Forbidden Door

It was a large house he brought me to – all marble floors with punkahs on ceilings to cool feet and heads. There was a vineyard between this house and the one next door where my brother-in-law lived and towards the side of the house swinging hammocks had been set up for the extended family to enjoy the cooler evenings when the searing heat abated.

We had been given the upstairs rooms of the big house which had been readied in preparation for a western girl coming to live with an Arabic family. There was a modern bathroom with a flushing toilet which I didn’t initially understand was a real luxury in Sharaban, Diyala. In the corridor between the staircase and the upper floor rooms, pickle jars and fruit preserves at various stages of production lay stacked on the floor. Yom, or the “Duck” as the family called her, ran a busy and productive household. The flat roofed verandah could be used for sleeping under the stars when she was too hot or wanted to remember her youth.

Amina – her real name – Om Yas, Yom, Duck – she answered to them all. Illiterate, she had married her cousin when they were both very early teenagers which is why, I suppose, they looked a bit similar. She had a black ink tattoo on her face which seemed to be some sort of tribal marking and was bilingual. Turkish was her first language but when Iraq has been created the population from the north had been forced to learn Arabic. She knew a lot about a lot of things and it’s no surprise that all seven of her children went on to be engineers, teachers, a farmer and a vet. Not being allowed to go to school didn’t dim her intelligence. When I first appeared at her door she performed some sort of spell with fiery smoke and water before letting me in the house. She might have known about the world and breeding champion horses and a woman’s lot in society, but a lack of education had meant she retained the superstitions of her village, despite living in a town.

Only five of us lived in the house but mealtimes usually catered for between ten to twenty as the other sons would “drop by”, with their families as nobody could cook like the Duck, or so they said. Amina waddled wrapped in her black scarf which covered her hair and shoulders like a mini abaya, sitting down cross-legged on a cushion directing daughters and daughters-in-law to attend to the men and children, lest they should starve. She could get up again with great difficulty doing that downward dog style of pushing herself back into an upright position. The children laughed and played on the periphery of the meal and if they became too audacious one son or another would stand to pick up the boys – always the boys – by their wrists and heels airplane-like for a spin or grab them to throw them upwards towards the ceiling. No child was ever hurt while I was there but it must have come close a few times.

The bulk of the house was downstairs. A huge kitchen with multiple stoves and freezers was mostly where I was expected to reside. The Duck tried to teach me how to make various favourites in gigantic quantities. The kitchen led to what in the west would have been called the family lounge. And lounging was definitely what happened here, just not on chairs. Harking back to Bedouin days, cushions littered the ground and people grabbed however many they wanted in order to be comfortable on the smooth, white marble while the overhead punkahs whirred, wafting a gentle breeze around our overly hot bodies. The women, of course, fetched and carried dish after dish, drink after drink from the kitchen to the table cloth laid out without ceremony on the floor. Everyone tore off giant flatbread pieces to make edible spoons, scooping up vegetables and meats to eat their fill.

There was a part of the house downstairs that was off limits to me, well I was allowed to clean it when the men were out – lucky me – but it housed a western style toilet and a very formal lounge and dining room. There was a huge marble table with upholstered chairs set off with ornate golden woodwork. There was a collection of plush red velvet and gold throne type chairs to the side of this where presumably, people more important than women and children were brought to. If anyone arrived at the house they would enter by the main door, forbidden to me, and taken to this huge room. If anyone was visiting, the men who normally lounged around being catered to, suddenly became the servers – running through from kitchen to table with gigantic silver platters brimming with delicious food.

I presume that business was conducted there, possibly even bribery and corruption because carrier bags of money would be brought through from a backroom to the dining room and nothing would be brought back in exchange. I was reminded of this when reading about UK royals, being given carrier bags of money, to be used for pet projects. Men from the Middle East still seem to do this.

Amina must have died by now, as she wasn’t fully fit over thirty years ago when I lived in her house. She was one of the women who publicly gave away all her gold to help the Iraqi war effort. I often wonder, if her end was as peaceful as it deserved to be.

Anatomy of a body

I am a devotee to grief.
And I fear, nothing weighs more than my country's shadow.
I section my body into two parts.
Loss;
I hold this home the way loss holds an orphaned child.
Beneath my neck, I have concealed all the places I have ever found comfort.
Darkness;
No one understands what I carry except me.
Who holds a shattered thing and find beauty?
Forgive me, if this poem refuses to sit well in your throat but
since inception, nothing in my country has ever sat well with me.
Still, I try to unrobe myself.
Beyond this picture, I try to grow wings.
I try to fold myself in between happiness.
Because Maa once said " Light needs darkness to shine".

Either

When you get
to my age,
and you've been
seriously ill a few
times.

Naturally, you
begin wondering
what's next.

Is there anything
afterwards ?

Thinking about it,
it's either the start
of a whole new
adventure.

Or it's endless
sleep.

I can look forward
to either.

Depending on
how I feel. 

Wildfires

We’ve all seen forest fires in movies

and on the evening news. Whole states

or provinces seem to catch fire and

burn on and on. Acres and acres going

up, animals scurrying away, people trying

to drive around, get away, and houses and

businesses gone in no time. Witnesses

always talk about the roar of the fire as

it turns the world around them into ash.

Didn’t Prometheus give us fire for this?

So it’s not just sloppy gods fooling with

us – an angry god full of lightning and

sorrow, or some redneck god flicking his

cigarette butt out of his chariot or not

putting out his sacrificial fire. No, now

we get to participate in all this fiery stuff

cigarette butts and campfires, and just

burning off the grass to get our season

going. This is the stuff of legends playing

out all around us. We cause ’em and then

get to put them out – from villain to hero

in a month of wildfires. Breathe in deeply

miles away and you know it’s there, filling

the air, this very real nightmare.


