In Collaboration With Mr Paul Brookes Wombwell Rainbows~Artists ~ Writers~NAPOWRIMO 2021 ~ Day Seven-

O Majestic One,
Take me,bring back the children
Earth needs them for life.

In Response to Art Work by John Law

O’ Corona kill
me too, I can’t heal the world
alone,life’s lessons.

In Response to Art Work by Kerfe Roig

A camouflaged monarch am I.
migrating over long distances
attacked by wasps and parasites
I dried expanded and escaped.

A camouflaged monarch am I.

From the Order of Lepidoptera
my ancestors were the moths
the oldest hailing from Denmark
navigate our path, by sun compass.

A camouflaged monarch am I.

In art, I appeared 3500 years ago
Standing for rebirth mind and soul
whites, allies, skippers ‘n swallowtails,
when at rest, our wings stay vertical.

A camouflaged monarch am I.

My food is nectar from flowers bold, I
a butterfly cannot fly until wings unfold,
covered by scales, I match cousin moth,
aerodynamic mechanisms by nature,hold.



From PENCIL PERCEPTIONS ATERIA ~ 2021 ~Inspired by a Cottage in the Snow ~ A Gift of Words ~

This charming cottage inspired the writer – A Gift of Words
What quiet cottage in these silent woods is this?
white woolly blanket, covers it like a pashmina shawl
trying to keep it warm and protected.
I wonder if Snow White passed by or the Snow Queen
cast a jealous spell all over?
Some fine wine glasses tinker from time to time,
amidst soft laughter,and I did hear the small thick logs
crackle in the fireplace. Not far from the door
I think I can see the table with a blue and white cloth,
set for a special meal, a fresh aroma of hot roasted steaks
stealthily escapes from tiny unseen crevices of the steel bound
windows, which may keep the snow from falling in but not the
appealing flavors from flying out.
But all is so silent, no horses gallop nor oil burns in any carriage
side lamps.No sledge moves.
“Who goes by now ?
“ O’ Mr Rabbit you are in such a hurry? Oh I see now you must be
the special guest someone is waiting for”.
Oh Yes,it’s a very important date, no time to say hello but I will,
for you are all special friends too, so Hello, it’s the 4th, and a Sunday ,
hope the sun will shine, and the eggs are ready.

“Happy Easter, to All, Stay Safe, Stay Well.”

For Mr. Paul Brookes January Ekphrastic Challenge ~ Day 22 ~ In Response to Kerfie Roig and Christine O’Conner ~

Christine O “Conner

Patches of color
hiding evil ugliness
broken beauty patched

Kerfie Roig “Star Dancer”

Go in the shadow of the mountain,
Sit by the stream and clean all,
The mind and soul,
wash away to the sea impurity,
or else be prepared to face,
a tsunami, or the jolts shakes and crashes,
Teresias, sat silently,
there is still a chance-look!
Be the dance,
not the dancer,

in the circle of life
Come to a still point with nature
Where nothing matters anymore-

Poetic Power ~ For World Poetry Day ~ March 21 ~ 2020 ~ Ode to Corona Borealis ~

corona

 

Ode to Corona  Borealis –

O’ Thou  8 Star  Crown of the Northern
Night Skies,  Circle of Light, royal, majestic.
like a circle of elders, an eagle’s nest, a bear’s den,
or even a smoke hole. All in grace and glory,  high
in the celestial spheres.

For countless light years you bejewel the darkness
to show the way and delight the passionate gazers
you embroider and dazzle the dark space, endlessly
unlimited in time, made for humanity to break  the
isolation, purified harmless in holy distance.

O’ Corona you never meant any harm. You symbolize
the bravery of King Theseus who killed the Minotaur.
You are humble, named by some as  ‘a poor man’s  bowl’
Seen as ‘Heavenly Sisters’, or Council of Elders, sending
messages to the Gods

O Thou Eternal Effulgent  Beauty Crown of Adrian
Honored for ever in the comity of constellations
shine forever , guide and encourage, give strength
to the brave who take a stand against the oppressors.
Stay for ever royal and bright , be forever the circle
of Wisdom for all.

