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Meena Menon Sep 2021
Flicker Shimmer Glow

The brightest star can shine even with thick black velvet draped over it.  
Quartz, lime and salt crystals formed a glass ball.
The dark womb held me, warm and soft.  
My mom called my cries when I was born the most sorrowful sound she had ever heard.  
She said she’d never heard a baby make a sound like that.    
I’d open my eyes in low light until the world’s light healed rather than hurt.  
The summer before eighth grade, July 1992,
I watched a shooting star burn by at 100,000 miles per hour as I stood on the balcony  
while my family celebrated my birthday inside.  
It made it into the earth’s atmosphere
but it didn’t look like it was coming down;
I know it didn’t hit the ground but it burned something in the time it was here.  
The glass ball of my life cracked inside.  
Light reflected off the salt crystal cracks.  
I saw the beauty of the light within.  
Nacre from my shell kept those cracks from getting worse,
a wild pearl as defense mechanism.  
In 2001, I quit my job after they melted and poured tar all over my life.  
All summer literature class bathtubs filled with rose hip oil cleaned the tar.  
That fall logic and epistemology classes spewed black ink all over my philosophy
written over ten years then.  
Tar turned to asphalt when I met someone from my old job for a drink in November
and it paved a road for my life that went to the hospital I was in that December
where it sealed the roof on my life
when I was almost murdered there
and in February after meeting her for another drink.  
They lit a fire at the top of the glacier and pushed the burning pile of black coal off the edge,
burnt red, looking like flames falling into the valley.  
While that blazed the side of the cliff something lit an incandescent light.  
The electricity from the metal lightbulb ***** went through wires and heated the filament between until it glowed.  
I began putting more work into emotional balance from things I learned at AA meetings.  
In Spring 2003, the damage that the doctors at the hospital in 2001 had done
made it harder for light to reflect from the cracks in the glass ball.
I’d been eating healthy and trying to get regular exercises since 1994
but in Spring 2003 I began swimming for an hour every morning .  
The water washed the pollution from the burning coals off
And then I escaped in July.  
I moved to London to study English Language and Linguistics.  
I would’ve studied English Language and Literature.  
I did well until Spring 2004 when I thought I was being stalked.  
I thought I was manic.  
I thought I was being stalked.  
I went home and didn’t go back for my exams after spring holiday.  
Because I felt traumatized and couldn’t write poetry anymore,
I used black ink to write my notes for my book on trauma and the Russian Revolution.
I started teaching myself German.  
I stayed healthy.  
In 2005, my parents went to visit my mom’s family in Malaysia for two weeks.
I thought I was being stalked.  
I knew I wasn’t manic.  
I thought I was being stalked.  
I told my parents when they came home.  
They thought I was manic.  
I showed them the shoe prints in the snow of different sizes from the woods to the windows.  
They thought I was manic.  
I was outside of my comfort zone.  
I moved to California. I found light.  
I made light,
the light reflected off the salt crystals I used to heal the violence inflicted on me from then on.  
The light turned the traffic lights to not just green from red
but amber and blue.  
The light turned the car signals left and right.  
The light reflected off of salt crystals, light emitting diodes,
electrical energy turned directly to light,
electroluminescence.  
The electrical currents flowed through,
illuminating.  
Alone in the world, I moved to California in July 2005
but in August  I called the person I escaped in 2003,
the sulfur and nitrogen that I hated.  
He didn’t think I was manic but I never said anything.
I never told him why I asked him to move out to California.  
When his coal seemed like only pollution,
I asked him to leave.  
He threatened me.  
I called the authorities.  
They left me there.
He laughed.  
Then the violence came.  
****:  stabbed and punched, my ****** bruised, purple and swollen.  
The light barely reflected from the glass ball wIth cracks through all the acid rain, smoke and haze.
It would take me half an hour to get my body to do what my mind told it to after.  
My dad told me my mom had her cancer removed.
The next day, the coal said if I wanted him to leave he’d leave.  
I booked his ticket.
I drove him to the airport.  
Black clouds gushed the night before for the first time in months,
the sky clear after the rain.  
He was gone and I was free,
melted glass, heated up and poured—
looked like fire,
looked like the Snow Moon in February
with Mercury in the morning sky.  
I worked through ****.  
I worked to overcome trauma.  
Electricity between touch and love caused acid rain, smoke, haze, and mercury
to light the discharge lamps, streetlights and parking lot lights.
Then I changed the direction of the light waves.  
Like lead glass breaks up the light,
lead from the coal, cleaned and replaced by potassium,
glass cut clearly, refracting the light,
electrolytes,
electrical signals lit through my body,
thick black velvet drapes gone.  





















Lava

I think that someone wrote into some palm leaf a manuscript, a gift, a contract.  
After my parents wedding, while they were still in India,
they found out that my dad’s father and my mom’s grandfather worked for kings administering temples and collecting money for their king from the farmers that worked the rice paddies each king owned.  They both left their homes before they left for college.  
My dad, a son of a brahmin’s son,
grew up in his grandmother’s house.  
His mother was not a Brahmin.  
My mother grew up in Malaysia where she saw the children from the rubber plantation
when she walked to school.  
She doesn’t say what caste she is.  
He went to his father’s house, then college.  
He worked, then went to England, then Canada.  
She went to India then Canada.  
They moved to the United States around Christmas 1978
with my brother while she was pregnant with me.  
My father signed a contract with my mother.  
My parents took ashes and formed rock,
the residue left in brass pots in India,
the rocks, so hot, they turned back to lava miles away before turning back to ash again,
then back to rock,
the lava from a super volcano,
the ash purple and red.  


















Circles on a Moss Covered Volcano

The eruption beatifies the magma.  
It becomes obsidian,
only breaks with a fracture,
smooth circles where it breaks.  

My mom was born on the grass
on a lawn
in a moss covered canyon at the top of a volcanic island.  
My grandfather lived in Malaysia before the Japanese occupied.  
When the volcano erupted,
the lava dried at the ocean into black sand.  
The British allied with the Communist Party of Malaysia—
after they organized.  
After the Americans defeated the Japanese at Pearl Harbor,
the British took over Malaysia again.  
They kept different groups apart claiming they were helping them.  
The black sand had smooth pebbles and sharp rocks.  
Ethnic Malay farmers lived in Kampongs, villages.  
Indians lived on plantations.  
The Chinese lived in towns and urban areas.  
Ethnic Malays wanted independence.
In 1946, after strikes, demonstrations, and boycotts
the British agreed to work with them.  
The predominantly Chinese Communist Party of Malaysia went underground,
guerrilla warfare against the British,
claiming their fight was for independence.  
For the British, that emergency required vast powers
of arrest, detention without trial and deportation to defeat terrorism.  
The Emergency became less unpopular as the terrorism became worse.  
The British were the iron that brought oxygen through my mom’s body.  
She loved riding on her father’s motorcycle with him
by the plantations,
through the Kampongs
and to the city, half an hour away.  
The British left Malaysia independent in 1957
with Malaysian nationalists holding most state and federal government offices.  
As the black sand stretches towards the ocean,
it becomes big stones of dried lava, flat and smooth.  

My mom thought her father and her uncle were subservient to the British.  
She thought all things, all people were equal.  
When her father died when she was 16, 1965,
they moved to India,
my mother,
a foreigner in India, though she’s Indian.  
She loved rock and roll and mini skirts
and didn’t speak the local language.  
On the dried black lava,
it can be hard to know the molten lava flickers underneath there.  
Before the Korean War,
though Britain and the United States wanted
an aggressive resolution
condemning North Korea,
they were happy
that India supported a draft resolution
condemning North Korea
for breach of the peace.  
During the Korean War,
India, supported by Third World and other Commonwealth nations,
opposed United States’ proposals.
They were able to change the U.S. resolution
to include the proposals they wanted
and helped end the war.  
China wanted the respect of Third World nations
and saw the United States as imperialist.  
China thought India was a threat to the Third World
by taking aid from the United States and the Soviets.  
Pakistan could help with that and a seat at the United Nations.  
China wanted Taiwan’s seat at the UN.
My mother went to live with her uncle,
a communist negotiator for a corporation,
in India.  
A poet,
he threw parties and invited other artists, musicians and writers.  
I have the same brown hyperpigmentation at my joints that he had.  
During the day, only the steam from the hot lava can be seen.  
In 1965, Pakistani forces went into Jammu and Kashmir with China’s support.  
China threatened India after India sent its troops in.  
Then they threatened again before sending their troops to the Indian border.  
The United States stopped aid to Pakistan and India.
Pakistan agreed to the UN ceasefire agreement.  
Pakistan helped China get a seat at the UN
and tried to keep the west from escalating in Vietnam.  
The smoldering sound of the lava sizzles underneath the dried lava.  
When West Pakistan refused to allow East Pakistan independence,
violence between Bengalis and Biharis developed into upheaval.  
Bengalis moved to India
and India went into East Pakistan.  
Pakistan surrendered in December 1971.  
East Pakistan became independent Bangladesh

The warm light of the melted lava radiates underneath but burns.  
In 1974, India tested the Smiling Buddha,
a nuclear bomb.  
After Indira Gandhi’s conviction for election fraud in 1973,
Marxist Professor Narayan called for total revolution
and students protested all over India.  
With food shortages, inflation and regional disputes
like Sikh separatists training in Pakistan for an independent Punjab,
peasants and laborers joined the protests.  
Railway strikes stopped the economy.  
In 1975, Indira Gandhi, the Iron Lady,
declared an Emergency,
imprisoning political opponents, restricting freedoms and restricting the press,
claiming threats to national security
because the war with Pakistan had just ended.  
The federal government took over Kerala’s communist dominated government and others.  

