written years ago & posted on a webpage about to disappear
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Treasure
Where once we searched
for cities of gold
El Dorado…
We now scratch in the dust
for pot shards.
digging gently
with small spades
and brushes
to bring forth the foundations
of ancient cities
to prove our own myths
and make sure our own
crumbling words,
(with accents twisting accents
eroding into forgotten dialects)
aren't as irrelevant
as they sometimes seem to be.
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Combat
The mine field
where words where ever
how ever who ever
detonate into perpetuity.
Words have no choice
but to etch themselves into
where ever they might land.
Liquid ink on the page;
the page itself deteriorates
before it's script can fade.
Chiseled chinks in stone;
the stone cracks and crumbles
yet the wedge remains in
air.
Always air.
Rock: Paper: Scissors:
Air
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Write Lightly
Write lightly
as the wildflowers do,
becoming
their own bouquets:
The land a lovely lady
so delicate,
step closely to the earth
ankles touched by bloom
and eyes downcast, delight
little blue bloom
cradles a star flicker.
Red poppies with
papery purpose
daze the heart
as they cluster
like congregations
to singe the air
with brilliant
fresh blood
flame red
soft petal.
I am in silk
inspired by
the small flowers
touched by
their gentle
tenaciousness,
tucked into rocks
everywhere
and flowing out
into fields.
They are of every hue
though the wild mustard
shouts and sways
and seems to push
all else aside
with it's flamboyance.
But the it's
the little bouquets
found everywhere
underfoot,
splays of delight,
that catch my eye.
Floral mosaics.
Everywhere
there is garden
herb and flower flourish-
a brief enchantment
in a desert land
that soon enough
will be all browns
brushed with bare earth.
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The Flute
Books read backwards.
Jaffar translated
Kahil Gibran's The Flute
(The Song).
The text I read in English
was pretty
But Jaffar's unrhymed
pure translation
is so much more moving
the pretty words replaced
with depth
the gasp... the last breath of life.
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Script
What the flowers write
in fragile form
spelled into shape-
stem stalk swim
in the Arabian breeze,
become
the odd squiggles
found woven
in formal rugs
and flow with symmetry
into the classical script
of scribes.
Calligraphy is arabesque
and the script itself shifts,
its characters embellished
and burgeoning
into geometric patterns,
strong rhythms
usurping words.
A Garden
is the echo of paradise,
emphasizing seclusion
introversion
The central fountain
like self
reflecting.
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En'Shallah
Shivering,
stand in wet snow
listening to thunder,
as sleet melts
into rainfall
The sun's glinting light
pulls forth a pretty posy
here and there
until barrages of bloom
rupture the earth.
Day after day of bloom bursting
And the deep indigo
of an oriental night
is beautifully fragrant
with jasmine.
By day the desert heat
comes back
to claim all color,
washing the hills
with brown stubble
which the goats will graze to aught.
Presume, as you stand on barren stone
that soon enough, next spring-
En'Shallah...
This rock ledge will once again
brim
with flowers
and a crumbling castle
will be a thousand urns
of growth.
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A Mother's Hand
Bless all those
who love
and linger in their love
A mother's hand
on a child's heart
gently, ever so gently,
reminding her child
of his sacred place
in the hearts of all.
Bless all those
who know and understand
and keep safe
every child
of any age
and race.
poem & photo copyright ©2012 Anne Selden Annab
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