Singing Vultures Kissing Snakes

By Daniel Barasa

These poems are stories experienced and told by friends, relatives and myself. Private and public experiences in individuals, family, multicultural and universal lives. Authentic imagery in the stories make the poems worth reading.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel Barasa
• Release date: Apr 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781773028477

Book preview

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Singing Vultures

Kissing Snakes

Daniel Barasa

Table of Contents

POEMS

My Flower

The Station

Listen

Mama, Where And Why?

White Horse

Mirror

Hero

The Tempest

Underneath

Singing Vultures Kissing Snakes

Helena

Man And Thoughts

I Cry

I Wish I Had A Window

The Foggy Night

The Love-Of-Self

The Penthouse

Silence!

The Blacksmith

The Eagle

The Morgue Attendant

Shoes For The Pharaoh

The Free

Work For Sight

The Curse

AJAR REQUIEM

Scene I

Scene II

Copyright

POEMS

MY FLOWER

The march makes me laugh,

Stop the kidnapping! Stop the rape! Stop the murder!

My very flower with petals so fine-looking,

You prick the red and away let it float on raging waters.

My flower’s aroma is dwindling and

The flying bees will not stick around.

In this room of agony veiled in darkness,

Sickly shadowed thoughts

Confirm my permanent residence and

My pretense of liking the dungeon

Of a castle keeps me alive.

Others bequeathed their names on the wall’s lips

Since they heard the screams and saw their deaths.

Only a few saw freedom’s doors.

The face of evil is gently sweet and saintly helpful.

The face of evil gave me food, sweets

And a ride home - a helper.

In this dark hell the face of evil is at home

For the hands that gave now touch and molest!

The seraph’s eyes burn red as live coal in the night as

His softness turns coarse and dry.

My flower, the bee’s award

He plucks, he smells,

He licks, he bites, and he eats!

The resilience of my flower is revolting

And I hate that this was his assured tomorrows.

This was the other façade of humanity.

He was every parent’s nightmare.

We hear them march, we laugh.

The cry in my laughter’s palpable and

The joy in his is the irony that’s laughable.

The march was his morning exercise.

My new home is my final end,

Peaceful death, come for your youthful bride.

For the handkerchief in my hand is like

A ring proposed by him.

Only that the jeweler is my dear mother,

She felt pity for him, his red-soaked eyes

Drowning in tears from this strenuous march

And to him she said,

"Cry not, for my child is somewhere,

And like you, someone special is wiping her tears!"

This march makes me laugh!

THE STATION

The heartbeat of the entry and exit of trains and buses is

Constant, the departure timed though the exit unexpected.

The sun is hot enough to dry corn, the ocean blue sky so clear

With a splash of wavy clouds. The mask of faces

Seems peaceful but the hearts are in pain.

Pain from saying goodbyes,

Pains from hugs that warmly squeeze their