May Torrents

The night is hardly young anymore
diverting  the westlands eastward
to avoid a new spring storm
I am,
scribbling down my feeble relief,
on a rear window on a way home;
Not looking back, just counting my footprints,
lost in an unwelcome shower of raindrops.
we postpone then pose a new breed of floods
in a selfie of endless don’ts.

Too many shoes to walk in.
The hazel looks are too plain to notice.
Everything I felt has been used against me.
Everything I am has already been killed.
By drowning.

The wheel of faith circles around a Schindler’s list
of mundane mustn’ts under the cuddling clouds
Threatening us both, born the same year,
divided by seasons
and their grounded exponential frowns
each wrapped inside
a few duly principles and blah-blah platitudes,
right next to the life boats.
The last naïve romantics-
inhabiting these proud outskirts-
Calm down their fever with four-leaved clovers.
In their raincoats, I’d rather multiply this hope,
Though- for a rescue

We all need an extension, it’s certified.


Pending Scales

Motto: Then they fell from thy eyes.

With the old shadows, desolation is my only mask;
I keep my fears off whenever I preach- the way
the mighty sword caresses the unrolling dice,
the ultimate void laughing in my face.
Tranquility - just a nocturnal remedy in all kinds of weather
I’m the fallen whisperer; my injured attempts are
Up to fate, my defiant whereabouts out-of-reach;
Anywhere under the sun is my home,
Anywhere under the moon I will hide-and-seek.
We still have our words, don’t we?
Our pride to share- are the skies the limit no more?
My prayers are voiceless, my paths have been crossed,
My tables turned down so often. One
can either move on or stare
for a sensory fairy-tale to decompose.
I envy the wild horses' graves
They never have to cry. There is no imperfection.
No make-believe. Whatever the records, the odds,

We have been cursed for too long.


Acrostic Poem

                                  To Lore.

Sunrises are free, just like you lighting up the dawn
Turning  the cold darkness away, naturally,
One can feel your born-from-within warmth,
In no time, in the same breath,
Children’s innocence makes room for new hope
And wild orchids bloom under the rainbow.

Let us learn, again, how the vivid butterflies dance
Or why perfect roses can’t be re-planted!
Right you were to capture the beauty of all things in a smile
Even the soft echoes of lullabies and the white of the marble.
Distant voices, however persistent and musical,
Are still unable to sing our friendship in the rain;
No other self has ever flown together - like us

Alas, I still owe you that eternal “thank you!”

Ruined Renaissances

Remorse, like creepers, can become our jungle,
Where elegies are replacing sonnets and odes,
The divine, yet so human, icons
Are the last spiritual imperatives
to censor a glass door
and synchronize the remaining hours.
I carried a holly bridge across every river and precipice
And what have I become? Nothing
but an earlier boundary on a lost isle of creeks and falls
a collectible relic excavated and recovered
to better-preserve its figurative role?
Everyone reminds us of someone-
Our eyes, kept on shiny prizes, too blinded to see
Our foreheads, labeled by denials,
surrounded by oblivion.
Though we underestimate the power of loving
To the detriment of being someone’s daily daydreams,
There are no clear-cut distinctions today, no sins,
But a vertical dissolution, an inevitable futility,  
of pitch-black memories and self-indulgence marks.
Regeneration is always rooted inside;
Tomorrow- the last gap of perish will be crossed
Instead of a promised serenity zenith
Will I be reaching
a long forgotten and constantly decaying crypt?