My mom could’ve been a dandelion, but she’s more like thistle.  
She has the center that dries and flutters in the wind,
beautiful and silky,
spiny and prickly,
but still fluffy, downy,
A daisy.
They say thistle saved Scotland from the Norse.  
Magma from the volcano explodes
and the streams of magma fly into the air.  
In the late 60s,
the civil rights movement rose
against the state in Northern Ireland
for depriving Catholics
of influence and opportunity.
The Northern Irish police,
Protestant and unionist, anti-catholic,
responded violently to the protests and it got worse.  
In 1969, the British placed Arthur Young,
who had worked at the Federation of Malaya
at the time of their Emergency
at the head of the British military in Northern Ireland.
The British military took control over the police,
a counter insurgency rather than a police force,
crowd control, house searches, interrogation, and street patrols,
use of force against suspects and uncooperative citizens.  
Political crimes were tolerated by Protestants but not Catholics.  
The lava burns the rock off the edge of the volcano.  

On January 30, 1972, ****** Sunday,  
British Army policing killed 13 unarmed protesters
fighting for their rights over their neighborhood,
protesting the internment of suspected nationalists.
That led to protests across Ireland.  
When banana leaves are warmed,
oil from the banana leaves flavors the food.  
My dad flew from Canada to India in February 1972.  
On February 4, my dad met my mom.  
On February 11, 1972,
my dad married my mom.  
They went to Canada,
a quartz singing bowl and a wooden mallet wrapped in suede.  
The rock goes down with the lava, breaking through the rocks as it goes down.  
In March 1972, the British government took over
because they considered the Royal Ulster Police and the Ulster Special Constabulary
to be causing most of the violence.  
The lava blocks and reroutes streams,
melts snow and ice,
flooding.  
Days later, there’s still smoke, red.  
My mom could wear the clothes she liked
without being judged
with my dad in Canada.  
She didn’t like asking my dad for money.
My dad, the copper helping my mother use that iron,
wanted her to go to college and finish her bachelors degree.
She got a job.  
In 1976, the police took over again in Northern Ireland
but they were a paramilitary force—
armored SUVs, bullet proof jackets, combat ready
with the largest computerized surveillance system in the UK,
high powered weapons,
trained in counter insurgency.  
Many people were murdered by the police
and few were held accountable.  
Most of the murdered people were not involved in violence or crime.  
People were arrested under special emergency powers
for interrogation and intelligence gathering.  
People tried were tried in non-jury courts.  
My mom learned Malayalam in India
but didn’t speak well until living with my dad.  
She also learned to cook after getting married.  
Her mother sent her recipes; my dad cooked for her—
turmeric, cumin, coriander, cayenne and green chiles.  
Having lived in different countries,
my mom’s food was exposed to many cultures,
Chinese and French.
Ground rock, minerals and glass
covered the ground
from the ash plume.  
She liked working.  

A volcano erupted for 192 years,
an ice age,
disordered ices, deformed under pressure
and ordered ice crystals, brittle in the ice core records.  
My mother liked working.  
Though Khomeini was in exile by the 1970s in Iran,
more people, working and poor,
turned to him and the ****-i-Ulama for help.
My mom didn’t want kids though my dad did.
She agreed and in 1978 my brother was born.
Iran modernized but agriculture and industry changed so quickly.  
In January 1978, students protested—
censorship, surveillance, harassment, illegal detention and torture.  
Young people and the unemployed joined.  
My parents moved to the United States in December 1978.  
The regime used a lot of violence against the protesters,
and in September 1978 declared martial law in Iran.  
Troops were shooting demonstrators.
In January 1979, the Shah and his family fled.  
On February 11, 1979, my parents’ anniversary,
the Iranian army declared neutrality.  
I was born in July 1979.
The chromium in emeralds and rubies colors them.
My brother was born in May and I was born in July.

Obsidian—
iron, copper and chromium—
isn’t a gas
but it isn’t a crystal;
it’s between the two,
the ordered crystal and the disordered gas.  
They made swords out of obsidian.  





Warm Light Shatters

The eruption beatifies the magma.  
It becomes obsidian,
only breaks with a fracture,
smooth circles where it breaks.  

My dad was born on a large flat rock on the edge of the top
of a hill,
Molasses, sweet and dark, the potent flavor dominates,
His father, the son of a Brahmin,
His mother from a lower caste.
His father’s family wouldn’t touch him,
He grew up in his mother’s mother’s house on a farm.  
I have the same brown hyperpigmentation spot on my right hand that he has.

In 1901, D’Arcy bought a 60 year concession for oil exploration In Iran.
The Iranian government extended it for another 32 years in 1933.
At that time oil was Iran’s “main source of income.”
In 1917’s Balfour Declaration, the British government proclaimed that they favored a national home for the Jews in Palestine and their “best endeavors to facilitate the achievement” of that.

The British police were in charge of policing in the mandate of Palestine.  A lot of the policemen they hired were people who had served in the British army before, during the Irish War for Independence.  
The army tried to stop how violent the police were, police used torture and brutality, some that had been used during the Irish War for Independence, like having prisoners tied to armored cars and locomotives and razing the homes of people in prison or people they thought were related to people thought to be rebels.
The police hired Arab police and Jewish police for lower level policing,
Making local people part of the management.
“Let Arab police beat up Arabs and Jewish police beat up Jews.”

The lava blocks and reroutes streams, melts snow and ice, flooding.
In 1922, there were 83,000 Jews, 71,000 Christians, and 589,000 Muslims.
The League If Nations endorsed the British Mandate.
During an emergency, in the 1930s, British regulations allowed collective punishment, punishing villages for incidents.
Local officers in riots often deserted and also shared intelligence with their own people.
The police often stole, destroyed property, tortured and killed people.  
Arab revolts sapped the police power over Palestinians by 1939.

My father’s mother was from a matrilineal family.
My dad remembers tall men lining up on pay day to respectfully wait for her, 5 feet tall.  
She married again after her husband died.
A manager from a tile factory,
He spoke English so he supervised finances and correspondence.
My dad, a sunflower, loved her: she scared all the workers but exuded warmth to the people she loved.

Obsidian shields people from negative energy.
David Cargill founded the Burmah Oil Co. in 1886.
If there were problems with oil exploration in Burma and Indian government licenses, Persian oil would protect the company.  
In July 1906, many European oil companies, BP, Royal Dutch Shell and others, allied to protect against the American oil company, Standard Oil.
D’Arcy needed money because “Persian oil took three times as long to come on stream as anticipated.”
Burmah Oil Co. began the Anglo-Persian Oil Co. as a subsidiary.
Ninety-seven percent of British Petroleum was owned by Burmah Oil Co.
By 1914, the British government owned 51% of the Anglo-Persian Oil Co.  
Anglo-Persian acquired independence from Burmah Oil and Royal Dutch Shell with two million pounds from the British government.

The lava burns the rock off the edge of the volcano.
In 1942, after the Japanese took Burma,
the British destroyed their refineries before leaving.
The United Nations had to find other sources of oil.
In 1943, Japan built the Burma-Thailand Railroad with forced labor from the Malay peninsula who were mostly from the rubber plantations.

The rock goes down with the lava, breaking through the rocks as it goes down.
In 1945. Japan destroyed their refineries before leaving Burma.
Cargill, Watson and Whigham were on the Burmah Oil Co. Board and then the Anglo Iranian Oil Co. Board.  

In 1936 Palestine, boycotts, work stoppages, and violence against British police officials and soldiers compelled the government to appoint an investigatory commission.  
Leaders of Egypt, Trans Jordan, Syria and Iraq helped end the work stoppages.
The British government had the Peel Commission read letters, memoranda, and petitions and speak with British officials, Jews and Arabs.  
The Commission didn’t believe that Arabs and Jews could live together in a single Jewish state.
Because of administrative and financial difficulties the Colonial Secretary stated that to split Palestine into Arab and Jewish states was impracticable.  
The Commission recommended transitioning 250,000 Arabs and 1500 Jews with British control over their oil pipeline, their naval base and Jerusalem.  
The League of Nations approved.
“It will not remove the grievance nor prevent the recurrence,” Lord Peel stated after.
The Arab uprising was much more militant after Peel.  Thousands of Arabs were wounded, ten thousand were detained.  
In Sykes-Picot and the Husain McMahon agreements, the British promised the Arabs an independent state but they did not keep that promise.  
Representatives from the Arab states rejected the Peel recommendations.
United Nations General Assembly Resolution181 partitioned Palestine into Arab and Jewish states with an international regime for the city of Jerusalem backed by the United States and the Soviet Union.  

The Israeli Yishuv had strong military and intelligence organization —-  
the British recognized that their interest was with the Arabs and abstained from the vote.  
In 1948, Israel declared the establishment of its state.  
Ground rock, minerals, and gas covered the ground from the ash plume.
The Palestinian police force was disbanded and the British gave officers the option of serving in Malaya.

Though Truman, Eisenhower and Kennedy supported snd tried to get Israel to offer the Arabs concessions, it wasn’t a major priority and didn’t always approve of Israel’s plans.
Arabs that had supported the British to end Turkish rule stopped supporting the West.  
Many Palestinians joined left wing groups and violent third world movements.  
Seventy-eight percent of the territory of former Palestine was under Israel’s control.  

My dad left for college in 1957 and lived in an apartment above the United States Information services office.
Because he graduated at the top of his class, he was given a job with the public works department of the government on the electricity board.  
“Once in, you’ll never leave.”
When he wanted a job where he could do real work, his father was upset.
He broke the chains with bells for vespers.
He got a job in Calcutta at Kusum Products and left the government, though it was prestigious to work there.
In the chemical engineering division, one of the projects he worked on was to design a *** distillery, bells controlled by hammers, hammers controlled by a keyboard.
His boss worked in the United Kingdom for. 20 years before the company he worked at, part of Power Gas Corporation, asked him to open a branch in Calcutta.
He opened the branch and convinced an Industrialist to open a company doing the same work with him.  The branch he opened closed after that.  
My dad applied for labor certification to work abroad and was selected.  
His boss wrote a reference letter for my him to the company he left in the UK.  My dad sent it telling the company when he was leaving for the UK.  
The day he left for London, he got the letter they sent in the mail telling him to take the train to Sheffield the next day and someone from the firm would meet him at the station.  
His dad didn’t know he left, he didn’t tell him.
He broke the chains with chimes for schisms.


