Tag: Miriam Manglani

Two Poems by Miriam Manglani

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Their Music

He stopped playing when she died.
The piano lay trapped in a white dusty sheet,
a dead body waiting for the morgue.

His fingers ached for the feel
of the slippery keys,
extensions of his long fingers.

She came to him in a dream,
danced again as he played,
her long, nimble legs threaded
the air like sewing needles,
the music’s current
coursed through her
like a second heart beat.

The last song she danced to
played over and over again
in his mind for years,
hibernated in his finger tips,
a caged bird longing for release.

He pulled the sheet off,
clouds of dust swirled
like clusters of insects in the sunlight.

As he played,
the notes surged
through him like rising tide.

And her ghost performed in front of him,
her movements flowed like water,
like the rain that fell from his eyes,
in a sea of sound.


Sewing Memories

She is sewing the tapestry of her life
with tender threads of time.

Memories faded like laundry hanging
out to dry in the sun
are stitched together piece by piece.

Red fabric with the “S” Superman logo —
from the T-shirt she lived in
when she was five.

Rough black fabric —
her father’s stubble that pricked her
skin when he hugged her goodnight.

Green shimmery fabric —
the color of ocean waves
she rode every summer as a child.

Yellow fabric —
the color that danced into her mind
when she smelled her mom’s Egyptian soup.

Rainbow fabric —
for the wistfulness she felt
when dancing to “their song”
“Forever Young” on her wedding day.

Black fabric —
the color of her daughter’s
long beautiful lashes.

Gray fabric —
the absence of her father,
sick with dementia,
gone long before he died.

Burp cloth fabric —
a reminder of the sleepless nights
she spent nursing twin boys.

Jean fabric —
her mom’s jeans torn
to save her life on the day of her stroke.

She sees them all now,
her memories threaded together.

She feels them all now,
sliding through her fingers.




Miriam Manglani is a writer with poetry recently published in Sparks of Calliope, One Art, Glacial Hills Review, Paterson Literary Review, and Lothlorian Poetry Journal.

Two Poems by Miriam Maglani

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Paper Weight

They float in a perfect cube of clear resin,
a set of US mint coins from 1994.
He kept it on a dusty shelf
in his doctor’s office, next to the penguin
wearing a beret I sculpted for him.

We would take family trips to flea markets
so he could look for coins,
dollars, half dollars, nickels, pennies, silver, copper —

he felt their weight and contours
in his deft surgeon hands,
the coins preserved, frozen in time,
memories of a time long gone,

a reminder and remainder of him
and the unquantifiable weight of his loss.


Metal on Bone

When my mom’s friend Arthritis brewed
a storm in her knees,
the simple everyday task
of flushing the toilet made her fall.

She was found crumpled
on her bathroom floor
like balled up toilet paper.

X-rays and scans unearthed
her injury— a break in her femur.

She has metal in her now —
her organic existence compromised
with rods and screws that will join her
in her earthy grave.

Her family has faith in the skill of surgeons,
the fidelity of screws,
the strength of metal,
her mettle,
for the long journey to recovery
that stretches barren before her.

They pray she will be able to walk again,
metal on bone,
bone with mettle.




Miriam Manglani lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, with her husband and three children. She works full-time as a Sr. Technical Training Manager. Her poems have been published in various magazines and journals including Red Eft Review, One Art, Glacial Hills Review, Paterson Literary Review, and Lothlorian Poetry Journal.

Two Poems by Miriam Manglani

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Beach Days

I spent my childhood summers
listening to the sound of the ocean’s tongues
lap the shore’s sandy face,
the cries of gulls stirring the salty air.

Lying on a soggy towel,
holding a book over my head,
its words lifting me to other worlds.

Eating tuna sandwiches
while feeding the squawking gulls,
fighting like bickering lovers over scraps.

Hearing my parents and their loud friends from Egypt
clustered like a gaggle of Arabic speaking geese
sheltered in a group of umbrellas,
playing backgammon,
littering the sand with their peach pits
and pumpkin seed shells.

Floating on my back in the ocean
as I stared into a kite-speckled sky
teaming with white cotton candy.

Taking a shower and uncovering
a mini shore in my swim suit
of sand, rocks, and seaweed.

Going to bed and feeling the cozy warmth
of the day’s sun radiate from my reddened skin,
warming me in the cool night,
my mattress a big raft
floating in a sea of dreams, moonlight, and chirping crickets.


Homeless Village

And there it was.
Tucked under an edge
of the Charles River Bridge,
lit by the early morning light
reflected off the still river—
a homeless village.

With their colorful tents,
piles of empty tin cans
in rusting supermarket carts
waiting to be redeemed
for a few life-saving dollars,
salvaged mattresses
with their fluff spilling out
and poky springs,
empty, cracked vodka bottles,
and rusting propane tanks
for cooking whatever-scraps of food.

I stare at men emerging from tents,
as if they were beings from another world,
their waking arms yawning in the morning sun.




Miriam Manglani lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, with her husband and three children. She works full-time as a Sr. Technical Training Manager. Her poems have been published in various magazines and journals including Poetry Quarterly, Rushing Thru the Dark, Vita Brevis, Cerasus Magazine, Sparks of Calliope, and Canyon Voices. Most recently, her poetry chapbook, Ordinary Wonders, was published by Prolific Press.

“To My Father Who Immigrated to America” by Miriam Manglani

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

How scared you must have been
leaving your native Egypt,
the only home you knew,
alone,
leaving your parents,
your seven siblings,
your friends,
by boat at twenty-two
with only sixteen dollars in your pocket,
driven out by antisemitism,
the gang of Arabs
who beat you,
almost killing you for being Jewish.

Perhaps you saw glints of the lives
you would create and change
in the waters of the gleaming Mediterranean
you crossed —

Perhaps you saw in France
beneath the layers of soot
on the copper chimneys you cleaned
for one long dirty year —
to make your way to the states,
glimmers of the trail you burned years later
as a renowned OB/GYN,
reflections of the many women you saved
who regarded you as a quiet hero,
facets of the worlds you helped create
for your future wife, children,
and your grandchildren
who only know your cold grave.

When you stepped on American soil,
did you feel the rush of wind
from the golden doors
of opportunity swinging wide open?

Perhaps you saw and felt none
of those wondrous things,
but you still gave rise to them.




Miriam Manglani is an emerging writer with poetry published in Village Square, Poetry Quarterly, Rushing Thru the Dark, Vita Brevis, and Cerasus Magazine. Find her at www.miriammanglani.com.