The spice bazaar is redolent of places
far away, of hazy desert spaces
echoing muezzin's voices saying
"Allahu akbar!", and donkeys braying
as they're strapped into the cargo-traces.
Travelers with seamed and canny faces
share sweet coffee and formal embraces
while they price the goods that they're conveying
to the spice bazaar.
But I'm not in a land of camel-races.
Samarkand's not in these Safeway cases
gleaming in flourescent light. I'm weighing
out an ounce of cinnamon. My straying
odor-fed imagination graces
the spice bazaar.
Collection available! Knocking from Inside
Friday, April 10, 2009
Spice Bazaar
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2 comments:
I love this!
This poem is wonderful. You can smell the scents so strong the taste lingers on your tongue as they float on heat waves is far away places.
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