Anglo-Persian Oil became Anglo-Iranian Oil in 1935.
The British government used oil and Anglo-Persian oil to fight communism, have a stronger relationship with the United States and make the United Kingdom more powerful.  
The National Secularists, the Tudeh, and the Communists wanted to nationalize Iran’s oil and mobilized the Iranian people.
The British feared nationalization in Iran would incite political parties like the Secular Nationalists all over the world.  
In 1947, the Iranian government passed the Single Article Law that “[increased] investment In welfare benefits, health, housing, education, and implementation of Iranianization through substitution of foreigners” at Anglo-Iranian Oil Co.
“Anglo-Iranian Oil Company made more profit in 1950 than it paid to the Iranian government in royalties over the previous half century.”
The Anglo-Iranian Oil Company tried to negotiate a new concession and claimed they’d hire more Iranian people into jobs held by British and people from other nationalities at the company.
Their hospitals had segregated wards.  
On May 1, 1951, the Iranian government passed a bill that nationalized Anglo- Iranian Oil Co.’s holdings.  
During the day, only the steam from the hot lava can be seen.
In August 1953, the Iranian people elected Mossadegh from the Secular Nationalist Party as prime minister.
The British government with the CIA overthrew Mossadegh using the Iranian military after inducing protests and violent demonstrations.  
Anglo-Iranian Oil changed its name to British Petroleum in 1954.
Iranians believe that America destroyed Iran’s “last chance for democracy” and blamed America for Iran’s autocracy, its human rights abuses, and secret police.

The smoldering sound of the lava sizzles underneath the dried lava.  
In 1946, Executive Yuan wanted control over 4 groups of Islands in the South China Sea to have a stronger presence there:  the Paracels, the Spratlys, Macclesfield Bank, and the Pratas.
The French forces in the South China Sea would have been stronger than the Chinese Navy then.
French Naval forces were in the Gulf of Tonkin, U.S. forces were in the Taiwan Strait, the British were in Hong Kong, and the Portuguese were in Macao.
In the 1950s, British snd U.S. oil companies thought there might be oil in the Spratlys.  
By 1957, French presence in the South China Sea was hardly there.  

When the volcano erupted, the lava dried at the ocean into black sand.
By 1954, the Tudeh Party’s communist movement and  intelligence organization had been destroyed.  
Because of the Shah and his government’s westernization policies and disrespectful treatment of the Ulama, Iranians began identifying with the Ulama and Khomeini rather than their government.  
Those people joined with secular movements to overthrow the Shah.  

In 1966, Ne Win seized power from U Nu in Burma.
“Soldiers ruled Burma as soldiers.”
Ne Win thought that western political
Institutions “encouraged divisions.”
Minority groups found foreign support for their separatist goals.
The Karens and the Mons supported U Nu in Bangkok.  


Rare copper, a heavy metal, no alloys,
a rock in groundwater,
conducts electricity and heat.
In 1965, my Dad’s cousin met him at Heathrow, gave him a coat and £10 and brought him to a bed and breakfast across from Charing Cross Station where he’d get the train to Sheffield the next morning.
He took the train and someone met him at the train station.  
At the interview they asked him to design a grandry girder, the main weight bearing steel girder as a test.
Iron in the inner and outer core of the earth,
He’d designed many of those.  
He was hired and lived at the YMCA for 2 1/2 years.  
He took his mother’s family name, Menon, instead of his father’s, Varma.
In 1967, he left for Canada and interviewed at Bechtel before getting hired at Seagrams.  
Iron enables blood to carry oxygen.
His boss recommended him for Dale Carnegie’s leadership training classes and my dad joined the National Instrument Society and became President.
He designed a still In Jamaica,
Ordered all the parts, nuts and bolts,
Had all the parts shipped to Jamaica and made sure they got there.
His boss supervised the construction, installation and commission in Jamaica.
Quartz, heat and fade resistant, though he was an engineer and did the work of an engineer, my dad only had the title, technician so my dad’s boss thought he wasn’t getting paid enough but couldn’t get his boss to offer more than an extra $100/week or the title of engineer; he told my dad he thought he should leave.
In 1969, he got a job at Celanese, which made rayon.
He quit Celanese to work at McGill University and they allowed him to take classes to earn his MBA while working.  

The United States and Israel’s alliance was strong by 1967.
United Nations Security Council Resolution 242 at the end of the Third Arab Israeli War didn’t mention the Palestinians but mentioned the refugee problem.
After 1967, the Palestinians weren’t often mentioned and when mentioned only as terrorists.  
Palestinians’ faith in the “American sponsored peace process” diminished, they felt the world community ignored and neglected them also.
Groups like MAN that stopped expecting anything from Arab regimes began hijacking airplanes.
By 1972, the Palestine Liberation Organization had enough international support to get by the United States’ veto in the United Nations Security Council and Arab League recognition as representative of the Palestinian people.
The Palestinians knew the United States stated its support, as the British had, but they weren’t able to accomplish anything.  
The force Israel exerted in Johnson’s United States policy delivered no equilibrium for the Palestinians.  

In 1969, all political parties submitted to the BSPP, Burma Socialist Programme Party.
Ne Win nationalized banks and oil and deprived minorities of opportunities.
Ne Win became U Nu Win, civilian leader of Burma in 1972 and stopped the active role that U Nu defined for Burma internationally
He put military people in power even when they didn’t have experience which triggered “maldistribution of goods and chronic shortages.”  
Resources were located in areas where separatist minorities had control.

The British presence in the South China Sea ended in 1968.  
The United States left Vietnam in 1974 and China went into the Western Paracels.
The U.S. didn’t intervene and Vietnam took the Spratlys.
China wanted to claim the continental shelf In the central part of the South China Sea and needed the Spratlys.
The United States mostly disregarded the Ulama In Iran and bewildered the Iranian people by not supporting their revolution.

Obsidian—
iron, copper and chromium—
isn’t a gas
but it isn’t a crystal;
it’s between the two,
the ordered crystal and the disordered gas.  
They made swords out of obsidian.


Edelweiss

I laid out in my backyard in my bikini.  
I love the feeling of my body in the sun.  
I’d be dark from the end of spring until winter.
The snow froze my bare feet through winter ,
my skin pale.
American towns in 1984,
Free, below glaciers the sunlight melted the snow,
a sea of green and the edelweiss on the edge of the  limestone,
frosted but still strong.    
When the spring warmed the grass,
the grass warmed my feet. 
The whole field looked cold and white from the glacier but in the meadow,
the bright yellow centers of those flowers float free in the center of the white petals.
The bright yellow center of those edelweiss scared the people my parents ran to America from India to get away from.  
On a sidewalk in Queens, New York in 1991, the men stared and yelled comments at me in short shorts and a fitted top in the summer.  
I grabbed my dad’s arm.

























The Bread and Coconut Butter of Aparigraha

Twelve year old flowerhead,
Marigold, yarrow and nettle,
I’d be all emotion
If not for all my work
From the time I was a teenager.
I got depressed a lot.
I related to people I read about
In my weather balloon,
Grasping, ignorant, and desperate,
But couldn’t relate to other twelve year olds.
After school I read Dali’s autobiography,
Young ****** Autosodomized by Her Own Chastity.
Fresh, green nettle with fresh and dried yarrow for purity.
Dead souls enticed to the altar by orange marigolds,
passion and creativity,
Coax sleep and rouse dreams.
Satellites measure indirectly with wave lengths of light.
My weather balloon measures the lower and middle levels of the atmosphere directly,
Fifty thousand feet high,
Metal rod thermometer,
Slide humidity sensor,
Canister for air pressure.

I enjoy rye bread and cold coconut butter in my weather balloon,
But I want Dali, and all the artists and writers.
Rye grows at high altitudes
But papyrus grows in soil and shallow water,
Strips of papyrus pith shucked from their stems.
When an anchor’s weighed, a ship sails,
But when grounded we sail.
Marigolds, yarrow and nettle,
Flowerhead,
I use the marigold for sleep,
The yarrow for endurance and intensity,
toiling for love and truth,
And the nettle for healing.
Strong rye bread needs equally strong flavors.
By the beginning of high school,
I read a lot of Beat literature
And found Buddhism.
I loved what I read
But I didn’t like some things.
I liked attachment.  
I got to the ground.
Mushrooms grow in dry soil.
Attachment to beauty is Buddha activity.
Not being attached to things I don’t find beautiful is Buddha activity.  
I fried mushrooms in a single layer in oil, fleshy.
I roasted mushrooms at high temperatures in the oven, crisp.
I simmered mushrooms in stock with kombu.
Rye bread with cold coconut butter and cremini mushrooms,
raw, soft and firm.  
Life continues, life changes,
Attachments, losses, mourning and suffering,
But change lures growth.
I find stream beds and wet soil.
I lay the strips of papyrus next to each other.
I cross papyrus strips over the first,
Then wet the crossed papyrus strips,
Press and cement them into a sheet.
I hammer it and dry it in the sun,
With no thought of achievement or self,
Flowerhead,
Hands filled with my past,
Head filled with the future,
Dali, artists poets,
Wishes and desires aligned with nature,
Abundance,
Cocoa, caraway, and molasses.

