TEMPORARY 💫

Don't lying to yourself,
Don't blame yourself.
Stay away from greed
Don't go on animosity.
If you see injustice,
Do not silently observe evil.
In this life,
The wealth of the world is temporary.
God says if you try i will give.
If you want more,
Pass this test, god says.
Many people from this test,
Unable to pass, they feel failed.
Out of the world of wealth,
They say if I collect more

To Declare

I need a chariot with a pair of wings
which won’t be mistaken for nuclear fins,
a name, 
an address,
which will impress
the police and customs at Heathrow’s check-ins.

I declare an independent mind
but lacerated with grief, 
a worn-out body
seeking relief,
some hard-won savings
but not in sterling
which would take me as far as Grasmere  
or Stirling.
 
To Cross or To Cross

You stroll on lawns matted with flowers.
We tiptoe our way with half-closed eyes.
What acrobatic feats could elude timed fire,
waiting to burst from maiming mines!

To cross or to cross, 
no not to bar us
from the traps of death 
that lurk underground.
Some say a prayer. 
Some curse the hour
that decrees the fate of blighted men.

And Diana reprobating such techno-power
that instantaneously severs legs and limbs
could not defuse the flames and horrors
which would erupt from lunatics’ toys.
 
News Headlines

Another peace accord
has brought discord.
Clamors for war
reverberate through the globe.

Human rights issues 
as frail as tissue: 
oceans will seethe 
with refugees. 

Religious error 
is yoked to terror. 
Commercial wedlock 
inducing deadlock.

Straggling economies  
conceiving poverty. 
Desertification 
with certification. 

Ambassadors of mettle 
unable to settle 
where their presence can heal
political disease. 

[Dedicated to Dr. Janet Gardiner, former Ambassador to Syria]
 
Nereid

She roams the water in search of her beloved 
whom Polyphemus had banished, incensed by lust
that covets frailty in a blooming sea-flower,
whose lack of deference would make her sob. 

Timorous fish swim through her tresses,
inhaling the brine of entangled weeds, 
sorrowfully making many random conjectures
at possible causes for lachrymal trails. 

A translucent string of hyacinthine bubbles, 
profusely flowing from saddened eyes, 
foreboding havoc and vindictiveness, 
inscribing in water defiant love. 
 
An Onomatopoeic Stance

A patter.
Is it feet that chatter
over things that matter?

A splutter.
Is it drops that gutter
from eyes that sputter?

A clatter.
Is it hooves that shatter
the former and the latter?
 
Reticence

The rose that froze at the tip of your tongue
had chosen to repose frost-bitten and numb,
deflecting a flight into the unseen,
inducing an untimely winter scene.

Its pollen lay deep writhing in sobs,
longing for a birth, for dreamt-of buds.
Each curling petal had gone to sleep
suppressing the scent I yearned to keep.

It's Four A M.

It's Four a.m.,
and I'm unable
to sleep.

I've been like
this for a few
nights now.

I've got no idea
why.

Last night, I lay
here, for hours
watching the
sun coming through
my curtains becoming
lighter, and lighter.

Instead of becoming
more, and more tired.
I could feel myself
becoming more, and
more awake.

Maybe, this is just
another symptom
of growing old.
I don't know ?

But why can't my
usual sleep patterns
remain ?

God, I really don't
like getting old.

Although, I suppose
that nobody does. 

Unwelcomed Farewell 

Ahmad Al-Khatat

When you articulate nothing at all
My heart becomes an occupied city 
With the noise from the rockets, not birds 
The clouds drop blood on my fictional planet.

The blue skies open its chest to those fireworks 
I look at those happy faces, lovers kissing lips,
and pretty dresses. I am sorry darling for loving you 
-without the ability to cover up my lousy tears.

Do not shatter the windows of daylight’s nostalgic 
Open the door of unwelcomed farewell before they bomb us
Hit me with an axe before the death scrapes me 
Wear a dress to reunite with my defeated spirit.

I am still awake, and I want more colours of happiness 
I want new syllables to run over my refugee's tongue
I also desire some pulse to hear with my ears and eyes
-closed at my imagination cuddling with you all night long.



Untouched Fleshes
 
How long will I love you woman
Your scent will wear your breath
With eyes like the sun, I am nervous
about my unfinished, and undreamed joy.

My enemy washes my blood of his hands
Looks into me! burns my past and presence
We breathe heavily as unpleasant summer rain
She screams, apologizes, and tears like a paper boat.

Those silent moments have not spelled a word,
His empowering face still seems like a deadly river 
I search deep in his eyes for untouched bodies 
She stares at the sky for several hours, asking 

-for a cigarette. I wonder what she would do if 
I stop her from smoking and kiss her truthful lips
Will he hear us and sends his tainted fingerprints-
on my abandoned skin then I question my freedom.

She holds my hands and doesn't let me go away, 
She says that her family owns an apology for me, 
My watery eyes stop from aiming at the blank sky, 
I love you woman, but I miss those untouched fleshes.




