words, whither going whence?

Image by qimono on pixabay

There are days

when words sit far


simply over there.

A wild

stillness here

mute frond silhouettes


Call me

or come to me,

you are as dear

to me as

bread is to hunger,


to forgotten peaks.

Sudden rush of

mallard wings

too close to lake water

— depths of

striated jade wizened

beyond water —


me afraid.

I am afraid

though sunlight

slants on pure


bird droppings

and spun gold


To most

of us mostly,

fear is the

only companion;

Hide it or


behind it

it’s the same


A solitary tear

Futility of Dreams From the Bottom of the Sea

the moments between life and death

Image pixabay

Not everyone who dies gets the funeral they deserve.

They fished his body out,

White balloon flesh flaked off on

Grappling hooks, not malevolent

Not kind just flinty black

— All utilitarian, you understand —

He was not frozen not clammy,

Nor cold, as though not even conceived

Nor imagined, roundly denied acknowledgment,

Even that of a squashed frog, and so much

Silent rain running with horizontal

Precision into a liquid continuity,

Like Chinese water torture protracted to

A slug’s lifetime of quickening

Death on slow slime roadways, but

Texture nevertheless,

choked on unremarkable

When Skies Turn Heretic

~ a poem ~

Image pixabay by tedy22

God walked amongst us in chrome leather…

blood called for blood

all day singsong of little riddles

fell on asphalt but no one heard:

blood calling for blood

drowned hum of pollinating bees

rhizomes were eaten by a pox

rotated regions of brilliance

we call gems curdled and died.

a priest intoned indecipherable

benedictions then whispered,

“Tomorrow I will sodomize you, boy!”

Inmates wept at a last day

of insanity in an asylum:

they had nowhere left to go.

When skies turn heretic

it’s a turning point for complacency

but no one cared:

blood was calling…

I Opened My Vein To Viridian Shadows

~ a poem of contentious communion ~

Image by Analiseart on Pixabay

Well, God,

we part ways

yet again. You head back

towards a black cube

— though I have to say, in the midst of a desert

I like the matte obsidian of it —

and I, turning right, then left

past last summer’s bright swimming pool,

down a steep dogwood-lined path go towards

still, silent lake waters and then the woods —

coral cathedrals full of jasper shadows, carnelian rustlings.

Beyond the shadow of your house,

must lie level sands, then small humps of dunes,

shifting between contour

— small surcease for a…

Forbidden Flower

~ frangipanni to most, araliya to me ~

‘Araliya’ acrylic on canvas by author

My olfactory system has a voracious appetite — I’m a compulsive sniffer.

Frangipanni evokes flesh-wrenching memories of Sri Lanka, its rainforests, its ebony-sinewed demigods, hot wet nights, and rainstorms like long-drawn-out lust, so I avoid sticking my nose into its flesh-silk-heavy-heady heart. Too many memories. An ache that wants all of it back with what can only be the urgency of love.

Alone, as I walked my usual otiose walk —waning dusk — I picked up two fallen blooms, creamy-cool and muddy. I took a deep breath. My gut did…

And Both Worlds Are Mine

~ canvas, pigments, ink and paper ~

‘Smokey Lairs’ acrylic on gold leaf by author

Words become pictures,

pictures words. If you ask me

which come first

I’ll be between a rock

and a hard place.

…Thick flowing lava,

hot words

that freeze outlines of day-lilies

into melting blue ice pictures,

now cascading as water

over time-rounded bones,

and destinations so far

that only prayer-like mists

can strike,

as lightning does

from smoky lairs

around snow-capped peaks

where dwarf firs stir in shaggy

crags, lofty homes to birds

of rare plumage — words

unfolding shy wings,

blackened quills

which drag images

across the canvas sky

like the hand of Michelangelo

coaxing puffs of rococo clouds

into dimpled cherubs

straddling all creation —

Lyrical breathing like

piano notes, rising staying,

falling then melting —

words pictures,

pictures words.

Farida Haque

Shringi Kumari Vaishali Paliwal Michael Stang LB Marley K. Tre L. Loadholt

~ a poem, a wish, a question ~

Image by darksouls1 on Pixabay

In light like

a magnesium ghost,

as though


by singsong winds,

an obsidian swirl

of blackbirds

undulates, breathes,

coalesces then

shatters into slivers.

A silent

tongue that could

never be ours

gathers them

to it’s bosom

to pour into an

indigo bowl of

day’s end.


I have

tried to look

past calculations

of my mind for

columns of gold

wept at vanished rivulets,

ached for love’s syzygy.


radiance of jasmines

can be so darkly animalic

awes me still,


loins to atavistic yearnings…

Yet, the end will come.

But those blackbirds!

Ah to be

A blackbird defined

From a Woman of Colour to America, the Night Before the Election

~reflections on a country in crisis~

Pixabay image by Ronile

Today of all days, Medium’s write a story page is down! Coincidence? One day before Election Day, the one and only time I decided it was time to speak not as a poet, but as an average woman of color, a Muslim, rather privileged, who lives in the United States. By choice. Looking back, it was the wrong choice. But that’s another story.

We are being willfully stupid and delusional. Trump has thousands of followers for a reason. But we can’t see…

Farida Haque

Multimedia artist, writer, poet. ‘Celebrating other lives, I am a sparrow in the shadow of a rosebush...’ faridahaque@gmail.com

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