sitting in my living room
white socks against red carpet
my sleeping toes testing
the cornerstone of morning
dawn’s hoot woke me to daydreaming
and voila

I’m sitting here
awaiting for a fresh poetic tide
to tease me from the home box:
would you like some poetry for breakfast?
how about lunch?
meet me at dinner
let’s have a poetic feast

before time roller coasters
start screeching the duties of the day
musing on new wonders
in the avalanche of gestures
or before pushing the night to its limit
I enter the maze of your words,
you strangers with poetic souls&bodies;&mind;;
longing to vibrate as one
starving never to conclude
floating restless, incomplete
in love’s amniotic dream

I go out on the door
in the colors of your thoughts
fierce chain reaction
giving is receiving
and all of a sudden, unexpected
my heart would open up to itself in a smile
through distance and time
some unknown kindred soul
has been smiling back at me

I wonder how this can be

it must be Poetry
let it labor upon me

Who are my to say whats right
and how dare me to even try.
The blood that trickles from my wound,
is on my sheets,
tears in my eyes.
I try to cast my mind back,
like the trawler casts a hopeful net.
In the search of love and truth,
but all that's left is harsh regrets.
There's sometimes when I wonder:
what if we just never spoke?
I wonder would the love transpire,
I wonder what it would evoke.
See memories have a need for words,
its how we form a view.
But its those words that led us here,
and now I don't have you.

A little waiting
Some vigorous pushing
A quick look around
On a shaky ground

Grabbed the nearby seat
Some rest to the feet
In minutes squeezed inside
By a woman on the same ride

Awkward journey
The CON for cheap money.
Ticket punched
Some snacks quietly munched

Feel tall from the rest
I am in a red BEST
The driver is in a hurry
I smell some fish curry

Over a bridge
Some dogs cringe
Music for my ears
No more travelling fears

Nothing gone wrong
Now I feel strong
My stop is next
Replying to a text

Trip a little but its okay
I think it’s a good day
The red bus brakes
My balance shakes

I fly right on the drivers grill
With my face drilled
All eyes on me
I can barely see

I shiver as I walk the stairs
No one even cares
People just want to get to their destination
And I stand numb at the bus station.

-Zainab Attari

I speak poetry when I dream of you as I drink a dram.
My words are poor.
I don't give a ****
Cause last I checked I'm still your man.

It would seem the world has quietly fit the puzzle pieces into place over night ,
Like wet washing , crispy and dry from the radiators humming warmth , a satisfactory feeling , a job well done.
There is much beauty to be found on this journey home , moments where the heart is plummeting at a million miles a second , descending from the upper troposphere hurtling down , through clouds whipped up by a storm of ages – waiting for the conclusion – perpetual motion catches me
Elegant design,
Crooked lines make curves,      
Spitting at the throat, holding those words,  
  vision of confusion eats up at the temple of love , bodies are walking shrines.

******* karma on sticky fingers.

there is always that space there
just before they get to us
that space
that fine relaxer
the breather
while say
flopping on a bed
thinking of nothing
or say
pouring a glass of water from the
spigot
while entranced by
nothing

that
gentle pure
space

it's worth

centuries of
existence

say

just to scratch your neck
while looking out the window at
a bare branch

that space
there
before they get to us
ensures
that
when they do
they won't
get it all

ever.