kitchen
post-dinner malaise
and rings true within me, as I
sit there at the table,
As though I were the instrument…
My strings taut and tuned,
My fingerboard pressed by fingertips.
My insides hollowed out to produce both
both music and musician.
The womb
Creative, yet fallow,
reaches forward to claim
that which it no longer contains,
nurtures or protects.
The practiced notes evade its grasp
Intangible as smoke.
amypalko´s last post … And The Day Came When…
Amy, this is beautiful! It evokes so perfectly that mother-ache of love and longing, the rhythms of holding on and letting go of our children, who came from us, from within our bodies, and yet belong first and only to themselves.
Thank you so much for this gorgeous poem.
Hiro Boga´s last post … Sunday Poem #4
Oh Amy,
Beautiful chords played here. Thank you for that one.
Janice Cartier´s last post … First At Bat
Thank you for that beauty! Here’s mine. It’s called August Moon
I fell asleep
with a full moon
beaming on my leg
and I could not sleep
without writing it down
by light of ancient moon
and flashlight phone and fan
whirling summer onto goosebumps
and I said It is good—
it is good to be alive.
Heidi Fischbach´s last post … What moves you? What turns you on? Shepard Fairey, at the ICA.
Oh, Heidi, after reading your poem it is indeed good to be alive! Thanks for sharing this lovely poem in our Sunday Poetry Circle. :-)
Love, Hiro
Hiro Boga´s last post … Sunday Poem #4
The Necklace of the Goddess
I am a river, flowing endlessly to the sea.
My eddies, rocks and waterfalls I once had dreamt were me.
But now that dream is ended,
My vision clear and free.
I know I am a river flowing endlessly to the sea.
The ocean is the Goddess.
My channel is Father Time.
Those eddies, rocks, and waterfalls
Are lives I’ve left behind.
Each bend conceals a life once lived
Reveals the one ahead,
Like beads strung on a necklace,
And the river is the thread.
I am a river, flowing endlessly to the sea;
A necklace being strung with lives
That all are lived by me.
And one day, when I reach that space
Where dreams of time are gone,
I’ll know I am the necklace
When the Goddess puts me on.
Douglas Buchanan´s last post … Trivia about V for Vendetta
Lovely, Douglas, thank you so much for enriching our Sunday Poetry Circle with your poem! I look forward to reading more from you.
Hiro Boga´s last post … Sunday Poem #4
Gaping Tenderness
The number four
Eases curbside,
Hiss, pop,
Flap doors open,
We step in,
Doors close.
Driver nods at my bus pass,
Glances at Hazel,
Pulls out onto Division Street.
Facing the isle, the faces,
Gauntlet of strangers, we stumble
To find a seat.
She plants her rear between my legs
Bracing against staggering stops and starts.
A dog on the bus, wearing a cape,
In service.
Gushing glances skim her soft fur,
Hands hunger, arms twitch,
Wanting, blood runs warmer, in spots.
Unspoken stir, attention gathers, minds
Wake up wondering.
Is there something wrong with the woman?
Is she blind, deaf, epileptic? Concerned,
The front-seated move, offering their place.
“Can I pet your dog?” Shoulder tap, “M’am,
What kind of dog is she, what does she do?”
“Is she a service dog? Can I touch her?”
“I could never bring my dog on a bus.”
“Mommy, look at how her eyebrows twitch.”
Life rises, mingles, slips and leaks.
Story scatters throughout the vessel.
Revealing one mystery: dog,
to touch, you, and you, to touch.
Dog, god, dog poised to give it away.
Bared hearts flail in the isle.
Trembling muscles, four-chamber symphonies
Glistening, reflecting lament, out
Of chests caught gaping for tenderness.
The number four
Eases curbside,
Hiss, pop,
Flap doors open,
We step out.
Warmer, in spots
Doors close.
Do you mind if I take your Sunday poetry ideas for dog-type poems?
Thank you for the invite. I look forward to coming back for more Sunday poetry.
Kate Williams´s last post … First Words, with a Poetic Tribute to Hazel
Kate, thanks for your delightful dog poem. And yes, you’re very welcome to use the Sunday poetry idea for your dog blog. I’m looking forward to reading more from you.
xo Hiro
Hiro Boga´s last post … Sunday Poem #4