A Kettle Drum

a poem by Naveed Khalid, Pakistan

While musing o'er the dale at sunset of the
evening sky,
beside the oak, a broccolli, beneath the bed
of crimson joy, no dark can e'er illumine,
elbow room, the table and a few scraps of paper;
hide from eternals e'ery flower upon a barren heath
against thy most high deserts at midnight lease
this world of fair weather days in the mellowing spring:
I could hear a tapping noise o'er my head in silent hours
of soliloquy, some such darling buds of may,
of golden tress his hair upon the sand dunes,
away from high heavens my shipwrecked dreams;
keeps me wide awake under the Archangel's brow,
many a sleepless night from off thy ancient lyre no heart can afford,
of subverted looks in haystack and straw, my age-old love,
pricked with a furr coat in the cellar-barn her stumbled feet
of untread places far off beyond the sunrise,
the cat still purrs at the citadel in a flaunt flemingo,
that crow on wings, on wings of plumed hat on knees in ruffled features,
of fealty's Apollo at my door that tolls the bell
in rosemary garden,
oft goes unchecked by the west wind in autumn,
bereaved of light my darkened days to some rivulet blue
of eclipsed doom to bloody tyrant time.

(C) Naveed Khalid

Copy Rights (C) 2016.
All Rights Reserved.

Date Created: Monday, May 09,2016 5: 27: 37 PM

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