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Author and educator I finally got to the PhD, though I’ve been mentoring for years. Get my free eBook https://linktr.ee/chrismooneysingh

Poetry

Who can say why no one talks at home?
There’s no affection in her Sunday hand.
Dad is elsewhere going badly bankrupt.
There’s only mashed potato on the table.

Brother taunts his sister at the table;
Mum attempts to keep the peace at home,
then Dad returns, a blatant air-strike hand
to drop his truth bomb hard— that he is bankrupt.

Now comes his coup de grâce — she’s also bankrupt.
He’d made her sign those documents on this table,
the table that was honest — home sweet home.
The hand behind her hand is a bad hand.

Why did…


An ovillejo

The ovillejo

An old Spanish 10-line poetical form popularised by Cavalcanti and Cervantes.

A sestet of six lines in couplets, followed by a quatrain.

Likewise, a ball of wool or spool of thread is called an ovillo and thus writing an ovillejo is an act of knotting together a pattern of parts.

Lines 1, 3 and 5 usually ask questions making this a poem of riddles. I have chosen to focus more on narrative until the last stanza as a nod to the inherent rhetoric behind the form.

Lines 2, 4 and 6 reappear combined as line 10. …


A macrobiotic love poem

Let me embrace thee, sour adversity,
for wise men say it is the wisest course.
— William Shakespeare.

1
You are my pickled plum,
salt-sweet candy dropped
to spice up the rice gruel.
You are my brown rice pot.

2
A plate of sour plums,
those tiny late-night snacks
are chewy lozenges
and perfect for slow pipes.

3
I shook a plum tree down.
It did not like the theft.
Crimson mouth: so sour
you suddenly bit back.

4
I nibbled on that lip
and thought it would be sweet.
A ruby aims to tempt
the minion of the mouth.


Dating and dalliance on the Net

I’m ready to rendezvous online.
Let’s go to Timbuktu online.

Squawk cockatoo to a cockapoo
or date a kinkajou online.

The boobs of girl avatars are bombs.
(He calls himself ‘Lulu’ online).

Coo-coo cuckoo, cook cordon bleu.
YouTube a barbecue online.

Need a skin game? Pick your ink.
Wahoo Tattoo’s for you, online.

Try the tarot, digital runes –
the algorithm guru online.

Update your modus operandi;
speak Urdu Ubuntu online.

“Siri, find me Amazon
to buy Zulu shampoo online.”

“Google Mini, what’s the time?”
dear AI ingénue online.

Twitter, Bonehead, feeds on you.
Past lives are déjà vu online.

Enter the Ghazal

Origins


Where body and mind take a leap

This hammock is my lazy state of mind.
I’ve hauled it to a lookout by the sea,
a slingshot slung between two coco palms,
expecting you to come. Along the shore

these island waves are calm, but still, the shore
has indigo and starlight on its mind.
It’s time for shadow theatre in the palms;
it’s time to swing in rhythm with the sea.

I rock and hum and roll, and now I see
you coming — perfect timing. Take my palms
and climb up safely next…


Seven quatrains for shapeshifting lovers

Some men enjoy the added attention they receive in the role of a busty elfish sorceress, while some women prefer to avoid unwanted harassment from other players.
Jen Gerson (from an article on ‘Gender-swapping’ gamers: Why some men prefer to play with female avatars — and vice versa)

1
It’s natural that we were born to love
like eager fingers entering a glove.
More than one time lovers we will be.
No need to hurry. Why this push and shove?

2
The shaman wants to be a furry fox;
the quester seeks elf ears and long blonde locks. …


A mea culpa sonnet

Sunday has come. Your absence is severe.
My wooden house is empty by the sea.
Although the white paint glows expansively
I feel the curse of a cold hand lurking here.

I take a back trail walk to the waterfall
and think my thalamus is telling lies.
Focusing in, I see drenched hair and eyes
inside the pell-mell roaring death-knell call.

That face tells me a tale from long ago.
The husband-god said: Cry, cry all you can.
Because she had sex with a mortal man
He drowned her here to be nobody’s bedfellow.

My face…


He thinks, she speaks

He:
What am
I here
to prove?
Should I
not be a
cormorant
learning to
watch water,
listen with
radar eye
or see with
stone ear
then aim my
arrow beak
downwards
until — she
comes back,
fish-sleek
from an
underworld
of blue –

her face-mask
crowning
with aqualung
and diving suit,
a sunlit
necklace
of salt
breaking
like jewels
across
latex breasts.
She shakes
her hair out.


Unrhymed tetrameter poem and a story about the guitar

The guitar makes dreams weep.
The sobs of lost souls
escape from its round mouth.
— Federico Garcia Lorca

The guitar is longing for the drum
the drum is longing for the voice
the voice is longing for the breath
and breath is longing for the strength

the strength is longing for the spark
the spark is longing for the skin
the skin is longing for the touch
and touch is waiting for the touch

the touch is hoping for the cheek
the cheek is planning for the hand
the hand is reaching for the lips
and lips are closing on the lips…

Chris Mooney-Singh

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