"shiraz" poems
I felt like a backpacker that night.
I think it was the katydids.
At home it’s the frogs,
all shouting over each other, but somehow
finding a rhythm.
But here,
a pulse presses into me in my sleep
and I roll over to face the seething embers.
I know I’ve drawn things out with X,
but this is what narcissism means to me:
stoking the embers each time.
Tonight I am a backpacker
on the west side of a mountain.
Having slept through the sunset,
now I’m lying awake—
sleepless and small—
as ants find their way across my skin.
If they’re not sleeping, they must be working—
long jaunts between brief naps—
while the queen sleeps.
When I’m home,
I’ll close my windows and,
drown these embers in dry reds—
shiraz and merlot—
and sleep like the queen for once.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 5:53 PM UTC
Wild child space travel gypsy
drunk on the cosmos
churning a sensual pattern--
melting suns
with a carefree wink
as stars pour into her eyes
like a garnet shiraz
spiraling
in tidal waves
splashing in a crystal wine glass
caressing
her white light lips.
Planets dip and dangle around her hips
as the weight of the nebulous nectar whispers
lullabies to her eyes
as her incandescent hair contours
to copious glistening constellations
rippling across her tired body
like ice dripping on a warm chest
vibrating indigo moonlight jazz
enrapturing millions with her simple act of symphonic yawning
as the dusk light dawning over faces
embraces souls stirring--
her purring hip cat dreams
leave people like us with mouths agape
as her voluptuousness nape hushes
us with a supernova explosion of peace
oscillating between
each of our spirits.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
last night was spent with my five friends;
my five best friends in the whole wide world.
their names are Cabernet,
Pinot,
Merlot,
Bordeaux
and Shiraz.
they are always there when I need them;
they relax me
and soothe me.
they help me through my problems,
dull my pain,
and help me sleep at night.
they will never ignore me,
avoid me,
desert me,
deceive me,
lie to me
or steal from me.
we were all together late last night,
my five friends and I.
when we started the night,
they were full of body
and color.
before I knew it,
four of my five friends
were gone.
the only one left
was Merlot.
it was late
and I was tired.
they’re good at that,
my five friends.
they’re good at
making me feel tired
and sleepy.
they’re good at playing tricks on me too.
“how do you feel?” asked Merlot.
“I feel good,” I replied.
“well,” said Merlot,
“just wait until morning…”
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
Pinot this and pinot that
This young Grenache is a trifle flat
Better to try and get along
With a slightly older Sauvignon
I sometimes get a trifle low
When dabbling in a cheap Merlot
And so to scare the blues away
Will sip a spendy Chardonnay
But to avoid real ennui
Drink super Oregon Pinot Gris
And let’s be quite awfully frank
That’s much better than Chenin Blanc
But while you sort out your Pinot
Give a break to Grignolino
It’s good, but not the same as
A bold and cheeky Oz Shiraz
And if you want to go very far
Don’t ignore local Pinot Noir
It always sells well on the block
And I wonder who likes Marechal Foch
As I was supping a cute Barbera
At a certain State affaira
Things got quickly very highbrow
When someone mentioned Muller Thurgau
It is no lack of vinous respect
That makes us scorn the best Malbec
And can you find me a single fan
Of that very odd vine, Carignan?
If one must go to a grapey hell
There’s good company in Zinfandel
But if we really must go
Could we have some Nebbiolo?
In the end we all agree
Any wine is better free
But if not free we’ll surely call
Any wine beats none at all!
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
all i see now are the silent ruin
of words teeming with wisdom
in every trail. you are gleaming
in the moony boondocks,
Ibabá remembers you as you were -
timeless and ruminative,
pursuing the source of rivers.
our sublime versifier,
the crucifixes now tremble without
the fullness of your flesh.
each page is turned without
the hover of your voice yet
stills its resonant message in my mind's premises like redolent graffiti.
striding river-pace,
once in moonlit Orfeo
graced by your sibilant being,
leaving only the strongest of impression
on the surly couch, a toppled glass
of Shiraz remembering your attendance
leaving the clamor of the audiences
real to touch, elusive in thought.
before the war was the ever-present word, and after the fray was
the armistice of the Sun where in
humdrum Sampiro, your fire's genealogy
is in the hands of the muse!
