Crescent Scar

Crescent Scar
from XX
By Nabil Abou Baker
8/21/2010

It had been ages since I
Had seen her. She had clearly
Matured emotionally
And physically in that
Time. She had a new
Distinguishing feature, her
Scar – crescent scar that parted
Her right forehead’s ep’dermis
Down to her lipsticked lip’s edge.
The crescent scar parted her
Eyebrow and barely missed her
Eye. Seven years after the auto
Accident – atrocious.
Despite what some might call a
Blemish, she was strikingly
Astonishing, a gem with
Nightfall colored hair and eyes as
An ancient Phoenician
Queen. Features that could pardon
Or damn at a moment’s glance.
The crescent was her curse, as
Phoenicia’s dawn ne’er broke.

Gypsy's Market

Gypsy’s Market
from XX
By Nabil Abou Baker
5/30/2010

The Market

As I walked down
The long slithering
Street. I saw something
New, a market.
I ventured closer,
Passed an elder
Badgering beggar
Abusing liquor.
I needed some brown
Fresh almonds for my
‘Specially secret
Rich yet rough rice. I
Searched the items by eye,
Astonishingly,
The first sect’ was very
Thorough with wild berries.
The unusual gyps’
Had all the true berries,
Currants that varied from
Red to white to black.
Oh, I couldn’t leave
Out the ever pop’
Green gooseberry, which can
Only be found in small
Parts of Africa, Asia, and
Europe. The gypsy’s had
Not missed a fruit. There
Were epigynous,
Or faux berries like the
Healthy, copious
Cranberry. And the now
Beneficial
Blueberry. Oh, even
The aggregate fruits.
Thimbleberry throngs,
Several salmon-
Berries, countless cloud-
Berries, wine berries,
And loganberries.
Meticulously
Motley ‘ready ripened
Raspberry bunches,
Enough merrily picked
Mulberries to feed
For a few full days.
Nothing compared to
The gypsy blood green
Hypnotizingly
Succulent, sober
‘Ceited strawberries.

The Gypsy

I moved closer to
The end of the school
Of berries. A gyps’
Stood there looking ‘way
From me. As I came
E’er so slowly close,
She turned around and
Was covering her
Face with a head scarf.
She was dressed in
Loose, flowing and dull
Palate colored clothes.
I could see only her
Eyes, and the subtle
Superficial
Contour of her nose
Piercing the clay scarf.
Her eyes were like that
Of a black panther
Stalking her prey at
Night, sharp yet glowing—
Radiating like
The moon at midnight.
Mesmerized by her,
I had forgotten
What I had wanted.
She stuck out her Earth
Brown hand and waited
For me to hold it.
She said “Come with me
I have a special
Thing for you.” I did
What she said and she
Took me into a
Rust—colored tent with
Not any frivolous
Fruit or any vital
Vegetables—just
Some furniture and
A little dirty
Boy by a drum. She
Told him to play it.
The boy’s hands began
To bounce back and forth
Beautifully off
The vibrating drum.
She began—slowly—
And slightly coming
So much carefully
Closer to my still
Shockingly frozen
Silent body. Her
Hips haughtily hit
Every-every beat.
I was evermore
Dumbfounded—why? She,
The gypsy, grabbed me
And we moved together
Like the ocean and moon.
Her seductive dance
Had sold whate’er she
Wanted. She removed
Her headscarf to show
Her true form, a wet
Sand skinned beaut’
With strawberry—red lips
And raven black hair
That flowed as water
In a rapid—still
River, defying
The logic of life.
She walked over to a
Desk, pulled out a round
Object in a cloth
And handed it to
Me. I opened it—
A heart shaped strawberry.
It tasted like hell
And heaven in one.
And ne’er did I leave…

Chacana

Chacana
from Travels
By Nabil Abou Baker
Summer 2010

The sun shines
On only
The upper—
Gods—half on
The twenty
First in a
Cool winter
Sunny day
The sunlight
Creates a
Shadow that
Engulfs the
Spiritual
World of the
Incas. The
Chacana
Follows rule
Of threes like
The only
Laws—llulla
Sua and
Kella—and
Holy—loved
Animals—
Snake, condor,
And puma.

Sunrise over Urubamba

Sunrise over Urubamba
from Travels
By Nabil Abou Baker
7/22/10

Every palate of kind-full colors
From the flag of the visible Inca
Spectrum was to be seen, warmer – colder
Lights. Ones that eliminate the Inca
Beloved darkness – black – from the sacred site.
The gallant guardhouse, over Urubamba,
Can watch the powerful sun god exert might
Of light over the peaks onto Vilcabamba.

The sun carves the peaks of Urubamba
Meticulously sharp, over the sacred
City of Machu Picchu onto the end
Range of Urubamba. Though there exists
A lack of vivid varying color,
Sunrise shined truth – why the sun – Earth’s mother.

