Verda Khan

Edition VI

Submission - by Verda Khan  (photo by Oscar Keyes)Photo credit: Oscar Keys

Submission

By Verda Khan

A crouched bug
prostrates before love’s throne,
meek, bows, hands crossed
faith in the unknown destiny

soon to be spoken
out not so loud not
so killing, unheard voice.

Eyes are now weary
of fiasco tries…
Now heart triumphs dingy
at the thought of any new page in life

starring ocean set at
the centre of the throne.
Fragile she waits,
wonders.

Wonders, 
what would finally be her
present, curse, possession?

The call is never an empty one
she believes.

The hearing is, merely, a guide.

Indefinite orbits, she sees
why does she see the 
mediocre, bounded room now
spacious?

Why the chaos of chains are
just the voices of occupants?

Why does complexity care to 
be a jumbled thread of
simplicity?

Has she been given a novel sight?

By the mishap archives
she rests before love’s throne.

She has a candle,
neither Angels’ nor Babylon’s
wrapped in swish
of no prophetic deeds,
neither Satan’s.

She has a lightened candle,
covering journey’s every moment
getting close to its end
with elapsing age

how centered, yet,
it craves not for a quiet 
descent
and anticipates fate not
of it’s candle’s remains.

She sees, throne is brightest
at the middle way.

Where does she stand? Which way?

She doesn’t. 

She is bending on her knees
before the divine throne – 
Patient, yet
demanding – 
Copying
God is listening to
her silent prayers.


Edition VII

Dead Cannon - by Verda Khan

Dead Cannon

By Verda Khan

Every thought of you
was ecstasy of oneness,

as my mind holds you
in the world 
where
those assimilating ripples of
you and me
grow
with every beat we lived.

I see these

rhythmic, powerful beats
have become
steep.

Every thought of you

is a dead cannon.


Edition VIII

I Want to Drive My Own Car - by Verda Khan

I Want to Drive My Own Car

By Verda Khan

I want to drive my own car
on this anarchic highway

surrounded by glorious radiance.
Rather than sit at
the back
and stare
at the blowing poles;
zooming paths changing,
passing by.

If I could drive my own car,
I would stop by
that lovely tree
and rest, and
climb,
and eat its enigmatic fruits
and go on to drive,
and drive.

Rather than toil at the back of the car
I’d better fall from the tree
I just passed… miles ago. I can see it, but there is
no turning back.

I would stop by,
yet again. The raven
won’t mind if I
shared its haven.
But I see myself move yet again.

Now I see the car stop
at its own desire,
I try to keep up the pace
of patience,
but this fire
turns more red than blue;
though this face and temperament
leave the former clue.

Now the car has paused,
but I quite don’t want it to
I see the raven still flying,
reminder of my quiet
feelings, too.


Edition IX

a-moth-a-jar-a-penny-by-verda-khan-photo-by-nina-sharabatiPhoto credit: Nina Sharabati 

A Moth, a Jar, a Penny

By Verda Khan

Fragments of thoughts chase
in this dire need of sleep;
I stare at my little ol’ lantern:
A jar full of moonbeam.

A moth, a jar, a penny
they coexist in my world;
a penny I bought the jar with
and on and on I twirled.

What use is of an empty jar
if not to catch some life;
flapping wings of a moth
spoke of melodies and highs.

So I ran and ran and ran
in my black Brooks and frock;
in gardens, streets, on carousels
to catch moths beyond the block.

I look at this ancient jar
with heaviness on my chest,
reminiscence is a struggle
so I make guesses at best.

Seasons passed with caprice
fogging all my dreams,
or did I look the other way
to glitters and plastic beams?


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