idly go the hours, wading everlong past
Calle Herrán - the bells of Paco Church
tell in this imperfect hour
the roads where you once traversed,
travailed and perhaps beer-maddened,
putting a face in the metaphysical!
in your banquet i partake
the wisdom of your wine
and the reason of your flesh -
the gods delight in you,
o, Manila of all Manila.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 2:05 AM UTC
I'm hurt
I'm hurt
I'm hurt
I'm hurt
Because I just realized
You were hurt
By someone that didn't deserve you
By someone that didn't respect you
By someone that didn't see your beauty
By someone that didn't appreciate you
All your grandeur, he didn't see
And that was your cue
I'm hurt because
When you were hurt
The only way you saw healing
Was by masking your hurt
Not caring who you gave yourself to...
What you gave of yourself
To all that fitted the shoe
So you stacked them up
In the hideous name of "not catching feelings"
You let them do as they wish
Touch you as they saw fit
I'm not saying there is one without blemish
But how can this pass without anguish
When one is truly supposed to love you
To see a queen live like a peasant.
And not cry to sleep in anguish,
When they're in awe of the queen within.
So many have grappled
On this emerald
That you became numb.
Can you even feel that?
My warm hand on your heart.
You say it was about keeping Her happy
How true is that?
How happy was Kylie?
How long did you keep her happy for?
How long did your satisfaction last for?
He dug a hole
You tried to fill it with sinking sand
Now whoever dares to tread
Is actually walking on a thin thread
Slowly slipping
Into the hole you didn't make whole
You sing "men are trash"
As if they are the ones you didn't give Kylie to.
I'm sorry if this is coming off too harsh
Because I want to love Kylie too.
But you gave her away
Turned a blind eye
Put conviction in your reason,
Camouflaged the tears,
Like putting sunglasses on blind eyes.
You sing "men are trash"
"Men ain't ****
Yes, we make the lyrics
But sometimes women play the instruments
And this, some horrific genre
That we play on social media...
And parties
That we enjoy
With a little bit of intoxication
We enjoy the band play
With a few likes and DMs
We enjoy the band play
You sing "men are trash",
You tell me I'm trash.
When all I'm here for is to love you,
To truly love you of a few.
Not for a motel night's crash
But for a home.
Not for a bottle and some musical trash
But for some Shiraz, soulful indie music and romantic dancing in the dark.
Not to take advantage of Kylie
But to love her too.
You tried to heal
But you didn't.
And I see your beauty
I appreciate you
I respect you...
I see how special you are
How magnificent your mind and soul are.
Your glimmering smile
Your astronomical eyes
All that grandeur,
I see it.
I relish it.
I'm hurt
Because you're still hurt.
I feel like I'm sinking
And you're watching me
Like it's fine because this is the farthest anyone has come in this sinking sand
I want to love you.
I'm trying to love you.
But the hurt you let define you.
Is now veiling what I harbour for you
I'm hurt
Because I want you to stop hurting.
And to help you
I must help myself...
So that I can lift this veil.
For together we can take control of the helm;
Enabling what is meant to be,
Be.
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 10:44 AM UTC
"236 miles into the Atlantic.." the captain crackles,
I find the foils of snow and sand here,
dust and ridges etched ashore on Andes
mountain tops and the way
the wind seduces the elements to dance only
for her to laugh and slap down.
The escargot and garlic alligator
shift, below in crates. The drunken
feet stumble to the jazz of the
ocean and the timbre of the coconut ***
on their way to the formal dinner promised
in this passage of escape. They saunter
but the ocean's sighs harmonize with her laughter.
"At night the opal blue sinks beneath black
but," she says, "I still see the jovial mist's blue dance."
So we toast with Shiraz and join the drunken
music with our drunken neighbors, souls drunk
and eyes feasting on oil candles and neon CARNIVAL
shot glasses that aid us, the broke, to run harder
into the night and away from the damnation of land.
I, you all, know that is what this is,
what vacations, rest, water, Advil, sunscreen
all promise and whisper and ****** until
they force your feet to dance so they
can laugh as they slap you down ashore,
awake, thirsty, throbbing, burnt into the reality
you left for the past five glorious days.
Ah, and glory- you see?
