......
The silver moon
Alone
With the southern wind

The papers of poetry,
Songs
Wandering with thousands
of unspoken words,
Stanza

Resonance in the sky,
In the wind and mind
but grew pollination in the pen and the poetry

This glorious night
The poet
Very lonely
With the mystic brightness of light
Only speaks the antiquity
...
@Musfiq us shaleheen

"Why are you like this?"

I remember the exact moment
I cut our fate string and stepped
Off the path.
I remember the talk on the bridge,
Feet from where our future
Almost ended and lied to you.

I wanted to take on all the hatred
I could. I wanted the world to hate
Us the way I did
As a form of punishment.
Because what had we ever done
With my life to deserve any of them.

I put out the light all on my own.
We have no one to blame but ourselves
For this non-existence.

"If you could go back, would you do it again?"

If time travel were possible,
I would go back and push you
Off that bridge just so that I never hurt
The people who make all of this suffering
Worthwhile.

"If all this suffering was worthwhile, then why push everyone who has ever loved you past arms length? Why the hell would you choose this type of suffering over the love that could have been? What kind of person does that?"

Sometimes you have to become a villain. The light we carried was almost out
And I acted in what I thoughts our best interest.
Had I known that at the end of the day
It would be just us watching the ruins
Of our world smolder in the wake
Of my mistakes,
I would have chose differently.

My brother is a pilot,
Not just any old pilot...
A tail dragger pilot,
Champions
Cubs,
Super Cubs.

Planes made of spars and fabric,
Held tight
By screws
And dope,
And glue.

Airframes part wood,
Part aluminum,
Part steel.

Fuel tanks sloshing in the wings
Either side above our heads,

Set the mags,
Hand crank the prop,
Turn on the fuel,
Hear her pop
And roar to life.

We strap in
Single file,
Controls fore
And aft.
And rev 'er up
To join the winds.

Once up,
He yells, "She's yours!"
And I am piloting
Or rather gingerly sliding her
About the blue,
Skidding right or left,
Holding my breath,
Wondering how much I dare
To tip her up there in the air.

"I've got the stick!"
He yells, and I let go.
"Don't be afraid to fly it!"
"It's just a machine!"
"Make it do what you want it to do!"

And we are diving toward the ground,
Then bringing her up and tilting 'round.

"Give her fuel when you tilt to turn!"
He demonstrates, and we are standing
On the wing,
Perpendicular and looking to our left and down.

I know he's right,
That I am timid in my flight,
And he is brave with years of joy,
A pilot fearless since he was a boy.

"You want to land?"
I hear him say.

"No, that's alright!"
"Not today!"

To prove how safe it is to fly,
He touches down,
Then bounces high,
And vaults us back into the sky.

We flit across the fields,
And then,
He flies beneath the power lines,
To show how spray planes catch the ends
Of fields.

He skies the plane at either end,
Then bee lines it to the badlands' edge
Where suddenly we're swooping down
Between the canyon walls, and sinking low,
Then, rising, turning to our right,
He sails us toward sun's dying light.
My only hope is that we'll land
Before the night
Erases all our sight.

And sure enough,
The air is calm;
The night is coming on;
Gusting breezes are all gone.

We gently settle once again,
Back at the ranch,
I help wheel her then
Into her waiting hangar pen.

Life can be lived all in a panic;
Fear fills us with a lingering dread,
But we should live our lives
Just like my brother said.

"It's just your life, so make it do
Whatever it is you want it to!"

And when you're changing
Your directions, throttle up!
Don't let the fear of living
Bring you to a needless stop.

Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.