Shine forever for Light and Peace

 

 

 

 

 

Poetic Power~ 2020 ~ Corvid Intelligence ~Who is the Cleverest Crow of All ~

IMG_20150801_152845_526 Mirror mirror on the wall
who is the cleverest crow
of them all?

Caledonian crows?
The elite group of species, who
can use twigs to fish insects
out of holes and crevices,

whittle branches into hooks
tear leaves into barbed probes,
are innovative problem solvers,
blithely elegant,in pure dark robes?

Said the rook to the mirror
‘the latest research makes me shiver,
people will not consider us thirsty,
hungry, capable or free, since its
proven, we were never fools.

The corvid family, ravens, rooks,
magpies, jackdaws and jays, were
cautious, cooperative, concerned
and cool, tis no argument as scientists
say, and I just read the news on BBC, that
‘clever crows can use three tools’

‘Mirror mirror, now what’s your suggestion?
The crisis deepens, descending to recession.
Should it be a round table conference,
summit or a mediation, or a call for a corvid
crow collection?
Beware for they can locate
hidden secrets in succession, and solve
serious problems from reflective reflections.

With so much warfare and so many dead
No one knows where Ghaddafi has fled.
‘Tis worthwhile that research has led
to the discovery of problem solvers pool,
a mixture of brown, grey and black,
if humans and animals have failed,

lets call the corvid crows, to use
the tools, to make peace instead.

© Anjum Wasim Dar

FOR ~Poets United: Midweek Motif ~ A Million Years Howl When Voices Whisper Among The Trees ~

13246421_10154197171950747_192029276796372903_o

Evening shadows fell all over the lane
soon one could not discern the window pane
this one tree out of three we planted -gave
relief to heated pain, saved all from rain

but that evening it was pitch dark, the car
was parked in the shade, but wait -a sound
strange could be heard, the flurry rapid
flight of birds,small dark swooping round

left to right and right to left, flying in and
falling flat,disappearing from darkly sight
could hardly see them in the dim light-
not at full glare,wanted the birds to fly away scared.

But no,they kept coming and hovering around the car
preventing anyone from opening the door-what next
as fear increased -who had sent these bat-birds here?
small black sharp and shrill, recitation of holy verses

finally made the kill-all flew away as quickly as they
had come, and hoping that all had gone , we took the
back seat, the food basket in between us placed,
dinner to deliver at the hospital gate, trembling still

at the bat attack, cautiously moved on to the road
hardly a furlong had we gone,when sister let out
a loud scream-something shuffling, flapping dark –
Stop the car Oh Stop- Another scream, a loud screech

door crashed open-out flew a dark black bat,
somehow it had clasped the basket, and had
slipped inside -never ever so terrified  was I
that night, Halloween or magic – wondered Why?

But then we knew Mother would not be with us
for long, doctors helpless signaled the Swan Song’
with food for Mother we were going, when Bats
flew around –  Myths say they warn of Death –

soon soon Mother would be without life
without breath- to Heaven taken, to Heaven
gone-

2019 ~NaPoWriMo ~ Second Week of Poetic Responses to Art and Music ~ Dedication to Mr Paul Brookes of Wombwellrainbow.com and Synaesthetic Artist Mr Sammy-John ~ Making Connections…

napofeature4

Poetry acts like a bridge.I believe it is not for sale  It has value for generations gone by and for generations to come. It awakens spirits of drowsy nations, entertains guides and instructs. It is colored and scented as carnations. If poetry is defined as the ‘spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings’ then it would surely be enriched if combined with art color and music. Strangely yet possible in this digital age the  ‘connecting bridge’ between Mr Paul Brookes of Wombwellrainbow.com  UK the Synaesthetic Artist Mr Sammy-John and Myself, was the social media ‘messenger on line’  Quick communicative connection kept the challenge  alive and moving. A new painting a new music symbol title,  requiring fresh research was the challenge for me. Before I begin to trace words on paper I visit two  great  sources of knowledge namely the  Divine Knowledge source and the World of Mythology. The beauty of knowledge lies embedded in these boundless realms. The third area is the repertoire of language vocabulary and semantics. The discoveries are amazing spectacular and spellbinding yet so simple at times.The Collaboration took shape as a triangular link, from Word to Window and from Window to WordPress…

Presenting Week Two

Day Eight

Wild Flowers

Beyond the beauty, revealed, quest of finding more persists,
on green and brown sky on land tiny yellow blue and white, exists

