Killing

It was a cold, December Friday.
You waited for a lovely weekend with your little girl.

Travel to a fairyland, to the warmth of Merry Christmas.
But, cruelty unleashed a psychopath among children;
Mother earth soaked red and every bit of innocent laughter.
Echoes of your brightest flower were never heard again.
Heaven too changed its color from blue to black

in the hope to cry a gloom to wash away your tears.
Mothers of Newtown,
"Do you still look forward to the weekends?"

You do remember the day you brought your baby home;
You looked at the back seat often while driving your car.
The miracle arrived with a scream to pour joy into your soul.
But on a Friday, a psychopath scared away the miracle forever.
Now, you wonder why; your beliefs are challenged by that fatal day.
Your dreams and hopes are dashed by the sound of sin.
When your son asked where his sister had gone, you cried silently.
Fathers of Newtown,
"Do you still look at the back seat while driving?"

Lincoln's moral high ground divided and united a nation.
Morality is, now, your propaganda to lecture gullible Americans.
When a soldier dies in the senseless caves of Karbala;
when a child is dissolved by the bullets of second amendment,
you see money in war and in gun lobbies. (institutionalized corruption)
Red is the color of money and red is the color of Washington DC.
Politicians of America, "Do you see the blood of the kids in your hands?"

Of Love and Lust

Come in white this weekend; I will paint all colors on you.

I'll prepare a brand new recipe for you, both love and lust.
Zubrowka on rocks, hot kebab, Clapton's guitar and my poems.
We will start our conversation with color red.
I'll paint tear drops from Gaza Strip right below your belly button.
And, color my love on your summer bosom; what a rhapsody!
My favorite poems will echo on your agile heart beats.
Later, we'll discuss humanity of Mandela and his last few days.
You will ask for more love as darkness arrives.

Come in white this weekend; I will paint all colors on you.

After second drink, we will dive into the moon soaked pool.
There, we'll revisit our green rebellious days on mean streets.
Bullets of second amendment, privacy of fourth amendment!
At half past two, we will drink our last; dance till lust takes over.
As clouds obscure blue heaven, I'll honor your crimson lips,
and a purple tattoo, a relic of lost love on your wild back.
Finally, brisk wind from the clouds will invigorate your desire.
And, art of my touch will color you the brightest in the dark.

Come in white this weekend; I will paint all colors on you.

Next morning, we will rekindle our lingering sparkle from last night.
Yellow will be the color of your mellow surrender to me.
Your rousing dark brown hair will still revolt for the night's orgasm.
A flurry of my love will cry aloud on your twinkling eyes.
Then, we will express our shock at American boots in Damascus
and at how the days, the weeks and the months will unravel for us.
As the sun fades, I'll paint scarlet on you in the heaven of clouds.
Orange will be the color of our hope and love and lust........

Come in white this weekend; I will paint all colors on you, sweetheart.

Happiness

I

I searched happiness in-

pale yellow pages of history.

    Abraham Lincoln was weeping
    on hallowed ground of Gettysburg.

    Loud gun shots silenced Gandhi
    and Martin Luther King.

eternal meditation of the saints.

    When looked at the face of silence,
    I saw children of Newtown in a pool of blood.

II

I marched along side men
and women who shouted "Azadi."
Our voice thundered hearts of evil
in Cairo, in Benghazi, in Tunis.
Then, I swam to Homs via Jerusalem
in the river of tears and sigh.
I saw my mother
in every smile and wrinkle of unknown women.

Promise of a paradise on earth haunts me.
I am a son of a cruel revolution.
Bit by bit, metamorphosis of every
thunder and promise into hollow dream.
Happiness is an eternal struggle.

III

I made friends of all sounds and colors.

Our crescendo ignited the dead of the night.
We danced to the passion of youth and acid.
All became one!

In the morning, we became different again. 

Every molecule mocked at me with utter disdain.

My only hope was in the denial of reality,
so, I built prisons in mind.

IV

I kissed my girl-
sometimes in sweat, sometimes in mud.
Her every loud cry defined me.
As the symphony of our frenzy faded,
I looked at her brown eyes without thrill.
I woke up and off to run a few miles
on the curves of the city.
I searched happiness on those curves
of less human but more spaces.
I drained myself and
found lucid dreams in sleep.

Youth and acid,
tears and revolt,
love and sex,
dream and death;

Happiness lurks.

A Letter from Zakopane

Mausam,

I am sitting on the porch of a dilapidated wooden cabin,
hidden in the majestic might of Tatra mountains.
I am reading your poems about me.
Today, I would like to reply to your every enactment.
This is an attempt to redeem myself from your assassination.
I hope to rise from the ashes of our "brief but bright" fire.

First, you wrote "Happy Birthday To You."
There, you said you could not wish me happiness.
Ah, I pity your poor soul filled with grudges.
I was upright with you from the day our eyes met.
You thought you could rewrite my history and change my future.
How presumptuous was your ever optimism and iron will!
I wanted you to let me go, but, you decided to embrace melancholy.
In the passage of life, you lived in the magnificent denial of my whim.
I was never secured in your arms; neither was I ready to be loved.
If you must know, I am a mother now and I am happy more than ever!

Then, you wrote "Love Letter"; you painted me as a materialistic whore.
Indeed, this poem speaks loudly about your own insecurity in love.
You were a dreamy romantic, but, you could never build my Tajmahal.
I still drive an old car to work and live in a comfortable heart.
My hard work is rewarded and I am promoted in my job.
What is so wrong about these aspirations of life?
Your obsession with coloring me with the colors you like
doesn't make me a manipulative bitch or angst of your poem.

Finally, my existence was denounced in "Goodbye Love."
I never intended to love; I brought only remnants of me.
You were relentless; there, I perceived hope of a brand new life.
You cannot blame me for lighting your simmering desire.
Smoky mountains and Caribbean blue provoked us shamelessly.
I would never mummify our thrill inside a pyramid of fire.
You decided to carve every detail on the sculpture of love and pain.
I was healing by the blissful ignorance of your passion
til your poetic assassinations opened up these wounds.

Yours sincerely,
Emilcia

Zakopane
Poland
June22, 2013

A Cleopatra Kiss

If you care about my side of the story, there was breezy love,
rarely in fragments and figments of a fabulous fable.

We were lost longer under the night sky than the bright blue.
And for some unknown reasons,
we kissed more in the summer than in the winter.
A splendor of Andromeda flared an obsession in us.
At least, I thought that way till the day you, Ah!

Did I fail to read you and your sublime subtlety?
Did you chase a million rainbows beyond the eternal darkness?
You never told me even if you did.
Why did you take my hand with fleeting swiftness?
Was it sudden desire or fear of a hapless light falling upon us?
I can't remember; my memory is fading fast.
These words are, perhaps, worthless babel for you now.

A few summer lines on your allure dazzled through your virginity.
I captured blue and red stars from infinity and scattered on you.
Often, I dreamt a silhouette of Cleopatra;
she was never my ambition in the frame of my flame.
Beatrice was. But, her inimitable beauty did not fit my, Ah!
Thus, I could never become Dante in your might of myth.
A Cleopatra kiss blinded me that night and I became Julius Caesar!