Poetry Super Highway

Poetry Super Highway

November 6-12, 2017: Poetry from Reevian Saied and TS Hidalgo

Reevian Saied and Grant Guy

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Reevian Saied
reevian@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

I am Jordanian currently living in the United Arab Emirates. On my spiritual journey, I have experienced many challenges and found poetry to be a beautiful way to preserve profound moments. Ironically, I was inspired to write my first poem after continuously listening to a track on an instrumental CD entitled Rumi. Recently I have launched an online guide focused on enhancing our spiritual journey, www.tunetotravel.com.  

The following work is Copyright © 2017, and owned by Reevian Saied and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Cloud Seeding

Odd dark clouds
Flash of light slashes the desert
Rain blessing overpowered by wind anger.

Doors locked and shaking
Uprooted tree flies passed window

The fallen branch 
The fallen bird
Now injured unable to fly
Rescued and taken inside

Cats looking for shelter
Crying newborn kitten
Saved and given back to its mother

The storm leaves with no shame.

 

 


TS Hidalgo
tsanchez3@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

TS Hidalgo (44) holds a BBA (Universidad Autónoma de Madrid), a MBA (IE Business School), a MA in Creative Writing (Hotel Kafka) and a Certificate in Management and the Arts (New York University). His works have been published in magazines in the USA, Canada, Argentina, Chile, Germany, UK, Spain, Ireland, Portugal, South Africa, Nigeria, Botswana, India and Australia, and he has been the winner of prizes like the Criaturas feroces (Editorial Destino) in short story and a finalist at Festival Eñe in the novel category. He has currently developed his career in finance and stock-market

The following work is Copyright © 2017, and owned by TS Hidalgo and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

ǝlddɐ

It’s June
horse races,
annual hat festival,
and a certain Tyson,
Mike,
got off the Metro at Ascot,
the Garden Terror,
(exhibited by Don King),
penguin suit
unforeign fashion,
strange firefly
on night white background
(and today ghost wandering
tattooed through my house),
and the truth, ma’am,
is that,
now inside the racetrack,
Tyson touched your arm,
and that,
at the same time as your iPod was going off,
and that before
the shouts under the tent,
and the consequent roar of the mass
and the Garden Terror
against 1,
against 100,
against 1,000,
against the rest,
against life,
and all of it before
my sheriff’s badge
-unproductive pedal-propelled Dodge-
and my last executioner’s fear
after firing into a black’s temple,
that is,
at the same time as his bubble world
and our crescendoing madness,
Skull Island,
I repeat, I saw it:
your son was also going off,
your iPhone was also going off:
Tyson just wanted to warn you.

 


 

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