I have found flowers, flowers wild dancing, waving, studded in green
visible in the weeds, I hear the velvet tripping of the footsteps of Spring-

Summer pheasants’ eyes shine- agave branches out to meet Alder
or trumpets at ‘baby blue eyes’, or the Barren Strawberry white roses’

Wild flowers touch me like poetry, swaying to soundless sacred sweet
symphonies side to side in obeisance, to invisible conducting companies,

Offering soft cool overtures to  burning soles of injured souls,
enriching meadows to the core, offering ample colorful cures,

wild flowers in deserted desert dunes, dream to possess, as King
Ozymandias waits in stony silence, slithering snakes undulating weave

their colors in the sand, dreading the deadly Peregrine, embroidered,
jaded, studded, laid for romances, wondrous world of plant fragrances,

wave upon wave of variegated crowns, at times, in remote treks, God’s prosody
wild flowers grow, the sight so asking for journeys, ventures and a supreme odyssey’

Day  Nine

A   G Minor

Cue by Mr Paul Brookes :  a key for disgruntlement, a feeling   as  if being a victim


It’s her ’ and no one smiled.abandoned, just a heap of trash

In many lands, born of any caste or creed, not differentiated,

cashed song composed without G Minor fifteen to a forty niner, old miner-

might as well dig coal or carry bricks facing negligence torture injustice

books burnt, sold destroyed tricked  yelling in silent agony, ravaged into

zombies senseless, has humanity not metamorphosed, song stilled , shot.

Day Ten     

C  Sharp  Minor

 

It will not be in a tin fruit can with sweet juice
but in gardens high of a hundred levels

with flowing river water falls and fruits
in plenty none forbidden nor prohibited,

but tasty fruits I saw in childhood would
be a surprise studded rubies in yellow

without space, like Berries, bananas layered ,
dates figs and olives grapes, apples

I loved and dreamed about
Dreams colorful peaceful and brighter

than the brightest star, skies opening in
circles of sound C sharp minor , symphonies

of fragrant flowers, celestial overtures
descending in harmony, all these emerge

as ecstatic aquamarine in numbers in
thousands of pearly castles in golden

diamonds O beautiful gardens heavenly,
I hear notes in C sharp minor,

I gather good deeds to be in, with
the symphony

Day Eleven

My Croci

 


Oh Croci ! no more do I see you on wine glasses,
nor in wreaths crowned on the heads of joyful

Youths, winter white shawl lies cold spread out
all over the valley, river runs red with blood of

Martyrs, the young who still had life to live and

love, but freedom lies fettered , glaciers gaze

From snow lines on the peaks, the sun timidly peers

Oh Croci, wake up’ it’s time wake up before death

Plays its tune, in colors blue white and golden yellow

wake up in purple royal, let the golden strands flow

O Croci bring dignity pride and success, and saffron

let the rebirth begin, the season rise with your perfume

The early bird waits on the bare branch silently-

do not despair oh winged warner’ gold will bloom

Oh Croci come let us be joyful and welcome Spring

many grooms are waiting for many brides to bring…

O Croci may the prayers be answered may freedom ring’

Let freedom ring…

Day Twelve

September in E  Flat

During the senior school learning years,
there were hardly any troubles any fears

the best I remember, song ‘Come September’
in rhythm and dance, I can still hear the

silence of the summer, turn to E Flat murmur
in melancholy, half cooler,  half warmer

younger days when responsibility ensnares
but that September, war, felt in E Flat chord

the only outcome, smoke n oily metal smell,
 falling leaves, an occasional falling petal-

when we could hear the drops of  falling rain
light was the hurt,  and  less was the pain

we could dance to the tune, but softly
now I hear the E Flat octave tremble

but  what should I really remember,
the melting melody or just  the number?