If I ever really like someone,
I’ll be wearing the dress he chooses,
Fresh green nettle and yarrow, the seeds take two years to grow strong,
Lasting love.
Marigolds steer dead souls from the altar to the afterlife,
Antiseptic, healing wounds,
Soothing sore throats and headaches.
Imperturbable, stable flowerhead,
I empty my mind.
When desires are aligned with nature, desire flows.
Papyrus makes paper and cloth.
Papyrus makes sails.
Charcoal from the ash of pulverized papyrus heals wounds.
Without attachment to the fruit of action
There is continuation of life,
Rye bread and melted coconut butter,
The coconut tree in the coconut butter,
The seed comes from the ground out of nothing,
Naturalness.
It has form.
As the seed grows the seed expresses the tree,
The seed expresses the coconut,
The seed expresses the coconut butter.
Rye bread, large open hollows, chambers,
Immersed in melted coconut butter,
Desire for expansion and creation,
No grasping, not desperate.
When the mind is compassion, the mind is boundless.
Every moment,
only that,
Every moment,
a scythe to the papyrus in the stream bed of the past.  

































Sound on Powdery Blue

Potter’s clay, nymph, plum unplumbed, 1993.
Dahlia, ice, powder, musk and rose,
my source of life emerged in darkness, blackness.
Seashell fragments in the sand,
The glass ball of my life cracked inside,
Light reflected off the salt crystal cracks,
Nacre kept those cracks from getting worse.
Young ****** Autosodomized By Her Own Chastity,
Nymph, I didn’t want to give my body,
Torn, *****, ballgown,
To people who wouldn’t understand me,
Piquant.

Outside on the salt flats,
Aphrodite, goddess of beauty, pleasure and fertility and
Asexual Artemis, goddess of animals, and the hunt,
Mistress of nymphs,
Punish with ruthless savagery.

In my bedroom, blue caribou moss covered rocks, pine, and yew trees,
The heartwood writhes as hurricane gales, twisters and whirlwinds
Contort their bark,
Roots strong in the soil.
Orris root dried in the sun, bulbs like wood.
Dahlia runs to baritone soundbath radio waves.
Light has frequencies,
Violet between blue and invisible ultraviolet,
Flame, slate and flint.
Every night is cold.

Torii gates, pain secured as sacred.
An assignation, frost hardy dahlia and a plangent resonant echo.
High frequency sound waves convert to electrical signals,
Breathe from someone I want,
Silt.
Beam, radiate, ensorcel.
I break the bark,
Sap flows and dries,
Resin seals over the tear.
I distill pine,
Resin and oil for turpentine, a solvent.
Quiver, bemired,
I lead sound into my darkness,
Orris butter resin, sweet and warm,
Hot jam drops on snow drops,
Orange ash on smoke,
Balm on lava,
The problem with cotton candy.

Electrical signals give off radiation or light waves,
The narrow frequency range where
The crest of a radio wave and the crest of a light wave overlap,
Infrared.
Glaciers flow, sunlight melts the upper layers of the snow when strong,
A wet snow avalanche,
A torrent, healing.
Brown sugar and whiskey,
Undulant, lavender.
Pine pitch, crystalline, sticky, rich and golden,
And dried pine rosin polishes glass smooth
Like the smell of powdery orris after years.
Softness, flush, worthy/not worthy,
Rich rays thunder,
Intensify my pulse,
Frenzied red,
Violet between blue and invisible ultraviolet.
Babylon—flutter, glow.
Unquenchable cathartic orris.  

















Pink Graphite

Camellias, winter shrubs,
Their shallow roots grow beneath the spongy caribou moss,
Robins egg blue.
After writing a play with my gifted students program in 1991,
I stopped spending all my free time writing short stories,
But the caribou moss was still soft.

In the cold Arctic of that town,
The evergreen protected the camellias from the afternoon sun and storms.
They branded hardy camellias with a brass molded embossing iron;
I had paper and graphite for my pencils.

After my ninth grade honors English teacher asked us to write poems in 1994,
It began raining.
We lived on an overhang.
A vertical rise to the top of the rock.
The rainstorm caused a metamorphic change in the snowpack,
A wet snow avalanche drifted slowly down the moss covered rock,
The snow already destabilized by exposure to the sunlight.

The avalanche formed lakes,
rock basins washed away with rainwater and melted snow,
Streams dammed by the rocks.  
My pencils washed away in the avalanche,
My clothes heavy and cold.
I wove one side of each warp fiber through the eye of the needle and one side through each slot,
Salves, ointments, serums and tinctures.
I was mining for graphite.
They were mining me,
The only winch, the sound through the water.

A steep staircase to the red Torii gates,
I broke the chains with bells for vespers
And chimes for schisms,
And wove the weft across at right angles to the warp.  

On a rocky ledge at the end of winter,
The pink moon, bitters and body butter,
They tried to get  me to want absinthe,
Wormwood for bitterness and regret.
Heat and pressure formed carbon for flakes of graphite.
Heat and pressure,
I made bitters,
Brandy, grapefruit, chocolate, mandarin rind, tamarind and sugar.
I grounded my feet in the pink moss,
paper dried in one hand,
and graphite for my pencils in the other.  



































Flakes

I don’t let people that put me down be part of my life.  
Gardens and trees,
My shadow sunk in the grass in my yard
As I ate bread, turmeric and lemon.
Carbon crystallizes into graphite flakes.
I write to see well,
Graphite on paper.  
A shadow on rock tiles with a shield, a diamond and a bell
Had me ***** to humiliate me.
Though I don’t let people that put me down near me,
A lot of people putting me down seemed like they were following me,
A platform to jump from
While she had her temple.  

There was a pink door to the platform.
I ate bread with caramelized crusts and
Drank turmeric lemonade
Before I opened that door,
Jumped and
Descended into blankets and feathers.
I found matches and rosin
For turpentine to clean,
Dried plums and licorice.  

In the temple,
In diamonds, leather, wool and silk,
She had her shield and bells,
Drugs and technology,
Thermovision 210 and Minox,
And an offering box where people believed
That if their coins went in
Their wishes would come true.

Hollyhock and smudging charcoal for work,  
Belled,
I ground grain in the mill for the bread I baked for breakfast.
The bells are now communal bells
With a watchtower and a prison,
Her shield, a blowtorch and flux,
Her ex rays, my makeshift records
Because Stalin didn’t like people dancing,
He liked them divebombing.
Impurities in the carbon prevent diamonds from forming,
Measured,
The most hard, the most expensive,
But graphite’s soft delocalized electrons move.  






































OCEAN BED

The loneliness of going to sleep by myself.  
I want a bed that’s high off the ground,
a mattress, an ocean.
I want a crush and that  person in my bed.  
Only that,
a crush in my bed,
an ocean in my bed.  
Just love.  
But I sleep with my thumbs sealed.  
I sleep with my hands, palms up.  
I sleep with my hands at my heart.  
They sear my compassion with their noise.  
They hold their iron over their fire and try to carve their noise into my love,
scored by the violence of voices, dark and lurid,  
but not burned.  
I want a man in my bed.  
When I wake up in an earthquake
I want to be held through the aftershocks.  
I like men,
the waves come in and go out
but the ocean was part of my every day.  
I don’t mind being fetishized in the ocean.  
I ran by the ocean every morning.  
I surfed in the ocean.  
I should’ve gone into the ocean that afternoon at Trestles,
holding my water jugs, kneeling at the edge.  














Morning

I want to fall asleep in the warm arms of a fireman.  
I want to wake up to the smell of coffee in my kitchen.  

Morning—the molten lava in the outer core of the earth embeds the iron from the inner core into the earth’s magnetic field.  
The magnetic field flips.  
The sun, so strong, where it gets through the trees it burns everything but the pine.  
The winds change direction.  
Storms cast lightening and rain.  
Iron conducts solar flares and the heavy wind.  
In that pine forest, I shudder every time I see a speck of light for fear of neon and fluorescents.  The eucalyptus cleanses congestion.  
And Kerouac’s stream ululates, crystal bowl sound baths.  
I follow the sound to the water.  
The stream ends at a bluff with a thin rocky beach below.  
The green water turns black not far from the shore.  
Before diving into the ocean, I eat globe mallow from the trees, stems and leaves, the viscous flesh, red, soft and nutty.  
I distill the pine from one of the tree’s bark and smudge the charcoal over my skin.  

Death, the palo santo’s lit, cleansing negative energy.  
It’s been so long since I’ve smelled a man, woodsmoke, citrus and tobacco.  
Jasmine, plum, lime and tuberose oil on the base of my neck comforts.  
Parabolic chambers heal, sound waves through water travel four times faster.  
The sound of the open sea recalibrates.  
I dissolve into the midnight blue of the ocean.  

I want to fall asleep in the warm arms of a fireman.  
I want to wake up to the smell of coffee in my kitchen.  
I want hot water with coconut oil when I get up.  
We’d lay out on the lawn, surrounded by high trees that block the wind.  
Embers flying through the air won’t land in my yard, on my grass, or near my trees.  





Blue Paper

Haze scatters blue light on a planet.  
Frought women, livid, made into peonies by Aphrodites that caught their men flirting and blamed the women, flushed red.
and blamed the women, flushed red.
Frought women, livid, chrysanthemums, dimmed until the end of the season, exchanged and retained like property.  
Blue women enter along the sides of her red Torii gates, belayed, branded and belled, a plangent sound.  
By candles, colored lights and dried flowers she’s sitting inside on a concrete floor, punctures and ruin burnished with paper, making burnt lime from lime mortar.  
Glass ***** on the ceiling, she moves the beads of a Palestinian glass bead bracelet she holds in her hands.  
She bends light to make shadows against  thin wooden slats curbed along the wall, and straight across the ceiling.
A metier, she makes tinctures, juniper berries and cotton *****.
Loamy soil in the center of the room,
A hawthorn tree stands alone,
A gateway for fairies.
large stones at the base protecting,
It’s branches a barrier.  
It’s leaves and shoots make bread and cheese.
It’s berries, red skin and yellow flesh, make jam.
Green bamboo stakes for the peonies when they whither from the weight of their petals.
And lime in the soil.  
She adds wood chips to the burnt lime in the kiln,
Unrolled paper, spools, and wire hanging.
Wood prayer beads connect her to the earth,
The tassels on the end of the beads connect her to spirit, to higher truth.
Minerals, marine mud and warm basins of seawater on a flower covered desk.  
She adds slaked lime to the burnt lime and wood chips.  
The lime converts to paper,
Trauma victims speak,
Light through butterfly wings.  
She’s plumeria with curved petals, thick, holding water
This is what I have written of my book.  I’ll be changing where the poems with the historical research go.  There are four more of those and nine of the other poems.
A rose in the high garden that you desire.
A wheel in the pure syntax of steel.
The mountain stripped of impressionist mist.
Greys looking out from the last balustrades.

