Nightingale dances to a union jack's tune
Blonded and bonded to the winter wind's croon
Black leather lost, soul-searching for safe havens
Soothing the streetlight as she serenades,
Healing the moonlight as her honeymoon fades.

In flocks, it is said,
That safety will travel
And numbers protect those that fly,
But the heart, indeed, is a lonely hunter
So land your weary arms in mine.

You can return with the swallows to Capistrano
Or follow the flamingos as they swoon and sail
You can hang onto a hummingbird's heartbeat,
Just wrap me in the wings of this nightingale.

It's the lark, that's true,
That sent me to you -
Nursing the daylight until it flutters then soars,
Nestling the twilight by the hospital doors.

In the dark, it is said
That the truth hangs lower,
And slower move the birds in time
So un-tether from your trembling sadness,
And land your weary arms in mine.

You can sing the songbird's symphony
Or fleece the  feathers off a sparrows tail
You can hang onto a hummingbird's heartbeat,
Just wrap me in the wings of this nightingale.

There is no dusk in this city
penetrated by the raging Potomac,
Night just crams itself in and
rapes the day dry -
lays her flat against the horizon.
Mothers and children run for covers
and put each other to sleep;
in a few hours
harlots and nighthawks will do the same.

Sweet Siren
You are this city
Petticoated and pretty,
Cunning and stunning
Winking and blinking
Red
Yellow
Green
eyes popping open like sunken headlights,
Ready for the night.

I hear your wailing
red-flashed and flaming
like an open heart,
piercing the black with it's plea.
I feel your pulse-pumping red corpuscles
thrusting me deep into
lusting for things forbidden and hidden
Somewhere inside this neon wonderland.

Sweet Siren,
Sing your teasing tunes for me
Deliver me from your shelters and streets,
Where infidels and angels
Fall at your feet.
Sweet Siren,
Deliver me to the
Trembling shelter of your sheets.

Liars and their lies
roam this concrete jungle
begging for love and razors
and other disposable items.
You go screaming passed them though,
determined to save at least one numb drunk ***
in some rain cleansed back alley of vices;
only to fool your own conscience
with the lithium laced smile of charity.

Sweet Siren
Quiet your angry shrill to a hush
The tarmac and taxis are tired of us
And your princes and saviors have fled this town.
Sweet Siren,
It's time for us to burn this city down
And leave the ashes
For the thieves and the clowns.

Father, I saw you last night
In a twilight dream you strolled through the streets of Shiraz,
followed by a fluttering butterfly
Passed the mosques and minarets,
turquoise blue and blood red
The cypress trees and poets' beds wept for you -
and their tears dropped like pomegranate seeds on the dry desert sand.

Father, I saw you yesterday
In a dusk-lit dream you walked through the streets of Baltimore,
followed by a fluttering butterfly
Passed the Hopkins dome and Ravens' home,
steamed crab orange and Oriole black
The patients in hospital beds cried to you -
and their tears fell flat on the soft O.C. sand.

Dear friend, Baba,
Aman, Vafa
We see you every day in an azalea's bloom
You live on in each grandchild's heart
You give our lives hope
In the early spring sun and the late autumn moon,
you breathe again
In your Akhtar's sweet smile, in Taraneh's kind style,
your heart beats again.

Father, I felt you last night
In a deep, dark dream you spoke to me
and with an angel's hands, dried my tears for me
Then hugged me with great joy,
and I read you this poem -
To my father
From his boy.


-Arman Taheri (7/10/2010)

Everybody  is a story
Every heartbreak is a song
Everybody hides a secret
Every sinner knows his psalms...

I've felt the heartbeat in the flames,
I've seen the iris in the hurricane
But this is poison wrapped in ******,
with a whiskey chaser to numb the pain.

It was as if we dreamed each other
strawberry-creamed each other on the 3rd of July
The nighttime sky cracked and cried all over the mountainside,
on the eve of the fireworks.

The galaxy grinned
and bliss blushed when we kissed,
but now I miss my lips on the nape of your neck,
and the smell of your skin in the candlelight.

I thought I saw a wild rose
growing in a field of clover
I thought I heard a tune in you,
but now that song is over.

...We are birds of different feathers
We are rain dogs in disguise
We are trees in early autumn,
reaching for the dusk-lit skies.

Little son
can you hear me?
Can you see the sun rising?
Rubbing the night right out of his eyes,
stretching and yawning
and crawling out of bed
to hold you in his arms;
shining through the clouds and cobwebs -
Splashing onto the horizon
Bursting into my veins
with rays of laughter
sprinkled like sugar on my soul

Little sun,
dancing in the twilight,
reflecting off of the ocean
and into my eyes;
Deliver me to the dew dropped lips of your smile,
shelter me in the warmth of your glare,
lift me to the mirror in your heart
so I may see myself again
In you
My son

Little son
can you hear me?
Can you see the sun setting?
Letting go of the dusk with a shrug and a sigh,
kissing the moon so the night doesn't cry,
reaching for a blanket to comfort the sky -
Stretching and yawning
Whispering and crawling
into bed,
to hold you in his arms.

When I was a boy
I used to think that the stars were fireflies,
stuck in the nighttime sky;
or diamonds on the wings
of butterflies, flown too high
and lost for eternity.
Or angels with their halos
shining bright -
or a million green eyes,
staring down at me.

When I looked at you
I used to see:
Fireflies and diamonds, and
butterflies and halos, and
angels and green eyes -
Now all I see is you.

The stars have fallen from the sky,
But kissed the ground before they died.

10,000 years ago,
Before bridges were built
and bombs were blown and flown
in the azure sky,
a man could humbly hold his heart in his hands
and his hands to the sky and
and scream for rain to drown him -
or teach him to swim.

How did we get here, you and I?
Through sleeping and waking,
or beating and ******
the land that we plowed and sowed together?
Or am I just thinking aloud and insane
to believe that sorrow and pain
have a reason to be on the the globe,
or in my tiny little heart.