 

Day Thirteen

Commission for Pennies

 

Colors, in water, rare reflections of emotions,
of efforts endless, often in darkness defined

Jaded pale stones, oils, a mixed media, priceless,
commissioned for pennies, what pieces of art

undiscovered, melodies unheard, for pennies
in low moods maintained, painted, dabbed

on eager canvases, hung on lonely easels,
hidden in art rooms abandoned…

Awaiting the sunlight of truthful recognition,
A  Vain legacy in history

Day  Fourteen

 Movement II

movement ii
Cue :  Moving from a comfort zone to a challenging one

 

Clutching her mother’s coat sleeve
holding on to the warmth and security,

of grey white and red checkered tweed,
a natural bond, but a futile struggle,

someone larger than life led her aside,
slowly pulled away, she let go-

swept away by a figure,
clad in thick folded clothes, she

drifted along the blended figure’s
firm movements, brisk and balanced-

suddenly, all was quiet as she tried to
look back, her mother’s painful silent

but determined gaze was no longer visible,
neither was she-

the figure’s movement went
on to a door marked ‘KG’

small chairs and tables filled the hall
a large black board stared at her

eyes now tear less, body obedient, mind
blank- she sat down and gazed back-

movement two had begun-

For Honorable G Jamie Dedes ~ The Poet By Day ~ How It All Began and Poems Were Written ~ The Full Story ~ Of A Collaboration Offered by Respected Mr Paul Brookes of The Wombwell Rainbows for 2019 ~ NaPoWriMo Challenge

NaPoWriMo for short the National Poetry Writing Month’  is an event I eagerly await  ever since I have come  to know about it. My love of writing and poetry is the force behind the acceptance and meeting of the challenge. This year it took a miraculous turn for which  the first credit  goes to Respected G Jamie Ji  , The Poet By Day, the multi talented  writer and a profound inspiration whose tremendous motivation  guided  helped and encouraged me to write. The Wednesday Writing Prompt  was the starting point where I got the chance to read many  great writers poets and artists who shared their excellent work, among them I came to know Mr Paul Brookes a prolific writer poet and Interviewer.
Mr Paul had asked if any writers were interested in taking part in the poetry writing challenge …I typed ‘yes’ in the response box and soon enough received the answer, which was another question asking for confirmation.
‘Hi Anjum, do you still want to take part in the challenge?’
‘Yes’ I replied, ‘Response in poetic form ? ‘ I asked because I had some art work in mind.
poetry of course, the artwork will be by Synaesthetic Artist Sammy-John. Thank you for the brilliant idea. I shall add your responses  quoting your name.’ 
‘ I feel it’s a great honor and opportunity to write  Thank you so much, Mr Paul’

My National Poetry Month Challenge to Myself has become a Collaboration between Synaesthetic Artist Sammy-John, Myself, Anjum Wasim Dar and Jay Gandhi:
APRIL 1, 2019 / THE WOMBWELL RAINBOW
Day One
A Gust Shaped
Gusty
What are we in color
blue yellow purple or black
what are we in form ,
tall  short  huge or fat,
what are we in mind,
brave bold or angry,
patient loving or mad
what are we in status,
kings queens or pages,
lords ladies or sages
what are we in real,
soft tender, spiritual, dying,
eternally mortal.
why do we then, make hate, envy and war
why do we then, love and kindness, ignore
why of all the prohibited, we ask for more
why of Death and Heaven, we are not sure.
Pompei, Nagasaki, Moenjodaro, naming the few
Oblivious nations , pleasure drenched,
who knew Power, pressure, public protests,
day by day new war, war destruction,
torture afresh, yet grew-
We are then, the same, born in pain
We are then, the insane, of mind again
Are we the ungrateful , in loss to remain?
Are we the lost , our Eden, never to regain?
And yet again we make the fiery red
with weapons hot,spill innocent cold blood
find joy in seeing, falling bodies, lifeless, dead
we all have forgotten the Fall and the Flood
Let us turn before it’s too late
Let us learn and try to relate
Let Us think of The Almighty Great
Bow for forgiveness pray and meditate.
I can now see The prism , no color do I perceive
Up on the blue sky , the sun does not deceive
The real is dark , the immortal , white
With All the colors together , All Blessings I receive.

Day Two 

 In Grandma’s Garden

grandmas-garden-iii

Every time a tiptoe sounds,
I close my eyes to see
as I feel the page, as words
take shape and form

my thoughts encircle the song,
inside the circle of the dance
in a  soft move in a semi trance
is it the dancer or the dance?