Modern painters in their black studios,
Sever the square root's sterilized flower.
In the Seine's flood an iceberg of marble
freezes the windows and scatters the ivy.

Man treads the paved streets firmly.
Crystals hide from reflections' magic.
Government has closed the perfume shops.
The machine beats out its binary rhythm.

An absence of forests, screens and brows
Wanders the roof-tiles of ancient houses.
The air polishes its prism on the sea
and the horizon looms like a vast aqueduct.

Marines ignorant of wine and half-light,
decapitate sirens on seas of lead.
Night, black statue of prudence, holds
the moon's round mirror in her hand.

A desire for form and limit conquers us.
Here comes the man who sees with a yellow ruler.
Venus is a white still life
and the butterfly collectors flee.

Cadaqués, the fulcrum of water and hill,
lifts flights of steps and hides seashells.
Wooden flutes pacify the air.
An old god of the woods gives children fruit.

Her fishermen slumber, dreamless, on sand.
On the deep, a rose serves as their compass.
The ****** horizon of wounded hankerchiefs,
unties the vast crystals of fish and moon.

A hard diadem of white brigantines
wreathes bitter brows and hair of sand.
The sirens convince, but fail to beguile,
and appear if we show a glass of fresh water.

Oh Salvador Dalí, of the olive voice!
I don't praise your imperfect adolescent brush
or your pigments that circle those of your age,
I salute your yearning for bounded eternity.

Healthy soul, you live on fresh marble.
You flee the dark wood of improbable forms.
Your fantasy reaches as far as your hands,
and you savor the sea's sonnet at your window.

The world holds dull half-light and disorder,
in the foreground humanity frequents.
But now the stars, concealing landscapes,
mark out the perfect scheme of their courses.

The flow of time forms pools, gains order,
in the measured forms of age upon age.
And conquered Death, trembling, takes refuge
in the straightended circle of the present moment.

Taking your palette, its wing holds a bullet-hole,
you summon the light that revives the olive-tree.
Broad light of Minverva, builder of scaffolding,
with no room for dream and its inexact flower.

You summon the light that rests on the brow,
not reaching the mouth or the heart of man.
Light feared by the trailing vines of Bacchus,
and the blind force driving the falling water.

You do well to place warning flags
on the dark frontier that shines with night.
As a painter you don't wish your forms softened
by the shifting cotton of unforeseen  clouds.

The fish in its bowl and the bird in its cage.
You refuse to invent them in sea or in air.
You stylize or copy once you have seen,
with your honest eyes, their smal agile bodies.

You love a matter defined and exact,
where the lichen cannot set up its camp.
You love architecture built on the absent,
admitting the banner merely in jest.

The steel compass speaks its short flexible verse.
Now unknown islands deny the sphere.
The straight line speaks of its upward fight
and learned crystals sing their geometry.

Yet the rose too in the garden where you live.
Ever the rose, ever, our north and south!
Calm, intense like an eyeless staute,
blind to the underground struggle it causes.

Pure rose that frees from artifice, sketches,
and opens for us the slight wings of a smile
(Pinned butterfly that muses in flight.)
Rose of pure balance not seeking pain.
Ever the rose!

Oh Salvador Dalí of the olive voice!
I speak of what you and your paintings tell me.
I don't praise your imperfect adolescent brush,
but I sing the firm aim of your arrows.

I sing your sweet battle of Catalan lights,
you love of what might be explained.
I sing your heart astronomical, tender,
a deck of French cards, and never wounded.

I sing longing for statues, sought without rest,
your fear of emotions that wait in the street.
I sing the tiny sea-siren who sings to you
riding a bicycle of corals and conches.

But above all I sing a shared thought
that joins us in the dark and the golden hours.
It is not Art, this light that blinds our eyes.
Rather it is love, friendship, the clashing of swords.

Rather than the picture you patiently trace,
it's the breast of Theresa, she of insomniac skin,
the tight curls of Mathilde the ungrateful,
our friendship a board-game brightly painted.

May the tracks of fingers in blood on gld
stripe the heart of eternal Catalonia.
May stars like fists without falcons shine on you,
while your art and your life burst into flower.

Don't watch the water-clock with membranous wings,
nor the harsh scythe of the allegories.
Forever clothe and bare your brush in the air
before the sea peopled with boats and sailors.
It's the colour of little flowers in a field

It's the colour of the old easter dress in the back of my closet

It's the colour of princess sneakers most four year old girls stomp to get the little lights to flash

It's the colour of innocent dreams kept by six year olds

It's the colour of the marker I wrote this with

It's the colour that I used to say was my favorite, but can't anymore

It's the colour of my two favorite nail polishes that I always ruin as I paint it

It's the colour that I put on my cheeks to show more happiness because I can't show enough

It's the colour I feel when I twirl in a dress and the
skirts fly up around my knees

It's the colour I wish I could be, young, innocent, stupid, carefree, laughing with friends on the play ground on a spring day, getting small flowers from the boy in my first grade class, who says he likes when I wear my princess light up shoes

It's a colour I want to call "ME"

It's the colour that surrounds my mind when all I can think about is something that I thought was cute

It's the colour behind my eyes when stories that I want to write keep my mind from shutting down and sleeping

It's not the colour that graces my lips during the day, but in the morning when the day is fresh and I have yet to see the world

It's not the colour I wish to be, it's the colour i'm going to strive to be

Pink cheeks, Pink light up shoes, Pink skirts, Pink drawings on the walls, Pink flowers in a field of green, Pink dreams, Pink nails I always ruin, Pink markers and crayons, Pink hair I had before everything went down hill

Pink was the colour of my innocence and i'm going to get it back
Jade --
Stone of the side,
The antagonized

Side of green Adam, I
Smile, cross-legged,
Enigmatical,

Shifting my clarities.
So valuable!
How the sun polishes this shoulder!

And should
The moon, my
Indefatigable cousin

Rise, with her cancerous pallors,
Dragging trees --
Little bushy polyps,

Little nets,
My visibilities hide.
I gleam like a mirror.

At this facet the bridegroom arrives
Lord of the mirrors!
It is himself he guides

In among these silk
Screens, these rustling appurtenances.
I breathe, and the mouth

Veil stirs its curtain
My eye
Veil is

A concatenation of rainbows.
I am his.
Even in his

Absence, I
Revolve in my
Sheath of impossibles,

Priceless and quiet
Among these parrakeets, macaws!
O chatterers

Attendants of the eyelash!
I shall unloose
One feather, like the peacock.

Attendants of the lip!
I shall unloose
One note

Shattering
The chandelier
Of air that all day flies

Its crystals
A million ignorants.
Attendants!

Attendants!
And at his next step
I shall unloose

I shall unloose --
From the small jeweled
Doll he guards like a heart --

The lioness,
The shriek in the bath,
The cloak of holes.
decompoetry Oct 2010
The drums of life
beat rapidly,
as the Nymph polishes
her red velvet knife.

The black hearted army
of gargoyles
sharpen their nails
on the outlines of Hell.

Rumbling like a lion’s roar,
black clouds of trouble
float their way,
to this brand new day.

Lightning crashes
to the ground,
marking the sound
of War on Earth.

The grass ruptures,
lava erupts,
following a flow
of the Devil’s corrupt.

Our winged savior
swoops among the hordes
of cruel intentions,
studying their battle behavior.

Searching for a hole,
a flaw,
a way to erase
every last one of them all.

Quickly she sees
an opening
of flight,
and thus begins the Fight,

The blade
slices through
the leader’s masquerade.
Nothing evil is allowed to stay.

Wishing stars
crash from the world above,
flaming the trees
like God’s cigar.

The arrow of hydrogen
rips through
the monster’s face,
as done by a true ace.

The Nymph is knocked back
from the recoil
of the
imploding gargoyle.

Soaring through
a flaming forest,
unable to stop
and unlikely to drop.

Speed decreases,
falling increases,
wings inoperative,
laws of flight uncooperative.

A splash
as a little
angel lands
in the river.

The current
carries her along
to the waterfall
of endurance,

of imagination,
portals zapping
to any chosen
time location.

**

Eyes open,
here we are,
strange thunders
cracking from afar.

Men in green
uniforms and hats,
shocked and appalled,
wondering what the **** is that.

But not in her
native tongue,
Что трахание является этим
it more likely rung.

Broken from this daze of
Beautifulness,
they open fire on this pure
piece of mythology.

A shred
in her wing,
knocked down,
she cannot let this swing,

A glow of ominous
green mist
conjures in her palm;
our Nymph is quite ******.

A flick of the wrist,
the soldiers freeze
like stone, in fear,
as their souls tear

apart,
like a sheet
of paper:
incomplete.

**

The Nymph
walks this
newfound Earth
of mysteries and fallen lymph,

searching for
her own kind,
the ones she
had left behind.

A journey
that never ends;
everyday begins
like the day before.

The drums of life
beat slowly
as the Nymph polishes
her red velvet knife.