The Price of Humanism 

Who is going to make the best offer for the price of humanism?
Who is going to buy humanity in one click!
Who is going to auction our rights and principles?

Money buys happiness for some people
Greediness and selfishness are invading their black hearts
Kindness sips liquors with a freedom of speech

While the real speech is waiting on his death role
It’s ridiculous how hard to cleanse our hearts and souls

Most of the goddess cottages are with wrongdoing prophets 
who fight the believers who spell God with their accents?
I'm sorry my child, humanity judged you before you are born 

Who will wipe your tears? like the way your mom and I did 
Recall that you are free and don't belong to any privileged class.
Lift your head to the sunshine and be proud of your values. 



Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad, Iraq. His work has appeared in print and online journals globally. He has poems translated into several languages such as Farsi, Chinses, Spanish, Albanian, Romanian. He has published some poetry chapbooks, and a collection of short stories. He has been nominated for Best of the Net 2019 and was also nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2020.

The Christmas!

The once-in-a-year event
The opportunity to reach out to others in need
The period of typically exchanging gifts
The time for streams of carols and celebration songs
The date where all bunnies, mistletoes, trees and decorations are fully permitted
The occasion where there is sober reflections
The space of exploring sales of goods and services
The point where decisions and actions for the coming New Year are taken
The era where the savior of the world was believed to have been birthed
That’s The Christmas!

EXTREMITIES


Incorporeal extremities unknown,

Like that of the earth,

Its surface and abyss,

Where lies the gates?


Celestial guardians unknown;

Titans covered in gems?

Or, maybe…just maybe,

A bellerophon of fossil univalve shells?!

That's scary!


Leviathan exits unknown,

covered in dreadful mist,

What domicile lies behind the exit?

Is it peace or…tumult?

Is it of…,


Back to the known,

Actuality dawns after frenzy,

Too much to be known, but for 

sanity, best left unknown,

Deep mysteries only known to One,


For sanity,

Shut your mind!


Orbo ab chao! 

                                                 ©the_L

The Four Times Bag Willy Went A’slumber on his Feet       (1664 words)


There’s quite a bit more to say regarding Rip Thayer.
The Slow Man, you mean? That Rip Thayer?
Bag Willy started straightening a bit, turning dead head to head t’ ‘im, saying, There. You have not been listening to a thing I say. You don’t care at all I don’t like that. Do you? You don’t really if you did  your would not have said The Slow Man, you mean? That Rip Thayer, the way you did. How I say things is not important, its what I say that is. And you aren’t listening.
Of course I am. You’re talking about a Rip “The Slow Man” Thayer—you’re talking about that, thinking its got something to do with Sod Martin. Sure I know that. I know what you said, fine. 
Eh get off your high balls already, Brucie.
Bag, please. Brucie is not my name.

No, but it is the name of that guy came up behind you there.
What—who? Turning—scanning—back—there is no one there, Bag.
No, but—made you look! Ha ha heh hey laff laff gigglo—but it could have been, Mr. Sweater—wait wait Sweater is not my name, also, hah! Your name also? Sweater is not your name also? Is not your name also? Sweater. Is not. Is not your name also, I think your name is also, that would be a great name forte you sir-ban Also. Sir Ban Also, A great name for you, sweet. Hachta-pooey.

The first time Bag Willy went a’slumber on his feet:

And then he all went stopped.
Willy!
Bag Willy!
It came apparent Bag did need some sleep, so they taxied him back away to whatever some cheap hotel a block away probably, after pinning to his boots a demand to return tomorrow to resume the testimony regarding Pappy Back-Slloow Mandelly-Cooper why on earth would one retain such a psycho-pomppetoed non-liturgical game-name and that was put up Bag Willy’s front when he returned fresh the next day but, the simplistical porterman ushered him in discreetly warned him on the threshold, there is paper pinned to your boots, M’seur. Let me obtain it. And, as the man bent to reach down, Bag Willy palmed his back applying light pressure so that the porter would not rise and debeak him under the chin as he bent to say over the back of the other no, no, leave it, I want it left there to prove a point, that point being revealed ten minutes later as the also fully morning fresh coffee’d down interrogationist said also there is paper pinned to your boots senor, and Willy said, I know. And there’s a reason. Your big-backed doorguardsmen squad put that on me most insultingly as I passed out that way, and I resent. I resent being thought so dumbo that I would not know to so dumbo that I come back today same weave same rack o’ dumbo bean grasping Ricky that I am and so more much smarter than all around my most times, even though I really don’t look like much’s on my ball, I do know it they do not have to act on it when how the hell can they know it its hidden inside me? I’m the only one who can! 

Darn those piccolos!
And with that Bag reached down swope up the insultationing paper to eyes level, fashioned an airplane from it, and, cruised it gone out of the into of one of the large empty tubules of darkness draping the leftwall. Say, and hear, he was already saying so about a month after Rip “The Slow Man” Thayer presumably quit Sod Martin’s pretend to play bingohall, I went out way to the moneymaker with a big flatheaded Spadea-hoe to start the job of the manual turning of the clods up down and all—and there in the turn, get it or not—a human arm off at the shoulder the hand with a black ball tight in its death-grip.
Bang!

