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Poetry

December poems

By Anita Nahal

Sleepless nights – Anita Nahal 



 

i.	Storm

Sleepless nights are an aphrodisiac, sometimes. They are you and your naked skin next to mine. When hands linger and the morning sun is asked to wait, intense sun rays are hushed out the room. In the middle of the night between endless sharing, sleepless nights are like that glass of water at my bedside in which I’d slipped a couple of ice cubes to cool the heat. Those sleepless nights don’t come very often even though I send hand written letters sprinkled with a bit of ittar at the envelope’s opening. I keep waiting for you…keep waiting for you and the storm stands at the doorstep crushing dry leaves against restless window panes.


ii.	Lull

Sometimes, sleepless nights come like a lull between pregnant chapters of a novel. Curiosity compels to turn the page and I drag my feet like exhausted horses after a long, tedious journey in medieval times. I try to calm the pawns and the elephants that the horses are being tended to, but a game of chess gives me away. I don my royal clothes and try to appear majestic as I stride out to allay fears of my ailing armies, but sleepless nights don’t let go…don’t let go and hold on to reigns like lonely seaweeds in a forgotten marsh. And the parched leaves of the now overlooked storm have been pressed dried as book marks in my novel.

iii.	Rejuvenation 

Since I’m not the game type, I give up any lackluster attempts to try. Neither chess, nor dice, nor the war  or love kind. I lay alone for that’s how I find peace to rejuvenate. On clean sheets after a lazy shower, I refuse to even put on my reading glasses or stretch my hand for the lamp switch. A nightcap of hot buttered rum, some Amazon rain sounds with light Native American flute soothes. Sleepless nights walk away…walk away gently as I lay beneath a dreamcatcher with fairy lights blinking tenderly. The storm and the lull have bonded, and the expectant novel goes to sleep unread. And so, do I. 
 


Glossary:
Ittar: An essential oil derived from botanical sources













Airplanes in flight, when a heart came to be in crimson and saffron


I guess, I guess it’s tough to say where you are headed. Perhaps away from a love, or to a love. I’m just a relentless romantic so bear me my mushy heart’s muse as did Robert Frost whom I met last night as I was making my way for a glimpse of you flying. He told me to keep walking till I reached a clearing through thick tree tops where the sky and the crimson-saffron leaves mingled with the hues of my cheeks so that I would blush, and a heart would come to be.

I stood in the open with my arms far above trying to hold on to some magical woodland while shadows of hearts danced in tinges of yellows, browns, and lime greens playing mischief with my own shadow. As I serenely tried to capture them, butterflies flew in from all sides with naughty eyed elves riding abreast. I pinched myself. I shook my clothes. I kicked off my shoes and was ready to waltz when Alice in Wonderland stood beside me watching you fly and zoom by. I whispered to the heart shadows to come back and they all blushed crimson and saffron, and a heart came to be.

I kept watching till I could only hear your hum, and then turned to the wise trees beseeching their embrace. Avatars of all foliage clasped palms sprinkling me with autumn leaves and my yogic breaths and poses didn’t fail as I prepped to fall to rise again. I merged with the ground with my heart full and calm as all the crimsons and saffron held arms, and a renewed heart came to be.

As time flew along with you, I slowly rubbed my eyes watching a paler blue than pale blue sky. Perhaps its misty clouds were lifting you to keep flying, chugging, going . Perhaps a lover, or a soldier, a mother or father, or a child are yearning inside you to take them to their loved ones. Your journey is long, yet I’ll watch you from my crimson-saffron clearing, my heart next to yours. And when all loved ones have met those waiting, everyone’s blushing cheeks will turn an enduring red, and a heart forever would come to be. 












