Colors of Dust- old poems by Anne Selden Annab: gold

Showing posts with label gold. Show all posts

Saturday, January 22, 2022

Wild Flowers

       Deep yellow mustard,
       bright red poppies, white daises,
       and much much more

       to entertain the fancy
       as they grow in quaint bouquets
       as if on purpose-

       Fragile fragrant little splays
       often underfoot
       as a short walk becomes constant pauses.

       Here as small gold burst of petal
       star shape
       as if dropped and planted from heaven.

There- another echoes the gold star
but it's contained in a soft mid blue flower.

There a thistle blends
with a cluster of possible roses.

       I think this is a pansy, that might be
       a lily.

       This delicate beauty of blossoming
       is a veritable encyclopedia
       of all the wild flowers I can't name...

       I can only enjoy
       as the sun flushes my white cheeks pink

       and the elevated air touches deep blue sky
       as zither breezes sweep down
       from centuries of sighs-

Exquisite wild flowers.

Blond Bedouin

       Blond Bedouin child-
       is it the dust of ancient rock
       or a distant ancestor
       from the crumbling
       crusader castle...
       What has given you,
       sweet child wide eyed
       watching us
       zoom past,
       what has given you
       that halo?
       Wheat- gold
       like bread
       that's not been baked,
       still on the shaft
       growing
       like you...
       Will you be blond woman
       head covered to hide
       from strong sun,
       and strangers' eyes
       will never know
       of the angel's halo
       still round your head
       that's grown into a river
       of wheat falling
       down a brown back.
       Sweet child wide eyed
       sturdy like the soil,
       you stand
       like rock itself-
       your skin
       brown and dust,
       but all I see
       is halo
       wheat gold
       shimmer song.

The Royal Suite

       The floor is uneven
           dingy slabs of smooth stone.
       The same soft drab color of the hills.
       The walls are irregular
           bumpy rocks mortared
             into odd places
       falling into pillars...
       Two straight columns
       step across the center
       of this immense low ceiling room,
       joined by arches that I suppose support the ceiling,
       but more importantly they give this wide open room
       a feeling of snug space.

       Along the walls are deep benches covered
       with soft pillow mattresses.
       Each bed being a long bench
       with a round bolster on each end,
       perfect as an elbow rest as you lean over to chat,
       or a pillow so you can sprawl out, half sleeping,
       but erect enough to watch
       as the children race from pillar to pillar,
       chasing themselves and each other and shadows
       of all the children who have played in this space,
       freed from chores or the strain of being a tourist,
       or whatever else compels them
       to act more than their age.

       We explore every numerous nook.

       Open up the carved wooden cupboard
       to find a large mirror,
       gaze at the room echoed behind,

       then glance to see a shimmering self,

       shinning with curiosity.
       Gently close the mirror back
       behind it's heavy ornate doors.
       Who wants to look at a reflection
       when so much real is to be touched:
       The silk pillows are stripped with rich reds
       and golds in random bands, tasseled-
       everything a princess could wish for comfort,
       including all my loved ones close.

       I go to the furthest room,
       the smallest room,
       and sit down at a narrow desk
       that's built into the wardrobe.
       I suppose some in my place
       would be attending to their face,
       brushing blush on a cheek,
       color on lips...
       but I scribble words.

       Let my face be whatever
       it wants to become
       as my mind surges with
       impressions, textures, scents,
       music all to my mind
       as my mind flits through
       all I've experienced
       in a very full day.

       Images, one after another
       careening up a road
       that curves sharply
       unexpectedly always up,
       or down.

       Dust on my fingertips,
       my face.

       Wind.

       Everything spills
       into itself
       and each other
       what order was it in?

       What does it matter...

Friday, January 21, 2022

A Silhouette

       A man stood by a tree
       silhouetted by the setting sun:
       A background spun
       from the burning webs
       of some golden fleece
       once prized by legend
       but now left to glow
       among embers
       etching
       a silhouette.

Gold

       In the afternoon
       we go to the Gold Souq.

       It's a marketplace not far off.
       We make our way from our car
       adeptly parked several streets over:
       Step off the crowded curbs
       cross the crowded streets.
       Cars zip and lurch
       and we dodge them
       as they dodge us.

       The Gold Souq.
       Stroll on a wide sidewalk
       inundated on every edge
       by gold- exquisite glistening gold
       24 carat shimmering gold...

       We've come to buy some charms.
       Gold is gold- but when it lines all the shops,
       surrounds you on each and every side,
       glitters in polished windows,
       gleams down narrow passages...
       When it falls in light chains from your hands
       and bangles on your arms
       and pierces your ears
       and makes your fingers heavy...

       When gold is everywhere
       it is bedazzling, radiating brighter
       than when confined to a single case.
       Ounce by ounce, skillfully crafted, adds up
       from simple circlet to intricately worked necklace:
       It becomes a glorious magnitude
       and is absolutely
       Resplendent.

Downtown Amman

       Walking on the sidewalk,
       watching the orangey-red

and yellow tiles alternating...

Some squares are loose,
my footing is still firm

but a spell of clanking echoes

       as we make our way towards
       the narrow shops neatly
       crammed with goods.

       I feel like a coin tossed:

       What century
       is falling all around
       encasing me

with gold.

On New Years Eve

       On New Years Eve
       we drove through the juxtaposition
       of ancient hills pouring
       into a valley holding
       a huge satellite dish.

We drove miles through nighttime
curves, dips, and rises.

We came to a farmhouse
on a rocky cliff.

       Inside; the architecture
       is air and space and sunlight
        geometry.

Lacy ironwork and square tiles.

       Cousins who kiss me on each cheek.
       Kids scamper all over.
       Arabic music and exotic dance
       mixes with rock and roll.

       My wrists are graced
       with gold bracelets-
       gifts given to me earlier today.

       On New Years Eve
       I danced with my blue eyed, blond
       Arab husband.

       Danced closely
       exchanging soft murmurs,
       arms around each other
       and our newborn child-
       a son...

On New Years Eve.