I love my notebook so much
My mom sewing Jasmine petals
My skirt dancing...
Why the home stories are not being published ?!
My poet may rhyme


من دفترم را خیلی دوست دارم
مامانم
گل برگ های یاسمن را به هم می دوزد
...دامنم می رقصد
چرا هیچوقت قصه های خانگی
در روزنامه ها چاپ نمی شوند
شاعر من
شعر بگوید

This prison is a place where darkness only breeds
and the shadows dance with themselves,
playing tricks on my eyes, darting quickly across the walls
only to vanish upon my focused gaze.

I once caught a glimpse of these hypnotic specters;
cruel machinations of tortured souls revealed themselves
to be nothing more than corrupted reflections of myself
wandering aimlessly through a hall of mirrors.

These rooms were once traversable,
but now this maze is more twisted than my own intentions;
unheeded, unnoticed and smiling, like a knife in the dark
waiting for an opportunity to quell any ambitions
that may lead to freedom.

Undress your heart and let me in
I want to love you deeper than the blue sea
I want you to feel vulnerable and free
I want to hold you deep in my heart
I want to become one flesh in the spirit with you
I want to show you how deep love goes
So undress your heart and I will cover like clothes.
I want to swim deep in your heart, then rest on the shore of your soul.
Take me deeper.

Ocean waves lapping the shore.
Everything faded out leaving only the crash tsssshhhhhh of the waves nullified in the sand.
Drowned in the rhythmic arrangement.

Coconut trees in the distance rubbing leaves like the supporting instruments on this beach orchestra.

And then there was you.
And me.

With only the moon over head.

A scant twenty years,
  grieved a century or more

Poetically perfect,
  in spirit and lore

A man and his horse,
  out riding the range

The cattle his instruments,
   and music to play

Civil War veterans and blacks
  from the South

Through dust and dark clouds,
—snowy blizzards that mount

Together they battled,
  in concert they fought

Each unto himself,
  life’s harmony caught

The hardship and death,
   to him worth the price

Pushing always ahead,
  his past now contrite
  
The only thing telling,
  to be left at the end

Was the legend he gave us,
  —and the message it sends

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)