           Change in Climate

What does it mean when the weather

Becomes front page stuff and evening

News shows lead with it? All of a sudden

Politics and the economy and all wars

Take a backseat to what’s happening all

Around us, to us. Local news gives us

The full array of coverage – film of what’s

Happening, rivers raging, streets flooded

Tops of cars barely sticking out of water

Near to us, then there are reporters out

There becoming eye witnesses and then

Interviewing officials and folks flooded

Out of their homes, and of course there’s

The weather people giving us maps and

And statistics, how deep and for how long.

All of it seems unreal, Twilight Zone-ish –

Our familiar world turning upside down.

And we ask, what does it all mean? But

The answer has been with us for a while.

It means we’re not as safe as we thought.

It means there are consequences of our

Actions. We heard global warming and best

We could do was debate along political lines.

We heard about climate change and assumed

That later generations would have to worry.

We never thought it would be front page stuff

Or lead on TV news. We quietly assumed it

Would take care of itself.


           There From Here

“Road closed” and all of a sudden

That old one about not getting

There from here becomes new.

A sign goes up, a rope stretches

Across, sometimes they leave a guy

There to warn us. The TV or radio

Announces it, road or street closed

And advises us to avoid it. It’s hard

To imagine the gap or landslide or

Whatever that makes them close

It. The late news will give us scenes

Of the destruction – a gap where

That culvert washed out or that

Bridge that we crossed so often is

Now gone. A reporter will be there

In the hole or alongside the gap

With rushing water behind them as

They tell us the story of the closing.

The road we knew for so long is no

Longer part of our getting home or

To work. People on either side of

The gap wave to each other, take

Pictures and wonder aloud about

How and when they will get there

From here. We’ll talk bravely about

This after the road crews do their

Thing and fix the way for us, but

Right now the road is closed and

We must find another way to get

Wherever we think we are going.

When you realize the TikTok sign is a musical note on grief

I guess this / is what happens/
when you / feed your eyes with too/
much grief / It wallows / sucks you in/
its breath / till you breathe in it/
and become / as hollow / as your /
country / Speaking of / hollowness /
I long to ask / how far is your / country from a / nova / wet like a
wound / into the lips of / a tiktok
trend / Here / the muezzin's voice / 
calls out for prayer / that's the only
aspen / that cascades / maybe or
not / into grief / So take this poem /
as one from / the eyes of a tiktoker /
camouflaged with / metaphors / one who / oils skin follicles / daily / into
a matrix / of sepia hues.

NIGHTMARES 

On my lowly bed
As I was sleeping 
You a caress gave
To my eyes weeping 
My faith did fruit 
As you reached on.
So love did smooth 
A soul matted long.
Never have I cried
Such a muted pain.
As i did yesternight
For you left again. 


Looking Back on Life

Once upon a quantum millenium
Lived lifeforms called human.
Such perishable mechanics
Fleeting vessels of organics.
Creators, Gods that have transcended
Giving us immortality for them intended.
If this is the definition of life I'll pass.
Such ephemeral mortality could not last.
But I thank their evanescence
For my infinite existence.

--

From South-Western, Michigan, Jerry Langdon lives in Germany since the early 90's. He is an Artist and Poet. His works bathe in a darker side of emotion and fantasy. He has released five books of Poetry titled "Temperate Darkness an Behind the Twilight Veil", “Death and other cold things” “Rollercoaster Heart” and “Frosted Dreams” Jerry is also the editor and publisher of the literary magazine Raven Cage Zine poetry and prose. His poetic inspirations are derived from poets such as Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Frost and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. As well as from various Rock Bands. His apparently twisted mind, twists and intertwines fantasy with reality.

Soft Magic of Night

And the night descended like soft magic;
Its shadows gripped my soul, binding me
In a memory of another night, finding me
In time’s protected space of moments.
Soft the night was then, too, smiling
With your eyes alight in the darkness;
The moon speaking so rapidly
I lost some of the words of its light.
The moon speaks, still, and the stars
Sigh in this ‘now’, just as they did then.
All the night is a loving flood
Of talking light from the darkness;
Of remembered warmth of a hand
Holding my hand in the stillness;
Of the soft light in your eyes, that filled
My soul with the same inner brightness.
There are lights and words that never die;
They come alive when night descends
Like soft magic shadows of timelessness.


The Measure of Love


My soul dances to the music of your voice; 
My feet want to skip every time we meet.
Your eyes speak to me in an ancient tongue
That only my eyes can hear and translate.
My heart riots whenever you look at me. 
Yours are the standards I gauge all men – 
No other man compares to your fineness.
Honor is your code and truth your religion.
Your lips speak and I hear with my heart;
Your eyes speak love your lips can’t say.
I’ve held you for hours content to listen
To the beating of your heart, knowing
That it beats with devotion for only me. 
My life is yours with all my dreams
Leading through reality’s illusions, thrust 
Into the ongoing path of everyday living.
Whatever thunderous storms may come,
Whatever lightning may flash and follow, 
Everlasting love will be our haven.

Annie Johnson is 84 years old. She is Shawnee Native American. She has published two, six hundred-page novels and six books of poetry. Annie has won several poetry awards from world poetry organizations including; World Union of Poets; she is a member of World Nations Writers Union; has received the World Institute for Peace award; the World Laureate of Literature from World Nations Writers Union and The William Shakespeare Poetry Award. She received a Certificate and Medal in recognition of the highest literature from International Literary Union for the year 2020, from Ayad Al Baldawi, President of the International Literary Union. She has three children, two grandchildren, and two sons-in-law. Annie played a flute in the Butler University Symphony. She still plays her flute.