Ayesha, Ayesha.   That name haunted me for years.  At some point, I assigned it to a woman of dream.  I ended up writing 21 short salutes to her.  Here are two.  Enjoy.  And dream.


A thin beggar curled against the brickwork.

His beard was long and scraggly, hair matted;

His clothing was patched and shiny with age;

His eyes were bright, as if

He looked upon distant vistas of great loveliness.


He plucked a mandolin with missing strings;

We heard fragments of wonderful sorrow;

And we wept coins into his cap.


How came you to this?  I asked.

He smiled with terrible pity.

I once loved a woman, he said,

Her name was Ayesha.




Ayesha greets the incoming tide;

She walks into it, raising her skirt,

Holding it bunched in her fists, right and left;

Her hands are on her hips.

In a little stationary dance,

She pulls it this way, then that.


The sea plays around her thighs,

The waves slapping higher and higher.

Ayesha laughs.

Soon, the sea is sated;

It lies still.

Ayesha walks to the shore;

Her legs are red with cold.


The sun, and the wind,

It’s their turn, now.

Published in: on June 20, 2012 at 5:52 pm  Leave a Comment  
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