“Found and Lost, Lost and Found”
A lyrical chimera,
resides upon a hill.
Try to get my verse on,
but she won’t stay still.
Evasive and pervasive,
this startling murmuration.
Eight muses felled at once,
the ninth became complacent.
Slippery, past recall.
She slowly dissipates.
The biggest pen-tease of all,
has me in figure eights.
Once I concede my role,
a synergy is found.
Swallowed pride, a heavy toll.
What once was lost, now found.
“A Long Musk”
Let’s go down to that secret place.
That place where you can be who you want to be.
Who you are?
Where we can revel in the glory of attraction and anticipation.
Chest to breast.
Elbows, lips, pliable flesh.
Pink, purple, red, mocha.
Salt kisses, fingers submerged.
Dainty fingertips gliding along the periphery.
Sweat, warm wetness.
Connected solely through electric fingertips.
Fingerprints intermingle, DNA altered.
Traveling towards the event horizon, no reset.
Waves, waves, waves.
Hushed encouragements increase the urgency.
Swollen to a point of burst.
A civilization in its ascendency and decline, in one moment.
Palms slapping the top sheet.
Final advances assured.
No stopping the launch sequence.
Traveling up into and becoming one with the atmosphere.
Eventually escaping gravity, and floating.
A sweet reverie, wrapped in languid limbs and surrendered kisses.
An expanding universe that ends and begins in the loins of lovers searching for meaning.
All of the words.
An expressive and bitter, “No!”
A wrinkled nose, from unkempt nose hairs.
The minute my hands are involved with dish soap.
Doggie scratching on the door.
The mail carrier ripped important correspondence shoving it into your cast iron mailbox.
Molded plastic breaks when stepped on, and finds soft tissue on a foot sole.
The bus escapes the nearest stop, just as I turn the corner of the driveway.
Left for life.
Left for dead.
The long cold walk.
Concrete sprawling out, out, and forever.
The river’s edge.
Depths of frozen sleep.
The sky suffocates my passage.
Doesn’t recognize or care to remember my boot imprints in the snow.
It melts gradually, and meets the sewer grate for the trip to the harbor.
Halfway house spectacles line the corridor leading to transit.
Coffee and cigarettes substitute for harder gravities.
My hardship brethren walking the walk.
Life is hard for all.
It’s hard to set parameters for yourself, when they’ve already been set well in advance of your arrival to this fucking circus.
What do you see, when you look at me?
As I stare at my palm, so passively.
Do you guess, like the rest,
that I’m searching to repress,
Yes, the pain that my brain can’t escape.
I still can’t escape all of you.
What to do?
Express and redress, amounts to running on ice.
Take a closer look, then.
It’s an obstacle illusion.
Full of pollution.
An act of contrition, my life’s mission.
An admission, with permission,
pull right, hard!
Decision making ability, impaired.
Fighting to fight, swinging at those in closest proximity.
Victimizing those that take the time to care.
At what cost?
I’m nimble and sober when taking the piss out of others,
somehow the mirror in my palm leads to denial.
Toll evaders eventually get caught,
even if they think they aren’t guilty.
In truth, the silt of guilt collects at the bottom,
but can never begin to fill the emptiness.
Cook Up a Storm
Scribbles by Afzal Moolla
Poems, poets, poetry, writing, poetry challenges