Off in the distance,
it isn’t clear.
Is it near?
She holds her breath,

and awaits the Elephant of Death.
you are essentially an object to me.

no one dare invent words that pick and **** and litter our ears
with shards of doubt, dismissive declarations.

the victorious are those who cover their ears and screen their eyes from
someone else's misery: bruised knuckles and a wall that wouldn't budge.

but all I see is a woman crumpled on the floor, her pride
posed like a crow on a branch in the open window frame,
mocking her failing strength and shattered resolve;
someone's fist tingles with accomplishment
for putting that Thing in her place,
close to her true place,
on the shelf
she dusts and polishes fastidiously,
lest he call her out on her "half-assed attempt,"

no one dare invent words

that limit little girls to the plastic boxes
for their plastic dolls
with plastic smiles.

when the seed grows buds,
that become flourishing leaves on a solid stem,
reaching up, up, up
can they see me yet?*
but all they want is the fruit.
She left me in a hurry,
with no word of her return
so I sit and wait, in longing,
keep her treasures safe, and yearn

for her face to gaze upon me,
as she fettles her dear skin,
with the pots of creams and lotions
I keep for her, within

my rose-lined drawers and cupboards,
the little blue glass bird
with wedding rings upon his beak
I asked, he hasn’t heard

of when our lady may be back
to grace us with her care,
her brushes sit with us and fret
of the tangles in her hair

and all lack of gloss and shine
finger tips cannot bestow
within her titian crowning,
oh! Where did she go?

Days slip by unhindered,
and merging seasons pass,
without her song or laughter
reflected in my glass.

I may as well be firewood,
my veneer begins to crack,
then, hark! I hear sweet footsteps!
My mistress has come back!

Her wedding rings rehomed at last,
the bird and I rejoice,
as she brushes out her hair and sings,
for we have missed her voice.

She polishes away the cracks,
takes a seat upon her throne,
rearranging pots and lotions,
I’m so glad that she came home.
tdudleyesquire Jan 2014
He seeks truth in places of no good.
He flies high in places where others stood
Still he cries tears of perpetual sense.
A chameleon
his outer vesture cloaks his identity.

Unyielding
He plants his foot in the dirt.
Tangled vines tie his toes
contrasting his poetic prose.
Left dangling in the temptress spider lily's web
the noose tightens
as the old boy sings.

A fist with two thumbs
he raises like a martian.
Strangers illegibly write him
off.

A Jekyllish laugh
empties the mucus from his lungs.
Eons of inhaling senseless knowledge
he finds a second breathe to speak.
Words slice the web of lies
spinning silk into impenetrable pride.

Raw and uncut
his diction polishes diamonds
before were only rust.

He wakens every morning
Anew defiant face.
Contradicting himself
a joke
he cackles everyday.
The children who say he's changed
are correct.
But the chameleon found his true colors
somewhere between the lines
of white and black.
Akhil Bhadwal Nov 2015
Like some wind, she roams freely
Polishes dusty stones, among which I'm truly
A free bird, wanders in the vast blue sky
"She will halt eventually", it seems a lie
Like Enshrined Enchantress Now All

An admirer of beauty, and indeed a beauty herself
Infatuation, eventually develops
Those beautiful eyes and the irregular smile
Occupies my imagination, every once in a while
Love Eternal Enroute November Amazon

Words were never, and won't ever be enough
Soon the weather will come, one that of sneeze and sniff
Though seemed, it wasn't so
The love was, is, and will always be true
Life Endures Empowered Nota-Bene All
Praise of love.... Rhyme scheme is a a b b c.
i have a little budgie and i call him tweet
he his very tidy and keeps cage so neat
he his very fussy  and dosent like a mess
anything he spills puts him in distress
he his always busy. cleaning when he can
it his fun to watch this house proud little man
he polishes his mirror till it gets a sheen
a house proud little budgie i have never seen
r Jul 2014
Her eyes speak
the truest words
never uttered
They tell of the ocean
on a lonely shore
Of salt marsh days
and windswept dunes
And love among the ruins
Her habit worn
vow unbroken to the night
She smiles a wanton wish
of summer days
and a fair young boy
among the glades
She sighs
her dreams away
and polishes again
the bare stone floor.

r ~ 7/28/14
\¥/\
  |      suspiros de monja
/ \
martin Jan 2015
Once I lov'd a bonie lass,
Ay, and I love her still;
And whilst that virtue warms my breast,
I'll love my handsome Nell.

As bonie lasses I hae seen,
And mony full as braw;
But, for a modest gracefu' mein,
The like I never saw.

A bonie lass, I will confess,
Is pleasant to the e'e;
But, without some better qualities,
She's no a lass for me.

But Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet,
And what is best of a',
Her reputation is complete,
And fair without a flaw.

She dresses aye sae clean and neat,
Both decent and genteel;
And then there's something in her gait
Gars ony dress look weel.

A gaudy dress and gentle air
May slightly touch the heart;
But it's innocence and modesty
That polishes the dart.

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me,
'Tis this enchants my soul;
For absolutely in my breast
She reigns without control.
for Burns night
At the stroke of five o’ clock
The crew begins to trickle in the door for
Josie’s Slumber Party.
Hand cut finger sandwiches adorn
The chestnut coffee table already brimming
With nail polishes and eyeshadows
In hues of peacock blue and bubblegum pink
And temptress scarlet red. The girls
Romp around the room like ballerinas
Dressed in everything from soccer shorts to
Mama’s high heels. Two sizes too big.
Practically ladies as they gloss their lips but
Girlish giggles and squeals reveal their
Youth: Age ten; age eleven; age twelve.
And in the middle of this fine affair
Polished nails are used to pick at teeth;
Makeup adheres to bangs, braids and ponytails.
Bare hands brush through the knotted hair of
Any and All. Beauty  – of course – is collective, yet
Dignified.


As if to call the girls over, lure them in so painfully slow,
The sprinklers awaken on the front lawn and spill forth
Waterfalls of childhood memories. Running barefoot
during the searing summer dusk. The girls are under
The Spell. Feather boa and lipstick at hand, they make
A mad dash for the lawn. The squeals are louder, more
Vibrant than before. With grass stains on their gowns
and water re-tangling their freshly styled hair, these
Ladies could not be any more proper.
brandon nagley May 2015
A bouquet hung in afterhour pantry,
A bell to ring the starved noise,
Two spirit's gathering extraterrestrial information,
A stairway chalked by toys!!!

A damp moistness to bleed out ourn Laugh's,
No docteretic sources,
Just serene gleams of minds alike inbathed!!!

Abundance of sizziling swelter,
Bogged heavy in due rain heat,
A voisterous composition,
The crow polishes ourn two's feet!!

I tasteth her plum need,
She gravels our toes,
Fulminations children breed,
In translucent clear clothes!!!

We wither in feathered juiciness,
Where fences are none to find,
Wherein camera's we make to shiver,
We break back's on massage oil chyme!

She reaches over to take mine fears,
She maketh me a warmsome bed,
Different valley's in singular astronomical view,
Both alive, yet so dead!!

Ourn peritonium's hunch in closer,
As ourn cartilage gets renaissance,
Were two alike, a Shakespherian Poe poster,
A darkness and light of Dupont!!!

Puzzles with missing pieces,
Though we ourn selves fill the gaps,
Where none can enter between us,
For ourn chapters are ammophilously wrapped!!!
Mahin Das Feb 2017
'*****' , 'how much for the night' yelled people
But to him these words meant nothing
As he looked to the woman on his right
Whose face was grim , hit with the pebbles of hate people threw at her
He held her hand tight
She looked up and nodded
He fell in love with her mind
He was her only hope to find love
When these lifeless phantoms drained the life out of her
When the chains of society tied her hands and dragged her down
When an avalanche of disgust mauled her 
She remembered him , she escaped with him
She did not choose this path , she was forced,
she was put down with her head in the guillotine
He loved her , he found the woman no one saw, 
He polishes shoes in the day while she earns in the night
Still love blossomed in an uncanny, unforgotten way
Cheating the perception of so called society
Their future was black as the , congested lanes of some taboo town
Yet they didn't care, he loved her
And she loved him back
She was named a ******* by the civilization
And he , a *******'s lover.
K Balachandran Nov 2018
A gothic drama
Night enacts; its taut dark plot,
Lone moon polishes!
Atlas Rover Jan 2014
During the dark hours of cold night,
During the bright hours of unforgiving light,
I turn in sleep, restless and unbound to peace,
Edging away from a dream,
As Ships edge away from the safety of land into stormy seas.
And then it hits me, the mace of my memories,
The memory spike ravages, savages,
Pierces deep, deep down.
Crushes tears, and the crimson blood of my soul,
Is defiled by the salt of her tears.

Yet not today.
Today passion reigns deep in my marrow,
The f lames chastising all pain.
The heavenly fire seeps throughout each and every vein,
With each beat, my heart is once again ablaze.
It is feral and wild, the urge to create,
Which started even before the creation of time.

It rules my daily movements,
It dictates the terms.
Of my descent, of my descent into hell.
I am a mundane guy for this term I serve on earth,
A sucker for sunsets and sunrises, full moons, azure lakes, pretty beings of the fair *** and a lot many simple things.
If only anyone knew how much I love,
Cotton candy, pretty eyes, doughnuts and symmetry.

It seems for this tenure on earth,
Cupid is my fabled foe.
He sets me up for failure,
Polishes the mace of memories,
Again and again.
But it is like Krishna said.
Times of sorrow are forgotten in times of greater sorrow or joy.
I always get lost in fiery sensuous moments,  
I taste raw-things making it harder not to succumb to lustful-whims.
I relish thoughts about carnal sin, dream about intimacy between intertwined-bodies,
Yet I am composed.
I can hide those intimate thoughts,
And smile a little smile which makes me die a little on the inside.
I dare not get too close.
For it is like Dante said.
There is no greater sorrow
Than to recall a happy time
When miserable.
Alysia Marie May 2018
She lingers,
She speaks-
She sings in my mind.
For she polishes these windows,
My eyes-
How divine.

Yet sometimes I’m a puppet,
Her precious marionette.
At times I want to cower,
Wish only to forget.

For those words she speaks freely,
Cage me up like a bird.
Making me feel less of a human,
A soul-
How absurd!

Yet even though I’m aware of this poison that she spews-
Sending chills to my bones,
Leaving me internally confused.

