Meeting Places

I watched the clamour of busy footed traffic
upon weary sleep laid eyes,
smudged liner and heavy mascara blocking out a week of
sleepless nights and coffee roasted morning charm,
the casual scent of soaps over lilac body washes sticking to my nose.
I thought back to countryside eves
where cricket orchestras’ lulled the moon
and orange blossom sifted through the window
lifting my sheets to dreamscapes of he and I painted by Monet.
Someone pushed past me at breakneck speed.
I stumbled on toothpick heels to catch my face, brought back to
the occasional breeze of something tantalising…
the audacious and complex notes of Rochas over testosterone ties or
Mademoiselle upon cherry lips.
The airport terminal hummed with bird like twitters of
yesterdays and tomorrows, bags in multiples of colours
coursing lines like Chinese dragons,
separating tears on warm forever embraces.
I noticed her first.
A nervous busying of delicate French tipped fingers,
layers over a cool confident exterior of breezy tussled curls.
Well chosen notes of Miles Davis,
David Brubeck, Sinatra and Chanel covering her
from head to pearl dipped toes, the light sheen of gloss on full lips,
the anxious searching of dark velvet eyes over a sea of heads,
and those legs… my God, those legs!!
Then she smiled.
Her lips parting like the soft silken petals of a rose,
her large almond shaped eyes fixed like a gazelle.
He walked towards her, desperate hands
sliding up her thighs, taking her round ass, firmly
lifting her… raising her from the floor
as his full wanting lips touched her petals.
I turned away,
feeling somewhat like a voyeur at this point,
nearly smashing into a heavyset woman pushing a trolley
of precariously piled suitcases in one hand
and dragging a restless child in the other.
I couldn’t help but ponder and greedily devour
the delicious textures and flavours of
poetry in motion…


(c) A Hannan


7 thoughts on “Meeting Places

  1. Poetry indeed…yours and theirs.

    It takes a poet’s eye to see, his ear to hear, his hand to stroke, and his heart feel poetry and in the mean while burst and smile, fall and rise — become highly unstable. At the poem’s intense moment I almost saw you blush; I would’ve probably shed a tear.

    I very much like how you introduced your poem and your own inner state glimpsing the world through heavy mascara, creating its somewhat shady atmosphere which a sudden sun now lit, and I especially like how you described her and the intense moment of their meeting. The culmination was your blush, the rapid swerving of your face, the rapid but hushed beat of your heart…

    To see the most unfamiliar things in the most familiar places. To see what others see but do not see; hear but do not hear. Nothing short from divine.

    (her thighs must’ve burned at the stroke of his hands 🙂 )

    • “To see the most unfamiliar things in the most familiar places.”
      …if we only take a moment to breath, to feel, to experience… life is poetry.

      -smiles and kisses your cheek softly-

  2. -feels the moist softness; a slight shiver runs under his skin-

    Yes, life is poetry. Richness beyond boundaries.

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