A Scarlet Scarf in Passing

A Scarlet Scarf in Passing
from XX
By Nabil Abou Baker
3/27/10

Moments ago she passed me.
I was walking on Fifth Avenue,
And enthralled by all the different stores.
My attention span was – nonexistent.
The few thoughts that did run
Through my head consisted merely of
Stupendous awe. Until, I witnessed her.
She wore an ash hued trench
That extended just passed
Her knees with black and
Sky pinned striped pants.
Her heels knocked the pavement
With confidence and power.
It reminded me of the horse drawn
Carriages trotting slowly on the pavement
Making sure every huff makes full contact.
The tropically artic air breezed through
Her scarlet scarf, which lay
Wound loosely around her neck once.
Her scarlet scarf was not alone
In waving through the air;
There was the tawny straight ink
Coloring the atmosphere by her.
It fell direct, just passed her chin,
Then returned for a more emphatic
Statement of strength! She came closer
And had bangs obliquely cutting her
Forehead and concealing – momentarily –
Just one eye. My heart began to pace
And my breath too. She was arms length
Away, took her left hand and brushed
Her slant hair to the left exposing the
Second eye. They pierced me. An
Unknown feeling of panic rushed
Through as a gazelle being chased by his
Predator, a powerful lioness on the
Savannah. At that moment, I just
Couldn’t – with my sweaty palms and
General lack of ability to effectively
Approach a stranger – look into her eyes,
Let alone talk to her. I felt like I was back
In high school, an outsider that didn’t
Really fit in to those clichés, one of
Jocks and cheerleaders.
I don’t know if she was a cheerleader.
It replays in my head sometimes.
Where the story changes to one in
Which I stop her scarlet scarf
From flying away. We talk. She
Tells me that she is grateful that
I caught her scarlet scarf, the one,
Which her mother knitted for her when
She was just a child. She tells stores
Of her success as a business
Woman on Wall Street dealing
With various assets of the stock
Market. And I begin to see
Central Park in the distance.

Key Lime Pie

Key Lime Pie
from XX
By Nabil Abou Baker
3/28/10

It was mid-summer and we decided to
Drive down south for a change. There
Exists a light house, erect, but out of
Commission. The white pillar used to
Deter those from the dangers of shore,
Jagged rocks that could sink life.
I had a friend, Ernie, that lived just
North of the beacon. We rendezvoused
With him, as he was the man of the town.
He knew all the best places to go eat, drink,
But most of all fish. Ernie loved fishing.
Ernie took us to a local near by pie shop.
All they sold were pies, but not just any pie,
Only key lime pie. Mary and I had each
Purchased a pie. They were inexpensive,
Two dollars a piece. I had given the
Clerk, a boy about seventeen years old
With some acne on his left cheek, five
Dollars and placed the change in a cup
Marked, “tips.” Ernie did not want a
Key lime pie; he just enjoyed our
Company and wanted to catch up
With us. The three of us sat at a table,
Ernie to my right and Mary in front of
Me. She handed me a fork and my key
Lime pie topped with meringue. Mary’s
Had a whipped cream topping. She was
Not a fan of meringues. I took the fork
And cut right into the triangular
Key lime pie topped with meringue. The
Meringue had a white center with light bark
Tinted exterior and was crunchy upon penetration
With my fork, which then slide right through.
It was very pale, green-yellow, the color of
The sun blended with healthy southern
Grass. Her eyes met mine just as I
Was going to bite into the key lime
Pie topped with meringue. I grabbed
Her left hand, with my left hand, and
I placed the first piece of key lime pie
Topped with meringue into my mouth, as did she.

Kiera the Knight

Kiera the Knight
from XX
By Nabil Abou Baker
6/14/2010

Kiera the Knight
Was of Arthur’s Knights,
But she was hidden from sight
For she was the only female knight,
And knowing would lead to the kingdom’s blight.

She guarded him in any fight
For she had enormous might
And courage, a true round table knight,
But on the dreary night
When Arthur found out the height
Of Gwenevere’s affair with a knight,
He ordered Kiera to end her light.

Kiera did not agree with his order despite
He was king. She wanted things to be right
Not the execution of a queen in a few nights.
Arthur assured her everything would be all right
And that this service can ignite
A new flame in his life’s light.

On the full moon’s night,
Kiera was invited to visit the white
Queen. “Gwenevere thank you for this invite
To your chamber, I promise to be polite,
But unfortunately that might
Not be the case. I must recite
That the king knows quite
Well of your time with Lancelot the Knight
And today will be your last night.”

Kiera pulled out her light
Dagger from its brown leather tight
Scabbard. She charged and stabbed with all her might.
Gwenevere did not even try to put up a fight.
It was her fate, out of Arthur’s spite.
“Gwenevere, you do not deserve to live tonight
For committing adultery with a knight.
The king—dom is mine.” Whispered Kiera the Knight.

Leaves of Trees

Leaves of Trees
from The Natural Chronicles
By Nabil Abou Baker
6/9/2010

Walt Whitman’s innocent white ‘merica
Is done—or never was. Coming in fall
Is the fall of the leaves from tall fauna.
Those leaves will changes owners to stature—small—
Green glowing southern thick grass. The leaves leave
Their green life behind and become colors
Of a new soulful spectrum. But men heave
The fallen leaves from the grass, together.
Men throw the yellowed leaves into bags far
From the now lonely grass. The same grass plant
Responsible for oxygen in our
Not so green and blue earth. But the world can’t
Continue on this one destructive stave
Because man has ‘come the slave of the slave.

