My Flower 'የኔ አበባ'

My Flower

   'የኔ አበባ'

  By Solomon Belete Haile

I heard the birds singing,

Robin, chickadee, and starling,

In the fresh air of spring,

It was my flower's time too,

To flourish and blossom,

Under the blue, bright sky's bosom,

Beneath a cheerful moon,

A canopy of bright stars,

Swelling surf and new grass.

Alas, my flower,

She'd been through rough weather,

The wind, the chill, the stormy winter,

Leave her alone, come on gardener,

It is spring, let her prosper.

The gardener planted a flower,

Atop Ethiopia's highland 'Wollo meder',

Adorned her with beauty and glamour,

Nurtured her with aroma and savor.

She was gentle, yet strong,

Swayed in the wind but never broke,

Blossomed for a spell but not for long.

Her tall stemmed stature,

Flamingo akin splendor,

Transplanted up yonder,

By the swift action of the gardener.

Oh, benevolent, caring gardener,

What have you done with my flower?

If you wonder why I am despondent,

Withdrawn from life, lacked interest,

Here is my answer:

I missed my flower.

It seems to me unfair and absurd,

Justifying the wrong and lopsided,

I'm not questioning the Gardner's wit,

And yet,

I am left bewildered and puzzled.

Kibitzers suggest at times: 

To take a moment and a deep breath,

To search and find the silver lining,

That I may justify your doing;

But, where is the silver lining?

Why disrupt that pretty flower,

Why pick her up instead of another?

In your garden, she seemed at ease,

To our look and tactile embrace.

Now that she is uprooted,

Taken suddenly and lifted,

Relocated to a new abode,

What's left of her to exude,

Are a few petals, buds,

And a memory of her resplendent.

  Abeba Belete Blazek 

(May 19, 1962 - July 19, 2003)

UNDUE BEMOAN

(A Sequel to ‘My Flower’)

By Solomon Belete Haile

June 24, 2020

             

A wrong perception of the world,

Arising from an upended mind,

Produced an elegy derided;

A clay spoke up to the potter,

Belittled his doing and manner,

Imparted a lesson to its maker,

Deducing from the actions of its master,

Sound off a lengthy lecture,

Screeds polemic insincere;

The molded slandered the molder,

Unbeknownst to its fare,

Harangued balderdash of despair;

A worm confronts a farmer,

Insisting for an answer,

what a fool it was to utter,

Hasty words of despair,

laying blame on the Gardner,

Said: ‘what have you done to my flower?’

‘Leave her alone, come on gardener,’

I am the clay, the miserable worm,

A doleful creature in a conundrum;

‘Has the potter no right over the clay,

To do what he pleases’ nay my cry? 

Who am I to utter those words,

Seemingly true but nescience,

Against the author of life and death,

Who am I to exclaim,

A nonsensical voice in humdrum; 

As if all along that flower was mine,

Misplacing ownership which was thine;

Thank God for my second thought,

I goggled at the apparent fault, 

Spared from Nebuchadnezzar’s fate,

Here I am to repent,

for an utterance of undue dissent,

I’m not stricken with boanthropy,

For poetry marked with blasphemy;

The gaffe in my own locution,

Overridden with blind intuition,

Directed towards the sovereign,

Is nothing other than a sin;

What was wrong and lopsided, 

Was not your rule and command;

As the faculty of my belief erred,

For lack of knowledge in your word,

This poor soul bemoaned,

An elegy misguided,

Towards my benevolent Lord,

Despite your grace and good deed;

As the Spirit pervaded conviction,

A soul engulfed in contrition;

Driven with divine volition,

Surrendered to discern your doctrine,

Behold the truth, here is a lesson,

‘For from him and through him 

And to him are all things,

To him be glory forever; Amen’.

I came to terms with life’s gain,

With losses sustained due to sin,

I trust you for now and forever,

Sovereign Lord, lone conquerer!