The majesty of the waves and allure
of purple and green fade when compared,
remember? Nature is symmetry and
the depravity of pain pales in comparison
to the glory of salvation. Look to the sea,
see where Christ walked.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 10:51 PM UTC
A Sufi Cowboy
rides an incandescent star
gliding to the ground
pouring light like a shiraz
into his heart, he drinks bliss.
A Heavy Metal
Buddhist slamdances beyond
the shadow tree glades
nourishing the grass with tears--
her crying mediation.
Their eyes connecting
to echoed crystal heartbeats
of their higher selves.
He strikes a match across air,
flame kisses the dangling zoot.
Their eyes hold the gaze.
A mellifluous voice glows
from her, singing odes
of buzzing deja vu jazz
and gamboling dragon flies.
Cowboy & Buddhist
decide to share a few drinks
in the Cosmic Bar.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 8:13 PM UTC
He is ancient steadfast
I am sure he was here when the world was created
I am sure he will be here when it ends
His gentle face carved with hard lines
He poured forth knowledge in his native Persian tongue
He called me Shohre
I learned it was his sister's name
He looked at me like a granddaughter and treated me just as sweet
“Ghabl az enghalab...”
Before the revolution...
After which would follow painful reminiscing of
The days before the current regime
When wine bubbled out from Shiraz
Men and women danced late into the night
And soft voices wove love songs in street cafes
“Ghabl az enghalab moalem dar daneshgah boodam.”
Before the revolution I was a university professor.
“Yeki az daneshjooyanam Ahmedinejad bood.”
One of my students was Ahmedinejad.
And in English, clear as hate,
“He was a *******
One night I stayed back for extra lessons
We ate cherries from Costco and
Read excerpts from his autobiography
Pages crafted from right to left, vignettes of
His military service in Mashhad
And consequent teaching career
“Ba'ad az enghalab...”
After the revolution...
Was always followed with war stories
Political dissidents lost to Evin prison
Sharia law imposed on moderate minds
Escaping Iran by night with a phony visa
“Ba'ad az enghalab dar ketabkhane bayad kar konam”
After the revolution I had to work in the library.
“Khoastam yad bedahm, pas man o zanam be Amrika raftim.”
I wanted to teach, so my wife and I came to America.
He has not been home since 1981.
On December third of 2009 he walked smugly into the classroom
Setting a tape player happily on a desk.
He opened a folder from right to left
Produced a well-worn cassette
And played Happy Birthday, in Persian, for me.
He smiled at me with hands folded throughout the song
As I’d imagine he had smiled at
All the other special women in his life named Shohre.
He never played Happy Birthday for any of the other students.
Or gave them cherries,
Or went to their weddings,
Or held them while they cried when their grandfather died.
I do not know what he saw in me
But in each other we found family years and miles away from home.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
Father, I saw you last night
In a twilight dream you strolled through the streets of Shiraz,
followed by a fluttering butterfly
Passed the mosques and minarets,
turquoise blue and blood red
The cypress trees and poets' beds wept for you -
and their tears dropped like pomegranate seeds on the dry desert sand.
Father, I saw you yesterday
In a dusk-lit dream you walked through the streets of Baltimore,
followed by a fluttering butterfly
Passed the Hopkins dome and Ravens' home,
steamed crab orange and Oriole black
The patients in hospital beds cried to you -
and their tears fell flat on the soft O.C. sand.
Dear friend, Baba,
Aman, Vafa
We see you every day in an azalea's bloom
You live on in each grandchild's heart
You give our lives hope
In the early spring sun and the late autumn moon,
you breathe again
In your Akhtar's sweet smile, in Taraneh's kind style,
your heart beats again.
Father, I felt you last night
In a deep, dark dream you spoke to me
and with an angel's hands, dried my tears for me
Then hugged me with great joy,
and I read you this poem -
To my father
From his boy.
-Arman Taheri (7/10/2010)
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
I Ran
She had this hedonistic Houdini nature,
She escaped from Shiraz,
Her personal Alcatraz,
She laughed as I asked;
How did you escape?
"I Ran" she said "I Ran"
She was particularly Persian,
Beautiful soul,
Perfect prose,
stunning, gorgeous,
My dreams came true,
As we ran the gauntlet between our acquaintances judgemental glare.
