Moez Ben Meftah

Punica

Pulps of Punica..missed

It was twilight
summer was preparing to quit
the scene of a bohemian English neighborhood
in the outskirts of southmost.
The tender moisture
on the tight and brand new
black sweater was ushering
a nearby fall looming
with generous blossom
and more yearning and tense rimes.

I was sitting on the shaggy lawn
in the large tranquil park....
the temple to be prayed in for just one time
and then I will quit
as unique faithful disciple
and keep all its doors ajar
though I will never retrieve
the path to its blond dome .

At that moment I was fingering
the most luscious punica granatum
I have ever touched.
It was red-brownish
and on the verge
of being rendered tarnish
by the hot sweat leaking
from my shivering fingertips.
I felt hungry and I couldn't grasp
the soft pome eying my guts
and my iris revengefully and sadisticly.

Tender was the cool breeze
airing the place
with all sorts of fragrant smells
that have never fondled
my nostrils before and the lily-like Marlboro
smoke was hovering over
the blond glamorous hair waves
scattered on skinny Rojitta

There, I was thinking
of how I when to get rid
of the tight rind and start
tasting the first pulp of the globular
windfall of a prostrate Supheytila.

Oh...damn it..
if only I could have fallen
in a bottomless pit of obliviousness.
The dream wore off in no time..
in fractions of a crazy second
of the endless twilight...
sure it would stay endless
as long as the tender spirit
of the memory still beats
and shimmers heartfully within my scull.....
I would stay cursing
the lady Su and her hoarse voice
calling me in a cockney vulgar tongue,
'dinner is ready...dinner on the table..
we are waiting Mo! '

Moez Ben Meftah
15/2/2016

Topic(s) of this poem: souvenir

Poem Submitted: Monday, May 23, 2016
Poem Edited: Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Form: Blank Verse


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