Black

Black
from Colors
By Nabil Abou Baker
5/17/2010

My Soul has been taken like Dorian
Gray, but his was traded for beauty.
What I received in return – agony.
Gray had the painting and I, my fallen
Heart – morning your ostentatious ocean
Eyes, the ones that escape nearly – earthly
Time. Unfortunately, they lack mercy.
I’m left like the portrait – isolated.

Though arguably Dorian’s portrait
Existence may have corrupted his fate,
I am torn wondering whether or not
You are Dorian or the portrait. Caught –
Or better lost in what has come. This world
Is just filled with shades of Dorian’s Gray – Black.

A Letter from the Past

A Letter from the Past
from Paperless Poetry
By Nabil Abou Baker
8/21/2010

The house burns down to the ground
Finalizing a permanent transition into ashes.
Ashes, the road taken but I enter the
Home of ashes now re-imagining blurbs
Of the past in the present. Blurbs, redefining
People’s history and watching how the
Fire evolved or devolved those still
Present from the beginning. Interesting
How the experience with drug, alchohol,
Love, lust, violence, religion, politics, sex,
Education or the lack there of and general
Adversity can build a new complex being
Or test on to the very core, nearly destroying
Everything flesh deep. Unfortunately, for
The children of the home not all could
Or can or will survive the flames of
The great fire that burned the house.

Black and Blue

Black and Blue
from Colors
By Nabil Abou Baker
5/21/2010

I will not wait for the wound to heal.
A hemorrhaging-scar undergoing
The most intricate cascade of
Coagulation factors known.

For no set of factors, elements,
Molecules can heal this injury

But don’t you worry its
Just a bruise, just a bruise.

Red (II)

Red (II)
from Colors
By Nabil Abou Baker
2/15/2010

Raging, erotic death.
I am hopelessly lost
By all your meaning. Doubt
Fills all assumptions of
You and your ways, bloody
Devilish skin color,
That of communism or
Republicans, evil
Sins and hell. Halt! Stop! End!
This hated torn fire of
Anger, leaving me lost
Hopelessly for the “truth”
Or great lie of the heart,
A Shakespearean love.

Wishing Well

Wishing Well
By Nabil Abou Baker
5/18/2010

He stood there – peering down the black abyss,
Unable to see the actual depth of
The water. After staring long enough
He began to see what resembled her,
Her reflection that is, in the water.
He lifted and dropped a round gray stone
Down the well – the bottomless pit. The stone
Never made a sound. It was quietly
Engulfed by the darkness. Though he did
See the stone distort her image for only some
Moments. He placed both his hands in their own
Respective pockets and pulled out a ring
With the right and a coin with the left hand.
He paused and thought and threw the right one.

Trotamundos Café

Trotamundos Café
from Travels
By Nabil Abou Baker
7/21/10

The Plaza de Armas
Is divided by green
Geometric figures,
Split by paths filled with a
Number of different
People – mostly tourists
That could easily be
Spotted from far sitting –
Conversing on dark grass
Tinted benches, taking
Pictures of the buildings –
Cathedral, fountain and
Spanish architecture,
Consisting of arches
And balconies on the
Perimeter of the
Square. Peruvian flags –
Red – white – red – small – coatless
Flags decorated the
Lampposts and restaurants,
But there, in front of the
Cathedral steps – two large
Flags – Peru’s with the coat-of-
Arms and the sole rainbow
Inca symbol of the
Old nation – horizon
Stripes – red – orange – yellow –
Green – blue – ‘digo – violet.
Among all the Armas’
Unarranged people, dogs
Aimlessly wandering,
Seed picking pigeons,
Smoking patrons, baby
Llama with a six year
Old girl and Cusquena
Mother – both proudly dressed –
Traditional ‘ttire –
Sat a Peruvian
Lady on the center
Fountain’s edge. She wore her
Night black hair to her chin,
And had skin shades darker
Than most the tall tourists.
She looked about average
For a native’s – not high –
Height. I watched her take left
Hand and brush her direct
Straight hair behind her ear.
She hadn’t noticed me.
A young man approached her –
Kissed her right china cheek while
Momentarily yet
Emphatically in
‘Bracing her. The two strode
Across the cobble stone
Street up steep Cordova.

Mortality

Mortality
By Nabil Abou Baker
5/23/2010

I am reminded of you every time
I look – stare into the mighty mirror.
Life – odd when it reaches that point where you can
Notice the changes of every – damned – day
The stress, pain, hardship, losses, and – wrinkles.
Changes unwantedly manifested,
Ones that take shape on your cold countenance.

Life without Alliteration

Life without Alliteration
By Nabil Abou Baker
3/27/2010

Sober, somber lost in endless slumber.
Swineburnian thunder marks a solemn sylvan site,
Despite the meaningless snakes and stones!
Without her, is life without alliteration.