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Brenda Atry Poem
Tea Leaves On The Bosphorus
Seated at a table by the stirring water,
My eyes absorb the shore of Asia.
Minerets and aged worn stone
Stand haphazardly along the banks.
Istanbul is a lady with secrets
She'll lure you with her unrevealed virgin beauty,
Then seduce you with her ancient lovers.
Grilled sardines filled my charger
Fish pulled from the strait just minutes before,
Lay garnished with parsley and mint .
Red pickled turnips and warm flat bread
Are the implements that help feed me
And scoop up the humus,
Turkish nourishment for my soul.
The empty plates are cleared by a handsome waiter
With dubious intentions I feared,
But I was flattered none the less.
A bowl of yogurt was placed before me,
And my admirer arrived with a comb of honey.
He held it high above the creamy cloud and let the heavy ochre
languidly pour atop the milky whiteness of delight.
After his seduction,he left me alone to my pleasure
As I lapped at the sweet and sour heavenly temptation,
that parted my lips and elevated my being.
As I recovered from my rapture, two eyes caught mine.
The heathen that destroyed my diet approached the table uninvited.
He pulled up a chair and sat down across from me.
In his hands, a cup.
He offered to tell me my future.
White, small, as fragile as an eggshell with the top lopped off.
Within was a dark tea with floating leaves.
In a chivalrous attempt at English conversation,
He handed me the libation and the offer to read the remains.
I, alone in a man's world, unmarried, and of a certain age,
Did not need encouragement and I accepted his offer.
I drained the tea in one gulp and returned it to his hands.
He placed the cup in one palm , then turned it upside down,
Allowing the remaining fluid to drip out around the cup and onto the table.
Once the cup was upright again he studied the leaves, then he spoke.
His voice was soft, at times , unintelligible
His reading was honest, and truthful, and painful.
His prophecy, amusing, and entertaining
His vision and it's accuracy were astounding.
Fifteen years later, the leaves delivered on their promise.
Long fluid lines inside the cup foretold of a marriage,
To a man who would cross a sea to find me.
Two shorter drippings were the children that now delight me.
The tea ring that he was able to complete around the cup ,
Was the warmth of a love that would soon envelop me.
Tea, anyone?
Copyright © Brenda Atry | Year Posted 2011
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Brenda Atry Poem
The libertine flails his torches
Burning staffs in his hands aglow
Golden sparks from the kindle beseech you
To dance on flames that he throws
For he is a man they call Passion
No soul has escaped what he's sowed
Good bye to innocence
Only embers are left where he's roamed
Good bye to innocence
We all dance on the coals he calls love.
He is the thief we call Ardor
He spins plumes of turquoise and gold
Challengers fall, all are smitten
By warm sultry nights and moon glow
Behind his mask love is yearning
To break free of seductions steel glove
Good bye to innocence
His restraints bind us coarsely entombed
Good bye to innocence
We will dance on the ruins he calls love .
Copyright © Brenda Atry | Year Posted 2011
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Brenda Atry Poem
We communicate without language,
Gestures,symbols,motions of a hand.
He understands my language.
I struggle with his.
But somehow we make it work.
We've lived together 14 years now,
Never thought to make it legal.
Our love could not be
More committed with a license .
He likes his hair long,
I prefer him less tousled
Though he does look appealing
When the hair fall in his eyes.
To find a partner like him is rare,
Although he has wandered on brief occasions.
I close the door behind him, but never turn the lock.
He always manages to find his way home,
With downtrodden posture and liquid eyes.
I allow him to share my bed again,
After he grovels at my feet.
My heart has grown soft for him over time.
I overlook his laziness and graying hair.
Smitten by his warm body and childlike ways.
Oh Theo, life at times is so unfair.
Though only a dog, I've rarely met a better man.
Copyright © Brenda Atry | Year Posted 2011
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Brenda Atry Poem
I like it cool and I like it dark.
Long deep sleep makes me grrhhhhh.
Wake me, I'm a nasty mother.
My stride is slow, and low, and mean.
Piss me off, I dare you.
I'll show you how cuddly I can be.
Food binges turn me on,
Bring it all, I can handle it.
But watch your back,
You can't walk all over me anymore.
* *
*
I'm waiting for you.
Next time, you're dinner.
Contest
If I Were An Animal, What Would I Be?
Brenda Atry
5/12/2011
Copyright © Brenda Atry | Year Posted 2011
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Brenda Atry Poem
Somewhere past the fallen limbs
Of old tangled oaks and elm
Breaking silence as lighting dims
Rushing whispers split the realm
Mocking silence with a hush
It slicks the stones of shallow brook,
Exalting in babble with a gush,
I turn to take a humble look.
Searching fluid sounds of creation
Articulating His wordless voice,
Tears fall dryly at my sublimation
To waters endless song , rejoice.
Brenda Atry
September 28, 2011
Copyright © Brenda Atry | Year Posted 2011
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Brenda Atry Poem
Greenwich Village breathes,
She inhales exhausted tepid air,
And exhales blustery winds of possibility.
The lady blows away the veils of dishonesty.