For I’m aware of her games,
Yet I’m completely content-
With knowing the consequences,
Still I don’t repent.

Yes, it’s killing me slowly,
Forcing myself not to breath.
Figuratively and relatively-
Casting my body out to flee.

For the porcelain in my sight,
Calls my name like a god.
My body’s screaming for mercy,
In and instant-
She applauds.

Released and freed,
She whispers in my ears.
Slowly and surely,
But she’s housing all of my fears.

For this voice that sang sweetly,
Praising me for the days-
Of vacancy of my body,
Turns my mind into a maze.

See her words create hallways,
One intertwining with the last-
Of memories from my present,
Being guilted by my past.

Leaving me feeling so helpless,
So alone-
So afraid.

But that same voice brings be comfort,
Satisfaction-
For all of those days.

Yes it’s confusing in a sense,
Perhaps even to the eye.
But for me this is a daily,
A struggle of the mind.

See my body is strong,
Yet I feel internally weak.
For these words that I’m writing,
My lips can hardly speak.


                     Alysia Marie 2018 ©
It’s been quite some time since I’ve posted on here, struggles come and go in waves and I hope that all can grow into a better being/version of themselves. For beauty in this world surrounds us, even if we don’t see it within the walls of our own mind.
Wrenderlust Oct 2013
Disillusioned by the open market,
he polishes his glasses and stretches,
running a hand through hair made artistic
by the blunt scissors of the philosophy major
who lives downstairs. It was a trade,
he tells me. Short back and sides for a batch
of macadamia nut cookies. Barter economy.
He mutters about measured value,
divides a piece of paper, and breaks a pencil
while forcing the verses of quarter sheet poems,
recounting the night he stole four sponges
from a craft supply store in town,
a drunken ****-you to the establishment-
but also, he admits, it was late and
he had to do the dishes.
If you want to see how big the world is,
he says, take off your belt. Now
tighten it to the usual hole, put it down,
and look. You are a speck of dust on
the wineglass of human existence.
Don't let it get to you. You are smaller and better
than you think. Another quarter sheet finished,
he slumps back on the defeated sofa
and reads me Desiderata, putting on airs,
grappling with devotions to poke holes in certainty
just as I do now to the worn leather strap,
shrinking my claim to the wineglass with each punch
of the silver awl, and after years, still waiting
for the clink of his belt buckle,
the moment when, humbled,
he remembers he is only
a child of the universe.
Many rocks.
Small and large.
Rough and smooth.
Sandy and hard.
Multicoloured and plain.
Are spun around for days
inside the revolving bin.
Until all impurities are
worked out of them.
The process is long
but it has a glorious outcome.
For the rocks emerge
polished and shiny.
As treasures they've become.
"The hardest rocks come out the shiniest,"
says the craftsman.
And I think of Christ the Cornerstone.
And His wise discipline.
Like the rocks,
He may turn us with force,
and the process may be long.
With trials threatening to drown.
While He refines His own.
He must use what is necessary,
to cleanse us of our heart's impurities.
Then He polishes us
and turns us into gems of beauty.
And the hardest stones among those that are His,
come out the most beautifully polished.

I fall on my knees as I consider His ways.
And I pray...
"Lord, refine me.  Cleanse me of my impurities.
Polish me. As hard a stone as I can be.  And
turn me into a gem of beauty. For Your glory."

He gently picks me up.
And places me inside the revolving bin...
SophiaAtlas Apr 2020
A long time after bedtime
When it's very late
When even dogs dream
And there's deep sleep
Breathing through the house

When the doors are locked
And the curtains drawn
And the shops are dark
And the last train's gone
And there's no more traffic in the street
Because everyone's asleep
Then....

The window cleaner comes
To the main shop fronts
And polishes the glass
In the street-lit dark

And a big truck rumbles past
On it's way to the dump
Loaded with the last
Of the day's trash

On the twentieth floor
Of the office tower
There's a lighted window
And high up there
Another night cleaner's
Vacuuming the floor
Working nights on her own
While her children sleep at home

And down in the dome of the observatory
The astronomer who's waited all day for the dark
Is watching the good black sky at last
For stars and moons
And spikes of light
Through her telescope
In the middle of the night
While everybody sleeps

At the bakery
The bakers in their floury clothes
Mix dough in machines
For tomorrow's loaves of bread

And out by the gate
Rows of parked vans sit
For their drivers to come
And take newly baked
Bread to the shops
For the time when the
Bread eaters wake

Across the town at the hospital
Where the nurses watch in the dim-lit wards
Someone very old shuts their eyes
And dies
Breathes their very last breath
On their very last night

Yet not very far away on another floor
After months of waiting
A new baby's born
And the mother and father
Hold the baby and smile
And the baby looks up
And the world's just begun
But still, everybody sleeps

Now through the silent station
Past the empty shops
And the office towers
Past the sleeping streets
And the hospital
A train with no windows
Goes rattling by

And inside the train the sorters sift
Urgent letters and packets on the late night shift
So tomorrow's mail will arrive in time
At the towns and villages down the line

And the mother
With the wakeful child in her arms
Walking up and down
And up and down
And up and down
The room
Hears the train as it passes by
And the cats in the yard
And the night owl's flight
And hums hushabye hushabye
We should sleep now
You and I
It's late and time to close your eyes

It's the middle of the night.
I hope i was able to make you visualize everything iv'e written here :)
i have a little budgie and i call him tweet
he his very tidy and keeps cage so neat.

he his very fussy  and dosent like a mess
anything he spills puts him in distress.

he his always busy. cleaning when he can
it his fun to watch this house proud little man.

he polishes his mirror till it gets a sheen
a house proud little budgie i have never seen
Moments like this
Are when I wish I had my Polaroid
An infinite moment to make me think
"This would make a beautiful photograph"
(The photographer's curse, darling),

I'm content to just let this moment be, though
Though at the same time, my mind's eye strains to see
What this would be:
We're glossed with sweat and crowned with messy hair
My teeshirt's too big; my legs are bare
My ******* poke taut in the cool, still air
Copper tumbles onto your shoulder as I sit beside
Tilt my head, and lay to rest

The sunlight glances and polishes your halo
Your dark gaze watches out of the window
Dust motes illuminate, suspended around your face;
I fancy that it's fairy-magic
Although you're not the hero of some story - but, maybe mine?
With the roll in your caress that's passed to my palm

I stare into the little gilded world with you
Stealing a little glance at your bare chest,
The elastic of your boxers clinging over tight hips -
Just need to remind myself that it's real
Picture perfect, but this perfection is real
Take the roach to my lips
Take a minute to appreciate this
Inhale, exhale
This moment is infinite

The smoke twists away slowly
My mind's eye sees how beautiful it would be
In gentle-focus monochrome...
Then, I let the notion go
I act so naturally, but in my head I know
This next motion is picture-perfect

My white fingers are slim
Hand not quite steady; I tremble from our workout
Not moving from your shoulder,
I reach around the cocked neck of your guitar:
Just relax, and let time slow
Hear the peaceful tune flow from your skilled hand
I press the roll to your mouth
The crackle of burning embers dances with the string notes
Smoke streams out as I lift it away
And there -

In that split second as I begin to move,
There the Polaroid would have clicked and immobilised;
This moment so high in too hot a day
Picture perfect in my mind's blue eyes
Terry Collett Jan 2013
Susie polishes the silver.
She hates polishing the
forks, the bits in between,
the stink of the cleanser.

She’d rather be in bed
with Polly in the attic.
Holding her close, feeling
her body next to hers.

The cold weather offers
a good excuse. Polly’d
say, get off me you queer
***, otherwise. She rubs

the cloth over the prongs,
the stink making her feel
nauseous. Dudman, the
butler will be along soon.

He’ll snoop up close to her,
look over her shoulder;
press his body next to hers.
Maids are as nothing, he

often said, pressing his
finger into her back, or
pinching her ****. She holds
her breath as long as she

can; the stink is getting to her.
She thinks back to the night
before, Polly’s nightgown
against her flesh, her smell

invading her nose, spooning
close. She recalls the moon
in the skylight, captured like
a painting, the stars spread

like ***** on a dark cloth.
Mrs Gripe the cook called her
a lazy cow over breakfast,
the fat ***** staring at her

with her cow like eyes. She
rubs between prongs, eases
along the handle. She’d love to
shove the fork into Dudman’s

****; push it in with all her
might.  Soon the bell would
ring, someone would want
morning tea upstairs. She

breathes out, puts down
the fork, picks out a spoon
and begins the cleaning again,
thinking of Polly, her fingers

caressing the spoon’s end,
imagining ******* along
Polly’s waist, moving her
thumb into the indentation,

sensing her body move, that
weird overriding sensation.
John Ryles Oct 2012
In the cupboard there is a box
That used to belong to Dad
He showed me it's secrets
When I was just a lad

It was full of polish
In brightly coloured tins
With a deep smell of wax
When you opened up the lid

To keep the leather healthy
And really looking good
You need to polish regularly
This I soon understood

One brush to put it on
Another to polish to a shine
Keep the colours separate
And they will always look fine

I can see my father sitting
On his three legged stool
With his little box of polishes
He used before I went to school

Now father and stool
Have long since gone
But the lessons I learned
Were simply second to none
Lily Sep 2020
Waves cleave the cliffs
The birds ride the wind
The night fills the soul
I cleave to you

The sand polishes the toes
***** tango in the sand
Stars perform ballet in the black
The fire sparks against the stillness

Waves cleave the cliffs
The birds ride the wind
The night fills the soul
I cleave to you
another product of my English class
Arfah Afaqi Zia Aug 2015
Light shades,
Dark shades,
What am i to wear?

Lipstick, mascara,
Base and nail polish,
Mom in the back ground says, ' You're going to college.'

**** !
I need a new bag,
Also a liner by Mac.

Maybelline polishes,
All stacked,
So many colours,
But not black.

