On Sunday’s Canvas
our footprints sketch a path
across the sand.
Out of focus, others dot the beach.
Hands drawn tightly together,
our talk ebbs and flows.

This is Sunday’s Cove,
the rim where rivers end and tell their stories.
Afternoon sea and sky run together until
we are surrounded by what we feel.
Sand shines in a festive way.

Here at the edge of the world,
night is celebrated with wine in a water glass.
Beyond the surf, we do not hear the silence.
We wake every morning to brush new paths.

the phone turns yellowy orange,
low power mode,
have fallen below
the 10% threshold,
we both drowsy,
yet competitively locked-into
separate screen servitude

she notices,
I don't,
she says,
"you need a charge"

god, she's so correct,
our mutualizing power is
fastly slow draining

this we both
know~notice,
and neither
says nada~nothing

we,
both poets in our way,
acutely aware
of the power of metaphor,
and she knows
that I know,
I noticed
what just went unspoken*

>an untitled poem<

so much for punctuation
i don’t really give a **** at all
but if it helps you to better
understand the situation
then i’ll share with you my all
the melody in your heart
breaks down all the walls
and opens up the mouths of mountains
like cascading waterfalls

This morning was so beautiful
I lost so much blood
April At 9:00am
It always has golden trees
The sky is too white...
I see so many lined shapes sitting
or bending
I won't sell my drawings
It loves its paintings
The color pencils are walking
The doll laughing
My hands were beautiful
I was pretty in your eyes...
My ****** does not blossom
It flew
Why shouldn't the Jasmine's
blossoms be red ?!
Their yelling is not concordat with me
I want my tears to be Eglantines
For the sun to laugh
My dance with God
Among watercolors
In my mother's ******* eyes is beautiful...
I am the same Jasmine
Yesterday in my mother's arms
And today a woman fondling your
ears by singing lullaby of her virginity
I will put a society to sleep
The wheat is sleeping with the grain field
A girl who the sun doesn't see her ******* will die
in the shining of blues
And my hands will not reach the
black hair of any man
The red beautiful Jasmine flower
doesn't belong to the freedom
I will not realize the illusion of freedom...

امروز صبحی زیبا بود
خون زیادی از من رفت
اردیبهشت
در ساعت نه صبح
همیشه درخت هایی طلایی دارد
...آسمان بی اندازه سفید است
حجم های خطی زیادی می بینم
نشسته است
یا خم می شود
طراحی هایم را نخواهم فروخت
نقاشی هایش را دوست دارد
مداد رنگی ها راه می روند
عروسک می خندد
دست هایم زیبا بود
...من در چشم های تو زیبا بودم
واژن من گل نمی کند
پرواز کرد
چرا نباید گل های یاسمن سرخ باشند !؟
فریادهایشان با من یکی نیست
اشک هایم را
گل نسترن می خواهم
تا خورشید خندیده باشد
رقص من با خدا
میان آبرنگ ها
در چشم های سیاه درشت مادرم زیباست
من همان یاسمنی هستم
که دیروز در آغوش مادرم بودم
و امروز
زنی که صدای لالایی های پرده های بکارتش را
در گوش های شما نوازش می دهد
جامعه ای را خواهم خواباند
گندم با گندم زار خوابیده است
دختری که سینه های آفتاب نخورده ای دارد
در درخشش آبی ها خواهد مرد
دست هایم به موهای مشکی مردی نخواهد رسید
گل سرخ زیبای یاسمن به آزادی تعلق ندارد
...من توهم آزادی را نخواهم فهمید