Bag Willy seemed then to shrink back into himself. What he had described had no doubt been a shock. And apparently still was—as he sat there silent. An arm, they reflected—watching him sit there—with a black ball tight in its death grip. An arm clutching a black ball in a death-grip, a death-ball turned up from under the clods first turned up before the start of a winter just endured and now ending. It had been so cold. And the warming had come for Bag Willy wherever he'd been since leaving the sod farm and so. 

The second time Bag Willy went a’slumber on his feet:


He still sat saying nothing so—it was ventured to ask him, Bag? 
Bag! 
Why—why are you so quiet?
Nothing. Nothing, but they had to get him going to the end. They needed Bag Willy’s recorded transcripted testameentation to the end. Oh, guys—to the and because—I am—I am okay but—Judge Ranier said have it turned in bright-shiny and typo free—it was a hell of a sight to see—you could tell—by close of business today—oh b’b’rak, it’s breaking free, he’s out there in that field, I was shaken, I was shook, I was— 

Good, good. Seeing Bag Willy in full flow, once more they resumed quickly their back-standing jotterdownerinne activity scooping up the merest scat out the fiddlin’ Mouthhole of this Bag Willy as he went on into this; the one one step behind the one one step forward reflected back to his thoughts three or seven—or maybe just yesterday—Bag Willy shewed hisself into the office identification card, in hand. Anyone having information regarding activities on the Martin Sod Farm between this dat that one there and this one I hold in my hand—which have right hand left hand think fast think fast think fast, eh; you damned a’ lick oof a duc’, you know, eh eh—and we looked at each other without words needed, saying behind our eyes at each other, What kind of a person is this come in here for the possibility of our granting them an amount of money commiserate with the probative value of the information they provide, sweet willy; yah, I got you so okay your ID checks out—and all flew up to their respective nows, all very good but, again. 

The third time Bag Willy went a’slumber on his feet:


Again Bag Willy had—fallen silent. Be careful, be careful, do not spook him to run. Time you must give. Like if you hit a key like on that there—yah that there machine over there. Or any machine at all actually. Frustration must not be allowed to rule.
Bag sat there. So say once, Bag? Why so quiet all of a sudden?
And his face’s unchanged. Choose wait longer, or ask again. 
Nothing and nothing and nothing nothing and an’, again. So.
Bag. Why so quiet all of a sudden—not knowing that this second time’s just rammed in against the first time already pushing, really slow—as a matter of fact not at all yet—to the back of h’ gullet. Not knowing. His faces show unchanged—but within’s the opposipette so wait. Again. Wait and wait and any rational truly professional questionagrapher would wait there interminably, as, how can they just sit there so patient how can they just sit there ignored by that monck? He is being so rude to them where are they getting that patient and. As though they know their patience is speaking to them at any onlooker again, they wait three bit more and swing in, stop there—now go halfway closer and; Bag. Why so quiet all of a sudden—slips in again guess what, the butt end of the second ask of that so there, madame, approximate tickle them there now go halfway that distance—heh! Still no damned answer. 
Why is his face’s unchanged oh yes wah wah Billy its nearly your bedtime come on lets his the hay Mr. Sumo—No! 

The final time Bag Willy went a’slumber on his feet:

No no no no no—he must be made to speak!
Bag. Why so quiet all of a sudden—slips in a’splat ta the butt back of the third, then so go halfway that space this time and-o L’; nothing. Nothing. All patience is gone now, but that  must not show so, so wait three short waits another’s for good measure.  
How can they be so damned patient with that slug?
Not’s really, as, Bag. Why so quiet all of a sudden—slips in a’splat ta the butt back of the fourth, then so go halfway that space this time and-o L’; nothing. Nothing—and not to b’bore the swollen out frostbit universe containing you all sweet sister the bucklin’ tha’ brotherman and how many other times you see yourselves in our mirror that way? The sad answer is ‘gain, no again, and no closer 1 2 3 4 5 4 3 2 1 ‘gain, no again, and no closer 1 2 3 4 5 6 5 4 3 2 1 ‘gain, no again, and no closer 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 repleted an-titioned all out; and these may be placed into any order desired; and so, fat back sass; because of your impatience displayed this way n number of times my God you are really hosed down now Bag hosed now so that wrapped this wat ta’ that day and so after the good night’s sleep the fine weather dished up for this out past their sides, the next day the navelmen declared the channels cleared, and in the pale rise of the sun’s light despite slight overcast no, no storm’s a’brew, his tone saying plain he really meant who the hell said that, say your name, say your name, condemned;
Condemned!
Condemned.
Condemned!
Splat! 

Jim Meirose’s work has appeared in numerous venues. His novels include “Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer”(Optional Books), “Understanding Franklin Thompson”(JEF), “Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection”(Mannequin Haus), and “No and Maybe – Maybe and No”(Pski’s Porch). Info: www.jimmeirose.com @jwmeirose