Into the mist!

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@thewornoutsoles
Into the mist!
Dusk
The tender branch sways low
From the load of the crow’s falsetto.
Sun sets behind the cirrus clouds.
Wonder I do where the swallows go.
Sound of Music
Voice, rolling velvet.
Debating world trade matters,
The only blemish.
Epitaph
No movement in departing
No rest was in staying behind.
Branches follow the roots yet
This tattling breeze
Had no secrets to share
Worthy of the leaves.
My love’s maiden is an estranged mother,
As a hasting star
Eternally runs
On a melancholic orb.
May Day
Frolics on the sidewalks,
Glistening with remnants of the night’s lights,
- melancholic brew -
Freed, light, a wide
Smile on her face,
As though eternity was born
Right here in the Magnificent Mile
Just for her to eschew.
Where are you going?
She cannot tell.
After
The hairdryer breaks through
An otherwise bright morn.
Never mind the noise for the
Eminent flight of white doves.
Spring
From a balcony afar
overlooking the mulberry slopes
with sunshine and breeze on one palm
tar of the night poised on the other,
from her vernal omniscience of an eternal equinox,
she need not open
her honey eyes to watch.
Step
after
dreadful
steady
step,
pause
after gasp,
I do not need to look back to know,
I feel
the tiny weight of her gaze
on my back
from a balcony afar,
a blackstone of an armchair on a balcony afar,
overlooking the green of the mulberry slopes,
out into the yellow, the grey, the blue, onto the white.
She will not leave the balcony as long
as I have not crossed
the mountains I dread -
a black dot
in a Brownian motion on the sea of white,
dreading the cross of the passage
of seasons.
You, rain clouds of forever! Weep!
Drain
your endless tears
over the sheepish daffodils
of this melancholic spring
and those to come,
for this year
“no flower would bemuse,
no wine would I peruse.”
Stamps
Several hundred of them
a few older than me
some older than the others
some just older-looking
most worth pennies if even that
all waiting
inside fading covers of an old crowded disintegrating collectors book
hiding behind glass doors of an IKEA cabinet,
dark cherry.
Signs
of a vast,
calm,
lonely,
inwardly
world
of being ten.
What will happen to my library, I asked on SMS,
after I pass.
Silence is a virtue
of the millennium.
gathering tears drown
the sparkle shining all day.
departure time nears.
Translation of one of Shaumlu’s several poems titled “Love Song”, from the 70’s.
“Seek solace in solitude for only woes loom upon souls entwined.”
دلا خو کن به تنهایی که از تن ها بلا خیزد
Rumi (رومی)
The Settling
Absence of presence morphing into frost bitten presence of absence.
Will Be Awaiting You
Will be awaiting you. At night,
…
When shadows dim in the thicket by the road
Spreading sorrow over the hearts desiring you,
I will be awaiting you. At night,
…
When slumbering valleys resemble lifeless pythons,
When lily’s fingers entrap the lonely spruce,
Remember me or not I
Will not part with you, I
Will be awaiting you.
10 years....
pit
a wounded soldier under friendly fire
a beached whale under summer sun
words are riven toys
dispersed on the floor
of the empty cold barren gloom
of lonely
August
Fresh snows brush the hills. The spruce listens to nothings. Footprints of a wolves.
Scenes from the life of a scattered mess
Playing the life's palate. Snatched soon by sudden dark claws, thrown into abyss.
flower
“perhaps you plant one tree like that,” she says with a smile as subtle as a passing bee in a field of spring flora shining from the sparkle in her eyes. it’s her first time here, overwhelmed by the greenery and the bold scent of the crape myrtles weaving through the summer nights of virginia.
clumsy cicadas reign on her second trip. we travel far and wide and exact details of everything and of the wild cherry blown up by lightning one hazy summer day she faithfully recounts for years to come with her brush of bliss and simple amazement she carried within from the fresh highland air of the caucuses.
“I am getting too old for long trips,” she says, her darkened eyes exploring the vast expanse of her final trip, as if she knew as if she knew as if she knew, as if she knew, and these idle hands still have not planted the damn tree.
the following years over the phone or over my fleeting visits swept in the rush of trivialities masked with urgency of this or that kind, it always escaped me, like rain- drops in the desert, to break the news to her that now a red crape myrtle blossoms july after july where the wild cherry once fell waiting for her touch of motherly care on his bark and leaves, that I kept my promise, but that I forgot to make her happy when it counted, simple and true, just like her.
a view of the green valley, cool shade of the mulberry trees, and chatty swallows swooshing in the breeze will greet you soon. stretch your legs then take a long yawn and close your eyes give your fatigue to the earth and grow again.