My Town

PZ_n
The clouds slide down the mountain side
and reach into little streets, fogging the trees…
the smells of coffee brewing, wood stoves igniting
hen’s squawking loudly, “I’ve laid an egg!”
It’s a big event in the small backyards to
the beat of the radios blaring and dogs barking.
School uniforms under the irons steam and steam…
Pressed collars for the school girls, pressed pants
for the boys and bursts of white and blue march
out of the houses, forming giggling streams and
raucous seas, of children on their way to school.
Everyone knows everyone and the block is
alive with “Buenos dias!  Como amaneció?
Small town that sprawled its way to 45,000
nestled in the General’s Valley, below the Chirripó…
where shop owners know your name, and people
walk through the town to do their shopping.
My town, so humble and majestic, beautifully
kissed by angels, even its’ name is a divine reminder,
of its’ guardian and protector, the beloved farm laborer
San Isidro de El General de Costa Rica.

Karima Hoisan
February 26, 2019
San Isidro de El General, Costa Rica

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Wake Her Up!

MODERN-Abstract-ART-OIL-PAINTING-On-CANVAS-Sleeping-beauty-wall-decorate-free-shipping

Sleeping Beauty-Annie Peng

Wake Her Up!

Unaware, a sleeping beauty in the lush forest of her dreams;
She was having this dream repeatedly, remembering it so clearly:
The feeling of being kissed wide awake before her time,
Kissed, when there was no future for two timid lovers breaching love,
Kissed, yet knowing there was never a way, that they would play off each other,
Their names were never penciled in, not even for small cameo scenes,
until it really felt like it was too late, so why bother? Why bother?

Who votes for that dark horse of our days gone by, those memories that never ran?
Are they just randomly selected and we’re not the ones in control of them, ever again?
Why now, do we dream of a face or a love that went down the river to be forgotten?
Who cues our thoughts, our romantic desires and throws the net that they are caught in?

A subtle perfume, a stranger’s walk, a smell, or turn of phrase, might send us reeling.
It takes but a prime for a rusty memory to wash up from the depths, those old feelings,
And there is that chemistry, a phenomena so powerful, and yet so hard to explain,
that makes us pine and thirst, tempts us to song or poetry and ignites and tickles our brain.

The sleeping beauty, deep asleep in the lush forest of her singular dream….
Don’t try to touch her unless you bring a gift that stirs her and opens her eyes,
Don’t hold back that kiss, so wasted then, back before love, way back when.
You can kiss her with music you can kiss her with laughter or Art, or words that rhyme.
You can write her a play, or a classroom of romance where you can teach her the lines;
Under the sun, and under the moon, her time looms closer, as close as yesterday
Looking at this scene from above, it’s not too late at all for love….
“Wake her up! Wake her up!” I say.

 

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My Cup of Tea

wedgwood-butterfly-bloom-teacup-saucer
My Cup of Tea

I might not be everybody’s cup of tea,
I don’t blow back your hair or float your boat.
I might be the poet you pass on by,
too weird and virtual, too unexpected and “what”?

You see, I really can make few apologies,
I came this way, saw some things, now here I am.
I don’t like to wander and meander aimlessly
When my poem says, “We’re done here,” I sign my name.

I do enjoy a smorgasbord, of poetic styles,
and I’ll taste just about anything set out on the cloth.
Like savoring a well prepared canapé, I could be enticed
to make a main course out of your every word.

Sometimes, and it’s always such a pleasure, when it comes
I’ll find a cafe that serves it just how I like,
a mix of tastes and presentations, from erudite to light.
But I’m still looking for a desert, that goes just right,…
with my cup of tea.

Karima Hoisan
February 12, 2019
Costa Rica

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The Fox Bay Theater

Fox_Bay 2
The Fox Bay Theater
for T.F.
*I couldn’t resist…I recorded this poem to David Lynch’s “Pretty 50’s” song.
Click and Enjoy!