She walked through the door,
With shallow breath and a panting chest;
Windswept hair.
Late.
How did you get here I asked?
"I Ran"
She came so far,
To say I was her King.
Her shy Shah,
She said.
The concept of this,
Flew over my head,
As I asked where she was from,
she paused for a second
&
told me she came from Iran.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 6:23 AM UTC
Dogfish thunderheads whisper in Seagrove skies
after a dinner of Shiraz and shrimp with peppercorn skids
that filled me warm and these clouds echoing
in the water seem dark without the children
and their crab lights searching the shores
the foam crests roar upon day burnt toes
and I sit and I watch and I write
these words in a strained attempt to capture
Dads margarita redness and Moms new haven beauty.
Sister and I observe on this, mayhaps last trip
as a family lacking a bay, but we are full joyed:
we are contented in sandy sheets.
We are one, for this week, whole
and it is good.
Lord, it is good.
On Jordan's stormy banks we stand
Through the love of God our savior all will be well.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
You sip through your Shiraz
and spill it
on the white leather seat of
my sofa
Your laughter echoes down
the hall
the walls find it contagious
but my brain
my brain
my brain pulses with anger
bursting to the surface
of my skin
back and forth
back and forth
down the hall
I get the stain remover
and finally enter the family room
and you're not there
no one is
and neither is the stain
I remember I'm alone
wishing these things
a big
white
empty house
wishing to get angry
with meaningless
stains
and you're never there
where are you
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 1:16 AM UTC
as far as frontiers go, there is the mind, the oceans and
there is space,
as far as points on a compass, there are four, then eight
and there are sixteen,
Of three hundred and sixty. On Earth.
Take your compass to the ocean deep,
leave it there and let the pressure creep
inside for if the needle points right
it will be a miracle, a crushing miracle.
Antares. The first time heard I this name
it was on the self-same Star Trek. Logic
escapes me right now, for logic escaped
us all, when he left.
Antares. A bottle of Shiraz from Chile,
would you raise a glass of anything tonight
and wish one another to "live long and
prosper"
Antares. Fill a portion of space, look close
no, you won't see his face, nor even the
face of God. Some mysteries still need
logic to solve. Even through a four finger "V"
Antares. Meet me there bring your glass
and a telescope, a star chart and the dvd
pack of every episode, we will set the
table and a place for every crew member
and remember
to leave one for the science officer, Spock.
Turn the lights low and with
the remote control just hit play
and stare out to space, sublime
one final frontier, one final time.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
You said save the Damsel,
but she's in no distress
I'm selfishly half dressed and less
awake than my clothes expect me to be
You said woo her with poetry,
but I'm out of back-of-receipts and torn off edges
I'm tired, and the shiraz has got to me
it started tunnelling through hollowed veins hours back
You said she'll be gone with the dew
leaving nothing but drops on your lips
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 2:03 PM UTC
One sip of thee sent giddy all our senses,
Thy soft bouquet hung sweetly on the tongue,
Full-bodied ripeness broke down our defenses
To leave us addicts stuck on thee lifelong.
Wine is a friend when wine is freely flowing,
Yet all who raise a glass and toast a cheer
Know days will come when all their pours are slowing
And even finest wines must have their year.
Take thee a rested breath unto that meadow,
Be free and eased to ponder o'er that stream
Gleaming with gold and silver, wending below
That shimmered crossing wrought of heaven's scheme.
Until we meet once more at rainbow's end,
Farewell to thee our lifetime treasured friend.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 8:30 PM UTC
While she's pouring the red wine
I am cutting the onions.
Some hot olive oil and a hot pan
and there's your sweet smell.
She hands me my wine glass
And I take a big sip.
1995 Elderton Shiraz.
What a wine!
Un-fuckin-believable!
I drop some veal into the pan.
And some finely chopped garlic.
And some thyme.
I turn the meat over.
A few drops of white wine
And I tilt the pan.
The meat catches fire.
So does my sleeve.
She's screaming
From the top of her lungs.
I'm raising my hand
To calm her down.
But instead
I'm watching the flames
Turn my arm into a
Charred
And smoky
Mess.
A few days later
I am back home.
She's gone.
Thank god.
As I enter the kitchen
I see the pan.
It's still there.
