AHMED F. BAIDOON

 

That Day Poetry Celebrate

 

Today is the day, I call myself a rambler,

Never hold true to a poet but see that wrangler,

My orchard imbued by rosy petals and cloves flower,

Those rhymed words, he created out of whim,

That realm of the impossible is a mirror to him,

Maybe, he sought salvation and catharsis,

A mermaid or peaceful world of his own analysis,

The poets are knights of letters soaring high,

With chivalry, prowess and relief with sigh,

Morale and lesson learnt rendered through a line,

Not a bag of lies but adamant truth rise and shine,

Let alone those quatrains, stanzas and a ballad,

Conform to humanity and reason, something valid,

A herald of glitching sign of hope, a messenger;

Of glad tidings, a harbinger to warn against fallacies, a presage;

With bona fide his endeavors seem,

Between high-ranking accultured, lies his dream,

His teachings to overall folks—riffraff, rustic and urban,

His ode is an eternal trail of legacy remedy, a skilled surgeon,

To end those luminous syllables with laudation and glare,

My saluting couplet, an accolade of ovation to the bonfire flare.

 

An Epitome Of Blues Around Yearly Months:

 

The universe with candelabra filaments dimmed,

The full moon of celestial torment hymned,

That wedlock of melancholy and spring,

The offspring was a badger barge in swathes wing,

With detached amputated dream that paved his way,

Into the realm of barren land without blossoms or stack of hay,

Those wading birds, when darkness loomed shall fade,

Summoning unfurled cries of peasantry handmade,

No sign of hope – that orchards can bloom,

That veritable corpse of vegetation can never exhume,

And that; the salvation on that earthly throne,

No human sibling can rejoice but moan,

That warry apparition of travesty and peckish nature womb proclaim,

Those imbued clouds with wrath ignite the flame,

That spring time almost seemed weird,

No token of fraternity as the globe spouses appeared,

Nothing but monotony and stillness of the gyre swirl,

That natural rage in pursuit of the pearl,

That mattress of thronged calamities of inviolable caress,

Shall bring about an eerie creation, all mankind profess,

That prevalent pestilence looked rife,

No more vegetation, no more jocund psalms, but more strife,

Is this how to be like —this life?!

That demon diabolical subterfuge obsessed feeble minds,

Or that blind surrounding made more blinds,

The spring always came at once replete with infatuation,

Even that far-fetched star glitter with vexing formation,

Ravishing whoever go astray conscientious aberration,

That wintery fusillade of pains shall end—a declaration!

Behold—that oak as the judge applying the rule,

I hereby pronounce you all as harmonious homogenous jewel,

Hearken— with love and peace, the world masterpieces sing,

Long live that serenade of meadows in that so-called spring!

And still, those ravishing muses of that annual song,

To where we reverently belong!

 

AHMED F. BAIDOON