Sleepless nights – Anita Nahal 



 

i.	Storm

Sleepless nights are an aphrodisiac, sometimes. They are you and your naked skin next to mine. When hands linger and the morning sun is asked to wait, intense sun rays are hushed out the room. In the middle of the night between endless sharing, sleepless nights are like that glass of water at my bedside in which I’d slipped a couple of ice cubes to cool the heat. Those sleepless nights don’t come very often even though I send hand written letters sprinkled with a bit of ittar at the envelope’s opening. I keep waiting for you…keep waiting for you and the storm stands at the doorstep crushing dry leaves against restless window panes.


ii.	Lull

Sometimes, sleepless nights come like a lull between pregnant chapters of a novel. Curiosity compels to turn the page and I drag my feet like exhausted horses after a long, tedious journey in medieval times. I try to calm the pawns and the elephants that the horses are being tended to, but a game of chess gives me away. I don my royal clothes and try to appear majestic as I stride out to allay fears of my ailing armies, but sleepless nights don’t let go…don’t let go and hold on to reigns like lonely seaweeds in a forgotten marsh. And the parched leaves of the now overlooked storm have been pressed dried as book marks in my novel.

iii.	Rejuvenation 

Since I’m not the game type, I give up any lackluster attempts to try. Neither chess, nor dice, nor the war  or love kind. I lay alone for that’s how I find peace to rejuvenate. On clean sheets after a lazy shower, I refuse to even put on my reading glasses or stretch my hand for the lamp switch. A nightcap of hot buttered rum, some Amazon rain sounds with light Native American flute soothes. Sleepless nights walk away…walk away gently as I lay beneath a dreamcatcher with fairy lights blinking tenderly. The storm and the lull have bonded, and the expectant novel goes to sleep unread. And so, do I. 
 


Glossary:
Ittar: An essential oil derived from botanical sources













Airplanes in flight, when a heart came to be in crimson and saffron


I guess, I guess it’s tough to say where you are headed. Perhaps away from a love, or to a love. I’m just a relentless romantic so bear me my mushy heart’s muse as did Robert Frost whom I met last night as I was making my way for a glimpse of you flying. He told me to keep walking till I reached a clearing through thick tree tops where the sky and the crimson-saffron leaves mingled with the hues of my cheeks so that I would blush, and a heart would come to be.

I stood in the open with my arms far above trying to hold on to some magical woodland while shadows of hearts danced in tinges of yellows, browns, and lime greens playing mischief with my own shadow. As I serenely tried to capture them, butterflies flew in from all sides with naughty eyed elves riding abreast. I pinched myself. I shook my clothes. I kicked off my shoes and was ready to waltz when Alice in Wonderland stood beside me watching you fly and zoom by. I whispered to the heart shadows to come back and they all blushed crimson and saffron, and a heart came to be.

I kept watching till I could only hear your hum, and then turned to the wise trees beseeching their embrace. Avatars of all foliage clasped palms sprinkling me with autumn leaves and my yogic breaths and poses didn’t fail as I prepped to fall to rise again. I merged with the ground with my heart full and calm as all the crimsons and saffron held arms, and a renewed heart came to be.

As time flew along with you, I slowly rubbed my eyes watching a paler blue than pale blue sky. Perhaps its misty clouds were lifting you to keep flying, chugging, going . Perhaps a lover, or a soldier, a mother or father, or a child are yearning inside you to take them to their loved ones. Your journey is long, yet I’ll watch you from my crimson-saffron clearing, my heart next to yours. And when all loved ones have met those waiting, everyone’s blushing cheeks will turn an enduring red, and a heart forever would come to be.

Anita Nahal Ph.D., CDP is a professor, poet, short story writer and children’s writer. She teaches at the University of the District of Columbia, Washington DC. Nahal has two books of poetry, one book of flash fictions and three children’s books to her credit, besides an edited poetry anthology. Her writings have appeared in journals in the US, UK, Asia and Australia. More on her at: https://anitanahal.wixsite.com/anitanahal

2 replies on “December poems”

Loved Anita Nahal’s unique Prose-Poems with such lyrical content of images and metaphors …….excellent Verbal Paintings and Poetic Diction…..Prose- Poetry and certainly not Prosaic Poetry……..a new development in Contemporary Literary Art…..and Bravo dear Mitali for publishing such good stuff.

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