Too bad my arm is wrapped
In Bandage.
I would love to cook me a steak.
Charred.
And Smoky.
The way it's supposed to be.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
with lips stained from cheap shiraz
a creak is forcefully spread
your heart isn’t made of topaz
and water is not all you tread
with lungs burnt from red cigarettes
you gasp for air with so much difficulty
with feelings that remain uncertain
you crave to be of a different entity
oh but with a broken heart
that desperately yearns to be repaired
my love, you can’t think straight
much less have time to regret
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 6:06 AM UTC
.
Shiraz
Shiraz Shira
Shiraz S h iraz
iraz Shiraz Shir
Shiraz Shiraz
Shiraz Shiraz
. Shiraz Shiraz
Shiraz Shiraz
Shiraz Shiraz
Shiraz Shiraz
Shiraz Shiraz
Shiraz Shiraz
Shiraz Shiraz
Shiraz Shiraz
Shiraz Shiraz
Shiraz Shiraz Shiraz Shiraz
Shiraz Shiraz S hiraz Shiraz Sh
Shiraz Shiraz Shiraz Shiraz
Shiraz Shiraz
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
there sits Father Time
drinking a 50 year old scotch,
neat.
His compatriots
Sister Life and her Brother Death
sit close by,
the Sister sipping *** on the Beach
while Brother blows bubbles in his Shiraz.
All served at the cosmic bar by The Great Spirit
nursing a big 'ol Long Island Iced Tea.
I'm thinking of creating my next masterpiece,
Brother Death said.
"Maybe this time, don't use a bucket of paint for just one blade of grass,"
Father Time chuckled.
Sister Life spun around
and round on her spinny stool for several decades
until she hopped up atop the bar, proclaiming in French,
I don't make the best hexadecimal frittatas in the seventh dimension for nothing!
Suddenly all brought their glasses together in a supernova clink
as they cheered
"May we continue to move forwards in the trajectory to wherever the hell we're going!"
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
If I was to describe her poetically
She's role her eyes and frown
She's to the point, explains phonetically
Always planned, with details written down.
The first to arrive at the party,
and lone behold, last to leave
Her buzz down to shiraz partly
But mainly her free spirit, or so I believe
Never one to hold herself back,
She'll sing, dance and chat to all,
And manages to keep her dignity intact.
Forget the belle, she rocks the ball.
Yet in her I confide
Catching me whenever I fall.
I feel there is no secret to hide,
As she has raised me to stand tall.
Over my 15 years I've learned
We are very much alike each other
And only one thing makes me concerned,
Prematurely, I've turned into my mother!
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
I dream of Glasgow’s neon glow,
Of splashing lights on trees and snow.
I dream of Stockholm’s wintry air,
The way its snowflakes kiss your hair.
I dream of dinners at Amsterdam:
A glass of Shiraz, some prosciutto ham.
I dream of places, somewhere far
Where sunlight’s kept inside a jar.
Where nights are long and winters reign,
And the cold, cold silence speaks your name.
Speaks your name.
Your name.
Your
Name.
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 7:48 AM UTC
and she lies
with her burgundy thoughts
an overpowering wine
sweet grape
tickling the throat
so raw from the gasping
as her head tilts back
farther and farther
a sip becomes a gulp
and a gulp becomes too much
as all through her mouth
in her skin
behind her eyes
she is consumed in wine
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 5:20 PM UTC
the occurrences I recall in the next twenty-nine lines
of this very poem could be true.
But then again, they could
also be false.
---
I was enjoying myself
at a friends wedding
sipping shiraz diligently dancing
until a man with long
pale hair and a thin tie
with crooked teeth
Pulls a knife.
I run. Far.
Until he caught up to me
in the freezer section of supermarket.
I freeze, he approaches and
I hit him in the head with a hubcap.
---
My mother mourns over a half-eaten ham
Easter afternoon.
Why do we even ******* try anymore?
I sit silent as my father
sets off a verbal alarm about the mashed potatoes.
His feet take root in the yard
and hold on stubbornly
like the dying fir.
---
The sweltering simmer of
a shower’s steamy embrace seduces me.
I dry off in the confines of
the white sterile tile room
A thousand people bellow around
my naked body,
walls quiver with the pressure
of air,
still as it ever was.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC