Latches to be opened
Article Submitted By:
BashkaJacobs Date: Sun, 2 Oct 2011 Time: 1:32 AM
felucca's slice through the Nile
the same boats that
the Egyptian Gods
took to their afterlife
but
not far away
Shisha Water pipes
blaze
the exhale a cinnamon haze
curls and fills the air
The water is clear
and bubbles
The mona lisa smiles
are on wrinkled faces
Enjoying a quiet moment
Away from husband and relative
Prying eyes
their abas
Like a black pool of water at their feet
Their almond eyes sing stories
that wish to be told
Far away on the red china sea
The women in their sanpans
Change flags as they float into different boundary waters
they change their attire putting on the simple blue
everyone wears
they rub off the color they are one of the
thousand drops in the ocean
that remembers their
eye
Still further away
Half naked old women of Varanasi
Bathe themselves in the Ganges The Holy River
Next to a bloated dead cow
Yet they live
Eek out a living with a few paisa
that they offer to the white pasted sadhus
with gnarled hands
that have turned into claws
In London Other
Arab women shift
themselves like their sisters
in their home country
they smoke shisha as well
Their faces uncovered
they are young
and under their aba a satin
dress and heels ignite
their spirit
and some day they
will vote and drive
jump backward
I fall in line with the female Israeli soldiers
I am invisible they laugh and play
paint toes talk fast
so I do not understand everything
but we all know
going into battle they could die.
I have gone far from Brooklyn
And found myself
Cooking over Chula stoves in south India
Grinding peppers in a mortar in Goa
Looking for herbs in the Himalayas
Finding blue mushrooms
That turn yellow from the forests
Outside Chamba Valley
Eating Mo Mo ‘s from the ladies
With aprons
In the Tibetan tent
in Bodh Gaya
Listening to their gossip
while
Walking around
saying prayers and moving
the prayer wheel
i have learned to dry pumpkin seeds
and slit their thin skin
with my fingernail
by an old Iraqi woman
i have roasted an eggplant over
an open fireon Bezalel street
carefully peeling away its
burnt skin
from a survivor
of the concentration camps
who had hollow eyes but
knew how to cook
i have held the other side of the pot
and emptied a huge soup
with a Brahmin cook
and learned to stir galangal
into a broth by
a fat ibu in Indonesia
laid frangapani on doorsteps in bali
and wore an invisible head dress
that was taller then any door
for Tibetan teachings
unlatching the doors
of mysteries when i found them
i learned to rest
and be nourished
by the smallest of things
and the most wonderful stories
that went beyond any traces of time.
i am aware now of my
own mortality
and i rush to write everything down
while i still remember
so i can enjoy them
yet again.
About the Author
the crow ( bashka) likes goat cheese
harissa and pomegrante molasses
capers and sparkly things
but not all together.
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Submitted: Sun, 2 Oct 2011 Time: 1:32 AM