I need to apply Revlon,
As much as i can put on,
Making my lashes prominant.

5th Avenue, Still and Elizebeth Arden,
I want to wear them all,
' Oh no, i don't ' says my conscience,
But then again they're scents and my heart wants them.

Unzipping my wallet,
' No ', i have not much.
Making the puppy dog face,
' Mom ! Can i get money to buy a base ? '

She nodded.
' Also i want perfume, liner, mascara and a nail polish. '
She gives me a look.
' Go get your money and spend them on it.'

But i have no money,
I say,
She says,' Get a job and buy all of it.'
Like a baby i sob.

She ignores,
Looking all bored,
So she knows,
I'm acting emotional then why not scold
Lucy Tonic Nov 2011
You say you're a hustler
And you got it made
And you made your bed
But you refuse to lie in it
Street's the education
I say look up all the ways
Your nation made you a slave
You threw away the tie-dyes
And picked up a gun
But it's one and the same
It's one and the same
You're playing politician
Minus the wife
As the in-crowd polishes
Their gold incisors
And it's not the same
You're one and the same
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Pocket knives, tape measures.
An extensive collection of coins.

Nails, screws, numerous sizes, and sets
of nail clippers, files, polishes and brushes.

Shoes, always shoes. And dresses.
Shirts and ties. Loud and quiet.

The sick and the dead are forever quiet,
never quite quiet. Our solicitude's unnecessary.

Playing cards, backgammon games,
chess. Every move's a variation on the next.

And so it is with words, numbers,
shapes and sizes. Feet and hands,

knees and eyes. Why and where and how won't matter
once we've divided the bags of clothes

among the poor and destitute. It's not too hard
to laugh too hard. The son and daughter deliver them

and then go home. Letters, wallets, clocks and watches.
Photographs in which the name and face don't match.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Shahrukh Zamir May 2014
We began as two lost souls floating in the air,
unwarily aware waiting to be united,
who could or would ever stop to think,
that I’d be the one to spend your entire life with,

A beautiful piece of flesh, heaven scented
God graced with a beauty that sparked,
strings on her eyelashes reciting melodies
to which became the song to our hearts,

She polishes my skin with her cottoned touch,
Drenched in delicacy ,softened with lost love,
Our lips bonded together like street riots,
echoing strong yet calm enough to seal my lips quiet,

Our eyes gaze ever last without once becoming sore,
I am not the man of your dreams wishing woman,
Yet you’re everything I dream t for,

And you know that I know that you know,
that I know that we both know this is true,
by the looks of you I fear your expectations
I lie down asking myself what I can offer you,

What would someone with so much soul and prestige
be doing loving and spending her whole life with me,
In all honestly, my life with you I visualized it,
God sent you here for me, the feeling I can't describe it,

Waves splash of matched personalities,
we dived and drowned in the ocean of chemistry,
your clutched hands rubber band my destiny,
cliche it seems, yet I truly believe that you were meant for me,

I daydream about you while typing Z's in my speech bubble,
wondrous, anxious, joyful, for we fit in place like a perfect puzzle,
imperfect I lie, yet perfect through your eyes to see,
eager to share with you my love that's deeper than eternity,

Deaf to knowing inside your heart is where our future lied,
a God gifted life from the skies who was made to be my wife ,
my burning heart lit with love for that only yearns for she,
eternally knowing that her loves shared with no one but me.

-Shahrukh Zamir c)2013
Jamesb Dec 2023
Girls and ladies dream
Of and desire
A knight in shining armour,
Gallantry and bravery to
Sweep them from their feet
To a happily ever after,

But take it from
One who knows,
No knight that ever fought
For his lady
Had her back,
Has armour shining pure,

It takes sacrifice and
Mental melee - sometimes brutal
To maintain love in this desperate
War called life,
And no man did a hard day's work
Nor fought in war and

Came away unscathed and undirtied,
A true knight's armour,
Though burnished as best may be
And glittering in the sun
Has dents and gouges absent
In a woman's dreams,

Every mistake every failure
Shows in his history and
Cannot be polished out
But that he polishes what remains
Is testament to a true heart,
And a man worth keeping
This examines the difference between the dream women sell themselves (or is it us) and the reality of good men the world over
Lucy Tonic Nov 2011
You say you're a hustler
And you got it made
And you made your bed
But you refuse to lie in it
Street's the education
I say look up all the ways
Your nation made you a slave
You threw away the tie-dyes
And picked up a gun
But it's one and the same
It's one and the same
You're playing politician
Minus the wife
As the in-crowd polishes
Their gold incisors
And it's not the same
You're one and the same
Jennifer Kelmar Dec 2011
A midnight daydream could not match my prolonged slumber,
but the ice cold grin of isolation prohibits my resistance
and such theology burns crisp justifications into my hands.
Golden locks of hair surround the frayed edges of a rug
conversing ideas and mocking the unscripted door I stand on.
So I fabricated a tasteless disposition
to leak through a thousand inconspicuous sermons
that lean against me like a pile of corpses.
Without a single whisper, I abandoned all but a faulty quest
which holds me like a rotting prisoner
between the contrived confessions of a minister
who is required to dress into the eligible axiom,
so he repairs his scattered dependence in the light of day
and polishes the scruffs of his boots with the blessed liquid of God.
But I required none but the shimmer of this crescent
which produced this aberrant midnight daydream.
Maniacal Escape Jul 2020
Tuck into your suit and power.
Stand tall amongst dwarves.
The ditsy mistress polishes the pleather
Fake sheen, fake ****.
Fake smiles, fake gits.
Cheesy grins all round,
Lap up that cheeky cheddar cheese.
Now onto desert.
Hush now, the calm breeze whispered,
And ripples twirled on the stagnant sea.
The surviving boat stands in the mist.
So does a traveler on it.
Almost a shadow,
A mere existence of wanderlust,
There is only one God,
He repeats under his breath,
Like a mantra,
As it slowly polishes his rusted heart.

The sun lost its horizon
And dives in the heart of-
A lover.
Leaving darkness with hope.

The traveler knows,
His soul was made for prayer.
That the eternal bliss waits
With light and freedom.

O’ beloved, you are not just a dust in this universe.
For we all may be made out of soil,
The lord still takes you as his friend.

Death-is an inevitable sweet escape.
That was told.
An open secret,
Known to all
Yet, he is alone.
Rest has ran away from their graves,
Even if the sky formed celestial waves,
They won’t be saved.



My signs lie in your silence,
When you utter a word.
I flow like the stream,
Of your solid dreams.
Know me, my lover,
For I am near.
Nearer than your jugular veins
If only you felt me.



All the fallen stars in this ocean
Now knows what is within him.
The boat that keeps him afloat
Understands its companion
Lives with insanity
For no one talks in his sleep
So passionately.


Everything is alive,
Living and breathing
With your heartbeat
A constant hint-
Trying to capture your senses,
For your love is its only desire.
She looked at her pier-glass
Nail polishes drying
With half open lids
Her toes were colored once may be
You can get it from the toes
Green
Or pink
I don't know
Maybe red
She cried in her look
What happened to her womanly freshness?!
That says I'm beautiful
I know a woman
Who wears mustache
Do not make fun of her
Where is her womanly freshness?!
That says she is beautiful
That cut her hair
Blue scarves turned black
She cried in her look
Her tears reaching her lips
Starring at the corner
Pink colors were coming
Turning to deer
Green colors were going
Laughing
It had dolphins
It had blue color...
My bin
still has a clockwork doll
Handless
With green eyes
In her white gossamer dress still
singing
Dancing
Still happy
She can be happy
She can fall in love
With other clockwork dolls that sing
That were kids...
What if
I fall in love in the streets
With stared eyes
I will say hello to the passengers
When the trees
Make love too
What if I love you on the same
street with no address
It is said the laughter of maniacs is beautiful
It has simplicity
I have worn my childhood clothes
I'm mad...
She grew up
She dosen't know the walls
She has no mother
And waits to possess a pass anger
Do not make fun of her
Her womanly freshness...
It is said
I don't write poems

میز توالت اش را نگاه می کرد
لاک هایی با دری نیمه باز
که خشک می شدند
شاید می شد از ناخن پایش فهمید
زمانی رنگ داشتند
سبز
...یا صورتی
نمی دانم
...قرمز
در نگاهش گریست
طراوت زنانه اش کو!؟
که می گویند من زیبایم
زنی را می شناسم
سیبیل می گذارد
مسخره اش نکنید
طراوت زنانه اش کو!؟
که می گویند زیباست
که موهایش را بریدند
روسری هایی آبی
مشکی می شوند
در نگاهش گریست
اشک هایش تا گوشه ی لبش می رسیدند
به کنج دیوار که زل می زد
صورتی ها می آمدند
آهو می شدند
سبز ها می رفتند
می خندیدند
دلفین داشت
...آبی داشت
صندوقچه ی من
عروسک کوکی ای را دارد
بی دست
با یک چشم سبز
در لباس سفید توردارش
هنوز می خواند
می رقصد
شاد است
می تواند شاد باشد
عاشق شود
عاشق عروسک های کوکی دیگری
...که آواز خواندند
...بچه بودند
چه می شود که اگر
در کوچه ها عاشق شوم
چشمانم خیره باشد
سلام رهگذری را پاسخ خواهم گفت
وقتی درختان هم
هم آغوشی دارند
چه می شود که اگر
در همان کوچه ای که چشم ها
خوابیده اند
نامم را می پرسی
عاشق تو باشم
نشانی ندارد
که می گویند
خنده های دیوانگان زیباست
سادگی دارد
من
لباس کودکی هایم را
به تن کرده ام
دیوانه ام
بزرگ شد
دیوارها را نمی شناسد
مادر ندارد
و منتظر می ماند
تا رهگذری را مال خود کند
مسخره اش نکنید
...طراوت زنانه اش
که می گویند من شعر نمی گویم
re-post

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