I reach out to touch- Nothingness ‘

Ah! only my soul knows only
my heart can see- I close my eyes
to look up from the book at the love
                                                    of purity which is but a scent sweet,

I reach out to touch- Nothingness ‘

Ah, The presence in Nothingness’
Love of Eternity, close closer than the
thorn is to the rose, growing from dust
glowing in the dust, dust to dust, we rose

Reaching out to touch- Nothingness’

engulfed spirits in time, destined to be
together to repose, arms spread out
to receive like the scattered petals
of the beloved rose, eyes on the look

reaching out to Nothingness’

I now close, the dancer moved bent
and rose, life went on, life goes on,
To Nothingness  unseen, serene, sent
far far away, forever on, up to heaven

Into Nothingness yet into Everything

Day Three

F Minor Key

f-minor key

Sounds of teargas shots are heard, a regular feature

come, it’s on again, everyone together, in unison

We are strong now’, she knew, many long years,

of bearing riots attacks and facing uniformed men

 

where are our boys and men, blinded and tortured

missing or hiding in the surrounding hills, O Kashmir

Thy sacred freedom is a sad song , tuneless chanting

it is now, a freedom chant in harmony , in F Minor key

 

we sing in closed doors , beating the tin trays, ‘we want

freedom’ we will win freedom one day, we sill sing free

Our lakes shine in the sun a sparkle of hope, they give

our kids smile , shiver , hunger , run hope to live on

 

Pellets may rain, in blind pain Kashmir you bleed still

how much blood will freedom need how many notes

In F Minor Key to complete the song of liberty

Hope till eternity as many fight for rights, to be free

Day  Four

In Grandpa’s Garage

grandpas-garage-1

A sacred temple it seems to be, or perhaps
Plato’s cave illumined by the good sun,
enlightenment streams upon precious relics,
contraptions to some, laid in order,

nuts bolts tools nails and pails,brushes brooms
and sticks collected in time,oleaginous ?
No, polished defying destructive distortion,
ask the one who perceives them

As priceless treasures.
what tins and cans magically dark
what pieces white in artistic grandeur
wires draping coiled or swinging low , like lace,

and on golden black patched carpet rests
the sharp tailed royal Chevy so loved valued ,
a vintage, a passionate Revelation,
engulfed in oil scented aura

tranced in multifarious colors- transformed-
Ah to another garage in another time
where a jute woven charpoy, an Indian hookah placed
As serving guard, a pair of rubber slippers on the floor,

packing crates stacked with some old used leather suitcases ,
a small wooden table a jug and glass and some books,
was all the label, door less space but with a roof,
illumined by the good sun, smoke rising from the mud stove

The aura of freshly cooked wheat filled the air.

PS

 In Asia the garage culture is different.
My grandfather a teacher smoked a hookah, and  sat on a charpoy

 

impromptu

Neolithic  hunters,
found power of life in red
Romans loved war Ares

Anemone turned red
as Adonis died, lost the white
to grace, sacred blood.

War weapons painted
Erik the red, found Greenland
penguins bears captured

Rebellion is red
rosy red  is for love and beauty
making red, evil doing.

Be a bride, wear red
gift red eggs to first born child
avoid red affairs wild.

Day  Six

D Major Fur Mo

furmo

No glory, nor pride in fires of violence ever exists;
Transformed into myriads of granule dust,
Innocent lives to eternal slumber sent
With brave last words they went–

Not to their Earthly abode, but to the celestial
Spheres to twinkle and shine and guide
The world to a higher call from a higher ground.
Once that stood tall was forever destined to fall,

Unnoticed, autumnal traces become visible,
Harbingers of the changing fall, remember ye all
The blaze metamorphosed to flowers?
Darkness white, casting a gloomy pal,

But the crashing of the wall
Was a higher call from a higher ground
To the heavens bound,
Where there are glorious towers.

There will be, there are
unforgettable flowers.
myself in race,
color, creed, and freedom fetters–

Could I have served God better?

