This is the new change

This is the change accepted,
that the day is termed shorter by the virtue of being alive,

awake- these are two adjectives that are used
to describe the way you deal with the hurling

of a universe compact in one morning's load
of opening and shutting one's eyes

this is a new self-assurance that there will be
enough time to love, travel, see

there is time, for time
for the coming and the going of the pendulum

there is enough time to receive and give
a lot, a little, a mostly forgotten object-

False kisses like showers,
hailing on a turned out cheek

time to kill, time to discover
lucid concepts without cracking the shells along the way.

A scene at the local bar

The single lady, at the bottom of the bar could have been me-
a loveless child, unmarried to the density of
the time spent for cultivating other chances,
by chatting to the sounds over the drinks
looks twice to her shoulder, once
to the men who could be a comfort.
That won't be me, I say, long after I order my drink
to walk away on my own.

An artist's worry

It feels like there is wind
on the inside, storming away with ideas

that's a start, some other time
it is a ghost burrowing without a white sheet for head

or a faint image, half understood,
mostly blurry, a scent, a half apparition

elements, of outer weather
desires broken by the edges of mirrors

sometimes, gentle breeze,
a sea wave that only carries pearly bellies

or an image of war torn lands,
wasted, wasting, to be wasted

conjugation of verbs,
dysfunctional letters and faces-

quiet arrives when least expected
this is the truth, looked for, not found;
artists are haunted by a worry that is unprecedented
unmatched, forever lingering in exchange for a rosebud.

Soil spilt over

it was wasted, the soil that was meant to be hers,
most of the times metaphors start at land for those
peasants who keep to land
 never venturing out into the seas

why should they, our locals
used to the dust of the mountain,
to the blood spilling from its eye;
the water sources of doe and deer

when someone here dies, in lands not his
abroad, the women lament in black and weep
for the realization of the soil being split over
their body, so foreign. Turab Ghorbeh

A foreign soil, the women repeat,
moving their head, shaking it from left to right
to resist the urge to blame the returner from not returning
I do not nod, he thought that sand and soil are composed
of other bodies, human
is capable of making me silent, foreign or not was the turab, soil. 

Narcissus, not daffodils

In the garden, it rains today
the kind of soft rain that falls gently in the daytime, yet storms with thunder
hail and parts of clouds as you sleep at night,
to make darkness even more uneasy-

in the garden, it rains today
on a batch of unnoticed, bright yellow shoots of daffodils
you ask me to pick up herbs from under the pine tree
Hosolban, you say, rosemary- I hear

for today is not a Sunday but the table will be rich with meats
green shoots on its end, from our garden-
I look at the yellow shoots, touch a past life
with a few months spread out, besides lakes- beneath trees

in the garden, it rains today .
the daffodils fold their heads together
bow down to the heavy drop in their sagging shoulders
still fuming with the smell of spring held in breath inside

I must keep these, you say to yourself
as if you can hold spring in your fingers, keep it for a minute
before releasing the flowers after faint realization
there would be no daffodils in July

You call for the Rosemary in my hand,
I turn and ask when you started growing daffodils in the garden
Narjes, Narcissus, you correct me,
not daffodils, Wordsworth invented and ohh, so strange to this soil-
Narjes, narcissus are white, ones I grew when you were away
calling local flowers by their forgeing names.

The Dos and Dont's of 2016

Say that this is going to be a start, like you do every other year
this is not a letter of negative attitudes toward the life you
are leading now, but rather, a possibility.

Do not call these resolutions, the rash decisions
you make between sleep, wake and drink-
but little deals you have sealed with yourself to be able to be full

with the others; this is the list you made-
Do start to clean up all excess, food,
friends who fail to make you smile when you least expect it

because excess can be a feature, on your skin
behind your eyes-
do look for the balancing point between dusk and day-light

Don't date a narcissist. (scratch that) Don't be a narcissist
it is time consuming, the staring, the selfish demands,
invalid dreaming- so wrapped into the beauty of your face,

your clothes, the smell of your own perfume
there are things that are better used for your time
do keep them close, like  movement

each push leads you forward,
like a cycle on a long haul to freedom
or writing that picks out the depth of you

throwing it to the public. Do not talk to those
who know you best, rather be at peace with the idea
of strangers touching you with the word with a hand

with an extra limb that is not and will never be yours
Don't deal with the start as if it is an extraordinary jump
but do feel with a leg that trudges earth, the flowing rivers bottled inside.

Second hand breath, fizz

The year draws to and end when the smoke rings rise
to make up a whole understanding for the clock ticking slowly
leaving the remain of the firework in the stomach,
this is chills composed with some fizz, with celebration
close a year, like a book, open another
this is your chance to start, something new.