Just when I thought it had blown
had blown away ,
like leaves from last year’s autumn trees,
I am reminded to never doubt the lasting power
of one innocent kiss pressed to my lips,
with just a hint of awkwardness,
mixed capriciously with fire.
I might forget all else along my disintegrating path,
but never that hard brick wall against my back,
a vertical bed of convenience and desire,
behind a Midwest picture show,
your leather jacket, my camel hair coat,
our boots crunching and trampling down, the snow,
each visible breath like whispered smoke rings,
where you pressed your lips to mine,
electric shocking me forever in time.
to the aching pleasure…of love’s first awakenings.

Karima Hoisan
February 5, 2019
Costa Rica

 

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Insomnia

Markus Akessonfullsize

Markus Akesson

The path that leads to sleep is so overgrown:
Some natural un-pruned barriers trip me and I fall.
They stumble me until I’m humbled but not to sleep.
I descend to overly awake, tripping on the entire day, that just won’t go away.
Madness is watching this parade.

The more I try to move towards that oblivion,
The clearing in the jungle we call sleep,
The more I bog down along the way, with things I can never fix,
My feet held by living root systems, dragging me back to the past,
Then whip-lashing me into a future I doubt will ever exist…
Tangled in their twining, eyes open or closed it’s all the same…
I am too conscious of everything…and I’m still awake.

Hours of trekking leave me exhausted, but no closer to sleep.
Hours of imagery, half written poetry, repeated un-pleasantries
Hungry, thirsting, hoping for a cartoon bonk upon my head
Lights out….That’s All Folks!


Karima Hoisan

February 1, 2019
Costa Rica

 

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Twinkle & Sand

are-you-a-starseed 2
Twinkle & Sand
Click this Link to hear me recite it to the music that inspired it:
Twinkle & Sand.mp3

The twinkle lights on my ceiling… twinkling twinkling
felt like a visit from beyond when I opened my eyes.
I laid in bed, staring up..not afraid, just mesmerized
and amazed at the tiny light show
that centered and woke me from a deep dreamless sleep
then danced and scattered
above me, that moonless midnight.

Spreading out, coming together, otherworldly choreography…
Twirling pin points of light from no logical source,
I felt grains like the finest sand fall over me,
It made me catch my breath, I could have stopped breathing forever,
inert, unable to even raise my hand or my head.
My face was being bathed in the powdered grains of this
fairy dust.

I heard this music in my head..it danced to the lights and the lights
rolled in waves and each measure invited me to be part;
each note grew in power to move me.
No fear, just awe and gratitude for this symphony,
this light show in harmony, dancing on my ceiling…
Calling me to dissolve in its symmetry,
In the unexplained magic of this moment I was being gifted.

I didn’t try to understand it..I lived it and it kept slowly building
until in a last crescendo I was moved to tears.
I can’t explain it, but in just two perfectly repeated notes
right near the end…  I knew without question;
it was my mother now beyond life, but not beyond memory
here visiting me .

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In A Slow Drift

foggy_boat
In a Slow Drift

 

I won’t let you slip into the fog off the shoreline,
so that when I call out to you, you don’t even hear your name.
The truth is… it’s too sad to admit..that we have changed,
both of us and now, how easily all our wildly woven history,
loosens and drifts in tattered life boats, carrying nothing to save.

I protest and shake my fists to the sky, I won’t surrender, not this one
not this gift!…and how cruel to give it, tell me it’s mine, only to take it away!
Like this, in a slow drift that if we don’t pay attention, we might not perceive,
in small increments of invisibility, we find less to love about each other.
Where’s our laughter, our blood, our dreams, and what are we without them?

Four bells, the haze has muddled our horizons, as we sit in silence, dazed.
Not a story left to tell, not a plan, not a memory, not even a kiss, really…really?
I don’t accept it ends like this..words choking in our throats, our hearts winding down,
across a dinner table, catatonic, barely whispering, every sentence ending in the middle
It’s not befitting to the memory of our slow dance of love, to end in a slow drift away.

Karima Hoisan
January 15, 2019
Costa Rica

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