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  • abramsuzan 2:28 am on May 21, 2009 Permalink | Reply  

    Rhymes 

    Dancer

    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
    celebration…
    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

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

    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.

    To comment on any of these entries, please scroll down.

     
  • abramsuzan 11:58 am on March 24, 2009 Permalink | Reply  

    Four Grumpy Fish 

    by Suzan Abrams

    Four grumpy fish swimming in the water,
    each angry one not talking to the other.
    One, a yellow fellow, tips a shiny moonbeam,
    two, a fiercesome blue that sulks like sour cream.
    Three, a speckled darling thats hungry for some grub,
    four, a baby girl, that wants her mummy’s rub.
    Clenched tails and an ouch for a tumbled pouch…
    and four grumpy fish now make a red-faced grouch.

    Note: This free public domain image is run with courtesy of KarenWhimsy.

     
    • emoellm 6:35 pm on March 26, 2009 Permalink | Reply

      Thanks. I really like the four grumpy fish. It made me chuckle at my buckle and chortle like a mortal.
      WEM

  • abramsuzan 11:40 am on March 22, 2009 Permalink | Reply  

    For Me To Be At The Sea 

    For Me To Be At The Sea For Tea

    Then a seagull came and swished me about and blew me out to
    sea.
    I frowned. “Don’t be silly, stop the hurry, I haven’t yet had my
    tea.”
    The seagull scolded and scowled, the tide had whistled out to
    me.
    So I held my jam tarts and dived the ocean where a picnic sought to
    be.
    – suzan abrams –
     
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