Sounds Heard on a Sunday Summer Night | Regret

Sounds heard on a Sunday summer night 
By Sheikha A.

were not coming from the very far beyond
shushering hiss of the sea, footsteps heard
in sloshes and splatters growing heavier
by each advance of the heel. I won’t talk
or pine about the moon so white, glaring
eye of the Cyclops style, a howling bulk
poking in the face of the lazy night’s sky;
the clouds wired around in levitating arcs,
they made no sound as they whirled about.
The darkness stood behind a curtain thick,
the fog or mist or were its teeth it licked?
My wakeful ears heard the grinning horde,
the stars that crackled in a crèche’s abode,
they hatched into fledglings of a dreamer’s
quarrels flooding the semi-awake mind
tied under a sea of corals; the knockings
I heard, roving the inebriated abyss of sight,
were not the movement of night…



A window stood lone
between bricks, and a wick
flickering fading dreams
from inside a house; lost
in it, sat a man, laughing
hoarse and loud, perched
but pedestal free, walking
out of the wrinkled risks
in a sagging frenzy, mired
truths in the veins of lies.
He was still there, sinking
mud free, quickly-slowly,
with iced eyes bleeding
birth to dearth, dirt
stirring agitated screams
in a second of fate, rage
filled explosion. The air
particle free, unfeeling,
he could now walk, limp
invisible and seeing, hurt
but caped, in slow steps to
wait, sin free, restless,
remembering the simple
promises, now out of sight.



Category: Poetry