Lipogram (Poem)

Creative Writing 5 


Sitting by a sandy city’s bistro

at a spot of lunch not long past,

words crumbling from damp mouths

drop strings of stubborn thoughts

as if months of things said had not said truth.

a lack of touch implying an unwant of carrying on

clogs his throat with a swallow of a burning mint drink.

words said burnt through as hot mint slid, burning down his throat.


Standing, an instant changing

with a flip of a long, midnight braid stomping away

from a usual lunchstand and pair of chairs.

a crowd sounds as if it was lulling and numb

nothing was auditory but a sound of solid boots

clunking away on a sandy city’s rock path.

Standing, too, sliding an iron chair backwards

to scud in opposition with a rock ground,

a man did not act against his woman’s conclusion

but simply stood, appalling and gawking without hostility.

a slight spasm shot through a long arm,

no touch of dark skin will warm against his unconvincing hand.

a visual of losing what had had familiarity

struck him as if lightning was bolting

into and throughout his thick, bloody circuits.

his body was lurching with convulsions of sobs

stabbing, suffocating, honing, aching,

all lunch chats with hints of smooth, mint drinks,

crispy toast, tomato, garbanzos and milk

spun into dust, spurring away with his woman’s familiar body

that was now acting as a quondam romantic.

with bombs of his pitiful wails,

his origin of romantic thought turns to vapor.



In an instant, a snapshot parting had lost an intimacy’s ring.

all sounds flood back, roaring with clangs,

buzzing with chit and chat of crowds

shouting, communicating with tourists

for cinnamon, pita, figs, kilos of fruits,

rugs, vibrant, swirling colors of plum and aqua

on bowls, trays and spouting, clay mugs

sir, how much! arabic, turkish, how much! kurdish

glowing pulp lamps with drawings of floral loops,

spring blooms of coral orchids falling from stands

as a man owning his shop fails to spot a crook snatching a posy for a fair woman.

down a chaining corridor of shop by shop, in rows fit for a king

sprouts goods as if souks sporadically spit colors

with volcanic bursts of gold, indigo,

paprika and cardamom, almonds, pistachios, sugars and baklava

burgundy and cyan against light, dull gypsum pots and jars

lacking all swooshing from a rainbow brush

but holding spirit just as loud and obnoxious as an adjoining shop of

paintings of arab towns and palms that downplay naturally vivid colors

sir, how much! coral, dark plums, how much! aqua, salmon,

old books with historical maps, stacking on stands

by gold chains and rings adorning with sparks of crystal, diamond, lapis, ruby and opal

glass bongs with twisting and curling ports, shanks and bowls

sir, how much! pounding calls for various, stupid artifacts

a hand of lira flung for a hand of cumin and basil

to soak and dunk on pitas with chilis and hummus

garb of Islam, long skirts and hijabs with florals, flaming colors and strong attraction

arms wailing to obtain gifts and curios, knick knacks and toys for young sons

crimson, maroon, lilac, dips of tahini, baba ghanoush and halva,

fuchsia, ivory tusks and wrinkling rhino skins atop lamps and wallhangings,

anything a dumbass could want was out, sprawling in this bazaar.


But this man’s body was stuck standing still among this bustling crowd;

his childhood darling, his woman, had spun away.


photo credits:


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