Day 7

The Willow Tree

56879299_322013101838411_74496976548265984_n

Birds chirp, is it dawn ?
it’s still dark, leaves invisible,
murmur shiver, tremble,
will we get rain today, it’s so dry –

Someone’s tears may fall
someone may cry, but where?
in a dream, with a willow wand
under the pillow, or on a boat

drifting along the river, afraid
of hidden serpents, spellbound
by the moon, what lies beneath
who knows but Hecate , sound

O’ Orpheus, come play the lyre
so silent is the world in grief,
seems you have seen magical
colors in harmony, play relief-

The world needs you, play
for hope, we are still green,
green is all they see, no-
not the pale, hanging low

the mournful wailing boughs
For whom do they weep ?
for thousands lost at sea ?
or buried in rubble heaps –

a home a place a country
food sanctity security liberty,
cutting sawing chopping up
our green growing solid family,

O Hecate what do you teach
magic for ? We write poetry,
play music do spells for good,
See the hanging willow tree-,

waits for one who planted it free,
by the river calm, as birds chirp
as dawn breaks, now they fly
with the unseen breeze, up high

with a message to return
to brighten the colors, on the
silver river, in the moon light
O Helice’ let the colors shine

Make Happy the lovely Willow Tree

……………………….

The First Week Ends here successfully
The musical terms were new for me. Thanks to Mr Paul Brookes for the cues he provided for their symbolic meanings.

Please wait for the Second Week’s Results

 

 

 

2019 ~ Mythical May Story Poems for Ger O’Neill’s Group ~ The Girl Child’s Mystery~ It Happened Twelve Years Ago …

No photo description available.

How things happen how time flies 
how things end how time crawls 
how people come stay and go
how people come make you wait 
how you wait and they do not show
how you grieve and feel deep sadness
how they smile laugh, display madness
how they seek joy in other’s torture and pain
do they think that they will  be blessed again ?

The Beginning -In the Forest A Mystery Unfolds…
‘Time to move.It was 2.a.m.In the small hours of the night as thunder rumbled across the dark skies.Flashes of lightening lit up the slumbering mountain town,high in the majestic Himalayas,unknown, never climbed rugged mysterious valleys stood silent motionless
In the flash two forms started their strange journey,their descent from the tor,No one could see them now.They seemed to appear from nowhere.Slowly they made their way not missing a single step.Madam Goldwood opened the door as usual with the first ray of the sun cutting over the mountain top.The sun was not so bright today,trying to force its way out as if to warn the people.The two beings slowly approached the Inn,their faces half hidden by their sleek black coats.They were silent.They stopped at the wooden steps of the verandah. Madam Goldwood rubbed her eyes.

‘Customers? so early? who were they?

One after the other they stepped on the porch. ‘Madam Goldwood could not stop them from entering.She was now wide awake and noticed the dark expressionless eyes of the visitors.Their look was serious and determined. One of them started to take out something from inside his long black coat.It was a medium sized black wooden box. he stretched his arm towards Madam,motioned with his head , nodded slightly, and spoke in a heavy voice ‘ Take this Madam.We are giving you something special and precious.You have to keep it safe for five years’ Exactly on this day when the sun rises open it at your doorstep and move a little away from it.Do not look at it but go inside and wait in your room.It will be a tough waiting time.It will take more than an hour.

‘A child will appear, a girl child’You will take care of her,groom and teach her well,feed her for good health, till the time when one of us will return.

2019 ~ Mythical May Story Poems ~ For Ger O’Neill Group ~ May The Fourth,Be With You’…

medieval ages

It is the fourth day of the  merry month of May,
May,  a month of hope faith luck  love and ballet

you can go barefoot outside,it is no more a taboo
wake up early on the first, to collect the drops of dew

wash your face and beautiful and youthful appear, a
Celtic cultural belief, but surely all freckles will disappear

put a bed sheet atop the grass ,then wring it out into a jar
fill the jar on many mornings,place it on the window sill

for a year, then  when need be,  use it to cure skin pimples
the dew is aged, but the myth is caged, cures too the wrinkles

May Day festivities continue for days,  for Beltaine’ is bright
roll in the morning dew, and dance round the bonfire at night’

’tis the fourth anniversary, celebrate it with flowers four in a ring
thyme lavender sage and rosemary,but beware of the 4 thieves drink’

Pythgoras gave  the soul a tetrad, mind opinion science and sense,
go  to the park and use them at four cardinal points, no offence

and with  no dew or dance, I will write a quatrain about the land
of four races, given in The Book of Gates, but first, enjoy the

Mythical may  of Old Medieval England.

 

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