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EJ Aghassi Apr 2016
Something flows in the wind that blows
vibrations transform the world around.
But not all souls are so privileged to know

The subtleties of a force so profound.
Dancing among the molecules
Of oxygen and light and sound,

Value surpassing precious jewels.
A present in its present state,
Presented to wise man and fool,

A gift to he who contemplates.
Sun shimmering about the world external
new sense of warmth now radiates

Gently, inwards it flows eternal,
To semblance of peace does it return you.

And songs beautiful as young blind love,
Jingle, whistle, over distant hill
Mirroring the plains and stars above.

Birds are creatures that instill
A sense of wonderment and pleasure.
Sat on branch in forest, or on windowsills,

Knowing not their beauty in its measure.
Having no sense of pride or vanity
unaware they possess the richest treasures,

Their song will become my own eventually.
Melodies so immense, simple and moving,
Like darkness now envelop me.

Mother night so welcoming and soothing,
In your embrace I banish all my brooding.
This was written in honor of Percy Shelley.

It is my (rather sorry) attempt at the terza rima, as he used it in "Ode to the West Wind."
If you haven't read that poem yet, you should.
It is gorgeous.
EJ Aghassi Apr 2016
In your eyes
Temperatures rise
And spark turns into flame

Fueled by desire
Our world catches fire
And we burn and burn again

We burn just the same
  Apr 2016 EJ Aghassi
John Keats
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
    My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull ****** to the drains
    One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
    But being too happy in thine happiness,--
        That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
            In some melodious plot
    Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
        Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
    Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
    Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
    Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
        With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
            And purple-stained mouth;
    That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
        And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
    What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
    Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
    Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
        Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
            And leaden-eyed despairs,
    Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
        Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
    Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
    Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
    And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
        Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
            But here there is no light,
    Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
        Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
    Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
    Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
    White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
        Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
            And mid-May's eldest child,
    The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
        The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
    I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
    To take into the air my quiet breath;
        Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
    To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
        While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
            In such an ecstasy!
    Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--
          To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
    No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
    In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
    Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
        She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
            The same that oft-times hath
    Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
        Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
    To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
    As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
    Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
        Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
            In the next valley-glades:
    Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
        Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep?
  Apr 2016 EJ Aghassi
E. E. Cummings
raise the shade
will youse dearie?
rain
wouldn’t that

get yer goat but
we don’t care do
we dearie we should
worry about the rain

huh
dearie?
yknow
i’m

sorry for awl the
poor girls that
gets up god
knows when every

day of their
lives
aint you,
                oo-oo.    dearie

not so
hard dear

you’re killing me
EJ Aghassi Apr 2016
all that time and care
to look and act like we don't
have the time to care
reflections
EJ Aghassi Mar 2016
There was a feeling that found me
in the midst of focus fading
a shimmering within the sun rays
caressing then worn-out skin

something of acceptance
similar to fulfillment
resembling a happiness &
transcending physicality

companionship in the lack of it
whole souls acknowledging
sorrows, the ebb and flow
of the highs and lows

there was for a moment a stillness
a lack of all movement that
cradled the imagery of  
static serenity before me

and as they inevitably faded
there was some comfort in knowing
a part of me forever resides
in the clasp of such experience

A loneliness sought me out again
drunken stupor with tongue of silk
coerced me willfully along
one very treacherous road

tender hand willingly reached
for one poor in spirit
the shackles of melancholy breached-
shattered- from the force of soft caress

in spite of the distance that loomed
there was closeness that bloomed
under the silver moonlight
audible in approving sighs

coalescence of energy, vibrant
colors spreading outward from
a heart and mind once so sure
that they'll only ever see grey

time within a memory
crystallized
and a spark to the kindling
within cold eyes

new warmth circulating
soon to create
a fire to cleanse
frostbitten exterior

but the forces of
nature will *****
out ambitious
flame impartially

and the feeling of fire
fades away with
the smoke, the memory
already one with the weather

&
Now what finds me is the storm

in the rain slouches
the silhouette
of a comfort so
soon now forgotten

the wind howls a name familiar
it carries with it the scent of a nightmare
sensation dances with the
the sting of near frozen air

I find a feeling not so foreign now
dragging me farther
out into
the wilderness

processing humbling
surroundings
i'm now left in
solitary wonder

where have I wandered?
how will I weather impending storm?

if I am long lost in unforgiving cold
will it then
be too late
when warmth finds me once more?
an ode to insignificance
  Jan 2016 EJ Aghassi
Anne Sexton
I have a pack of letters,
I have a pack of memories.
I could cut out the eyes of both.
I could wear them like a patchwork apron.
I could stick them in the washer, the drier,
and maybe some of the pain would float off like dirt?
Perhaps down the disposal I could grind up the loss.
Besides -- what a bargain -- no expensive phone calls.
No lengthy trips on planes in the fog.
No manicky laughter or blessing from an odd-lot priest.
That priest is probably still floating on a fog pillow.
Blessing us. Blessing us.

Am I to bless the lost you,
sitting here with my clumsy soul?
Propaganda time is over.
I sit here on the spike of truth.
No one to hate except the slim fish of memory
that slides in and out of my brain.
No one to hate except the acute feel of my nightgown
brushing my body like a light that has gone out.
It recalls the kiss we invented, tongues like poems,
meeting, returning, inviting, causing a fever of need.
Laughter, maps, cassettes, touch singing its path -
all to be broken and laid away in a tight strongbox.
The monotonous dead clog me up and there is only
black done in black that oozes from the strongbox.
I must disembowel it and then set the heart, the legs,
of two who were one upon a large woodpile
and ignite, as I was once ignited, and let it whirl
into flame, reaching the sky
making it dangerous with its red.
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