Tangled streets strung together,
Knotted masses of pearls and poetry,
Entwining marbled heroes,rounded arches,
Crucifixes,and snakes penned on skin.
Artists, tourists, vagrants,and scholars,
Know the calling of its siren song well.
People living on the fringe of humanity,
And those from the upper crust, fuse.
The village is the one spot on earth
Where you can expose your primal desires,
And explore their depths unfettered.
She is a lovely harlot who lives to please .
Musicians and thinkers engage in chess,
Neighbors line the benches of it's central park.
Children run naked through its fountains.
The poor and idol rich roam, anonymously.
A reader of fortunes lays out his cards,
Lovers tango,who knows which one leads?
Perhaps all the seekers will find their way,
And the leaders will learn how to see?
Lady Greenwich Village,the canvas of New York life,
Her face painted with brilliant spattered oils.
Each of us can add our own divine colors,
Dripping and blending with individual uniqueness.
Copyright © Brenda Atry | Year Posted 2011
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Brenda Atry Poem
Urgent Call for Love
The evil axis has been burning
Who rules the land? It’s now very vague.
The second son must get out of old Al Sham
And meet the hungry jury in The Hague
The puppet is hanging by his last string
And the judgment day is sure to come
Forty thousand martyrs will be singing
As they join me in my urgent call for love.
The war machine is pregnant and is bloated.
Money births an icy, rigid son.
He grows up in the muck of all this madness,
It arms its addled brother with a gun.
In my world, war is not an option,
Let’s end the chaos with a silken glove
Murdered angels soar among the heavens
Please join me, in my urgent call for love.
I’d love to build a mass market dart board
With mug shots of the Senators and House
I’d load it on an App and shoot the darts off
With the quiet, perfect clicking of my mouse.
How can these servants bow before their master?
When Moses had already freed his tethered load?
Make them testify before the one judge
And answer to our urgent call for love
Some years ago a scholar lost his lectern
Because somebody stole my vote away
He spoke his truth in defense of climate
And was told let’s fix it later, not today
When the perfect storm came a calling
It blew our measured lives and hopes astray
My Mother, here’s an olive branch and white dove
I surrender to the urgent call for love.
The pleading skies and rivers, they have warned us
Their voices rose to wail their tortured song
The veins of life, they have been all corrupted
And darkness has been blinding us in fog.
Insanity bathes in its make shift chambers
It soaks in a vile and filthy marble tub.
Please join in my call for our salvation,
I am humbled, in my urgent call for love.
Brenda Atry 1/1/2013 copyright pending
Copyright © Brenda Atry | Year Posted 2013
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Brenda Atry Poem
Daughter
Your face mirrors mine,
As mine does my mothers.
Your smile is a smirk
That quickly explodes
Into sublime lightness.
Your skin has a blush
As does plums true wine,
When young men turn their heads
And whisper your name to each other.
Your hair casts a curtain
Over your face . It acts as a veil to
Guard your thoughts and hide your moods.
It falls long and silky to your waist,
and parts in a sliver,to allow one eye to spy.
If I could love you more
It would surely be like a violent death,
For I would faint, become breathless,
And my heart would burst forth from my breast
My life has been in free fall since your birth.
A never ending plunge into bottomless depths,
Fearing for your wellness and happiness.
I live only to hear you call my name
Hopefully with joy, and not with tears.
On that face that mirrors mine.
Copyright © Brenda Atry | Year Posted 2011
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Brenda Atry Poem
Black Diamond Night
Life is a cruel wench, a beckoning tramp, she is.
Sprawling wide open to draw us into her erotic nectar.
She whispers lurid words which promise to forestall
The imminent erosion, of illusionary perfection.
The promise of a tomorrow? Few have the inherent structure,
To challenge her guile, humming quiet, sweet victory.
Only the ancient one, who hides beneath our vision,
When wrenched from the rock, is still perfect in her imperfection.
Dawn loses its battle to dusk, and returns again to be defeated
In an endless, biblical battle. The waves wash up on the shore
Wrenching the sands from pounded beaches; only to spew up
Again and be dumped ashore by the evenings rushing tides.
I lie on my back, on a beach, gazing up at dark stars,
On this black diamond night, sadly, wiser.
Brenda Molmod Atry 8/14/2012
Copyright © Brenda Atry | Year Posted 2012
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Brenda Atry Poem
Wedding Night in Raqqa
Cyclonic violet vision
Etheral and immortal
She swirls her sand baked torso.
Evoking the initial collision of primordial seed,
Swathed in gossamer purple veils,
Writhing to the stomping and clapping
Of jeweled ankles
And henna stained hands.
The tribes have united for my wedding to their son.
I ,foreign and naive, swoon to the power
Of ancient rhythm and verse,
Ripe, fertile gestures,
Pregnant with throbbing pulses
And scattered beats of flailing arms,
Bleating tongues, spinning robes.
A cacophony of incessant chant rose from the dancing women,
Growing louder, feverish in their pleasure
And the nearness of release.
I join in the dancing.
They swath me in voiles and lead me to the center
I dance, and I succumb to my wedding night in Raqqa.
Copyright © Brenda Atry | Year Posted 2011
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