by Suzan Abrams

She swung around the room in a
spectacular fashion,
in what one might perceive to be a state of
metaphysical vibrations.
And soon there was a melting away of
pent-up tension,
as she eagerly trounced up a
pulsating gyration.
No doubt, a Bedouin honoured
and herself the nemisis, inherent of its
solitary tradition.

Credit: Clip art from Yasmina’s Joy of Bellydancing

by Suzan Abrams

I am a clown

the majesty of my brevity,
in a battle, and
juggling the last freefall
of my destiny.
I may touch the ground
still mentally sound, or
be branded
mortally wounded for

These little lines came to me in a dream last night – just as they are – and I’m only too glad I remembered them when I woke up. I lost some rhythmic patterns and had to re-construct. One in a while, this happens.

by Suzan Abrams

And when she stirred, he
the artful dodger,
pictured her toss a pillow as
one would slip a winding nightfall out
the window
before secrets be named and shamed.
She of course, the silent exemplary saint.
And so now he went to her, ready
to embrace the halo from where she slept,
while still clasped in a waiting
angel’s palm.
by Suzan Abrams

It is morning time and the sunshine burns bright,

in the lost time light, in
a world past the cold black night.

Where a pretty blue sea tosses up waves for a glisten,
and boats go a-bobbing, just close your eyes and listen.
One, two, three and a cheerful four,
see them hide behind my childhood door.
Now when I am sad or caught up in strife
I’ll see the sunshine sparkle up my life.
Then I’ll sail the ocean on a bouncy whim,
and catch the magic of a happy swim.


by Suzan Abrams

Dublin Diary…April 30, 2009: The spring in Dublin did not know quite how to be today. The afternoon light had turned ephemeral in its display of warmth and affection. Cradled by a shadowed cloud, the weather rose and heaved with the matronly spirit of an operatic sigh. It stayed torn between the embrace of a lingering winter chill and a maypole song. The crowd cajoled this reluctant goodwill with the obstinate merry mood that spilled out of sidewalk cafes and which would cause tiny concert stirs in Temple Bar and on Grafton Street. May the many bands of buskers continue to celebrate the music of accordians, acoustic guitars and of drums. May soapbox poets sell their chapbooks with the glory afforded to saints. May self-invented carnivals help lure the sales.

I went on a walkabout with books in a bag and a hand in my pocket. I purchased yet more newer titles. Four in all, add on the 10 from two days ago and I’m still counting. Today, it was The Children’s Book by A.S. Byatt and Nocturnes by Kazuo Ishiguro, Eugene McCabe’s The Love of Sisters and David Leavitt’s The Indian Clerk; the last tale appropriately encased in its memorable hardback. I drank one cuppa too many. My heart whistled where only the mind could hear. In the strange glorious light, my soul thumped up an orchestra.

Curtained by a hurrying dusk, the spring closed in on its exquisite Irish garden in the middle of city scrapers and the madly-dancing Liffey under the Ha Penny bridge. All at once, I thought of shiny sculptured mannequins in a stilled catwalk fence sashaying up a lonely barren window.

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