The April fires burn into the velvet night.
Flames turn to ash and memories
the last remnants of the dark, dead times.
And so the Festival begins.
Wine is drunk.
Songs are sung.
Love is made.
Boys take girls to the forest and become men.
Girls become women.
And women become mothers.
The Mother of All smiles
from her perch atop the moon.
Like it has for generations
flames turn to ash and memories the dark and dead.
And so the Festival begins.
– Josh Krach
Author’s Note: Spring is my favorite season. This poem is a nod to the first clear, warm evenings when the moon is full, the first flowers are blooming, and all the dead is burned away in the first bonfire of the season.… ...continue reading
(I will whisper this so it stays between us)
Your heart has been broken.
It has been shattered for so long
you believe it will never be whole again.
I will take your hand in mine,
your heart in my other
and walk us down to the river
to our hidden grotto of brick and iron.
I will wield your shadows and shatters
turn them into gold lacquer
rebuild what you thought unfixable
until we see the beauty in the imperfections
– Mae Fraser… ...continue reading
Crimson heat rains down on ochre landscapes, the souk stalls spilling out much more vibrant colors: plush pink pillows, yellow bananas, green afghans, orange turbans, and violet roses. Beige and mustard-colored Berber carpets and more flamboyant magic carpets reminiscent of a Scheherazade tale protect the stalls from the elements—and for the right price, you can buy such a “roof” for your foyer or living room or, if you’re really opulent, your palatial outhouse.
But I’m here in this medina quarter for something more muted. My wife’s favorite tagine has stewed its last lamb salona, no thanks to my accidentally cracking it into three pieces, and I must replace it. I don’t visit the souk often. It’s not a place for me. I love the sights and sounds, especially the oud, ney, and bendir, played together or individually, telling the traditional stories or finding space for new tunes.… ...continue reading
I can still picture the scene in my mind’s eye.
I see my buddies lying face down on the linoleum floor, shielding their faces from the pepper-infused crimson sauce splattered everywhere. The cries of young men brought down in the prime of their lives by puddles of hot nacho cheese beneath their feet; the visceral smell of ground beef too damaged to ever be seasoned.
The hours after the lunch rush had been quiet, the summer heat keeping the customers away and lulling us into a false sense of security.
That’s when Charlie came calling.… ...continue reading
Gothic of course with gargoyles
wandering the ancient halls.
timeless despite the chiming
never to be heard in unison.
Clock hands close in prayer
where, gowned, the giant ravens
barely see the visitors’ gaze
in shades of admiration.
An aria sung on a bicycle
drifts graciously through the years.
“Wait to be asked” was sound advice
in finding a life worth living
among minds higher than mine,
their intellect as tangible as stone
were stone winged for flight
above reason’s indifference.… ...continue reading
“Your difference isn’t a detour. It’s the point.”
Before me came words that showed the way
for everything after me.
I knew exactly what I needed to do.
I’d been rehearsing for weeks.
I tattooed every line of that script
on the tendrils of my being
in case anyone forgot their lines
or became ill or perhaps died.
But I had no understudy
when I fell into an obscure coma.
For several days, I lingered,
the persona illuminated but quiet.
They had to start the show without me,
my twin brother quickly hired
to play my role until I woke up.
When I emerged from my chrysalis,
I realized the words needed to be different,
the detour actually better than the journey.
I shed my wings to walk again instead,
the flying comma becoming a voluble period.… ...continue reading
He angles his cart in the middle of the bread aisle. When she clears her throat, he mutters Sorry and looks at her feet. He’d singled her out because of her sandals, thinking it would be good to start with a solid foundation. He studies the length of her toes, shape of her ankles. When she clears her throat again, he moves aside.
—
There are so many vegetables to squeeze and thump in produce. He hears wheels squeak and sneaks a peek. She’s not as tall as the bread woman. She reaches for a tomato, her long fingers a tiny bridge. He takes in the creases of her knuckles and every chip in her bright red polish.
—
Most places, like the streets, are either too crowded or empty.… ...continue reading