Tender Tale of Two

                                            To Frank, who can understand everything.
                                                       I wish I'd known you as a child.
You are my little prince
in the desert, fallen to earth 
from a heaven
of untamed shapes
and unspoken words.
I draw you a boa constrictor
You don’t see a hat,
You instantly become best friends
with the elephant
waiting to be digested inside.
With you,
I’ve never been to a real desert
I’ve never left this room
as a matter of fact
but lately, my life
has become a poem 
in the shape of a box
fallen down to earth from a heaven
of miraculous landings.
Without a pre-existing map,
we follow the scent
of wild roses re-planted
in big-size flowerpots.
Like two pillars
born from the boiling ash
of the same volcano,
visible from any outer space,
Two standing  towers-
you and I wrap the blue sea water 
to prevent the loss
of a planet’s remained harbor.
A blind desert sand fox translates
the lava of thoughts
to and fro,
one coast of the ocean
at a time.
I never leave this room 
but I assume,
just like an sos message bottle,
it travels with the tide.


Memoirs of a Young Girl

Miss Havisham
never wound her heart
and  it didn’t stop.
It didn’t stop the black bruises
on her frail arms
to complement the white
in her gown
nor the matching gray in her hair brows.
I remember visiting her
- for a while -
every now and then.
Once, we even contemplated  
turning  back the time.
First, I'd move the minute hand of the clock
Then I'd wait for her to do the same
with  the hour hand.
She looked pleasantly surprised,
hopeful and proud,
but soon  thereafter
the second hand of her golden watch
caught up with the day light
and there were tears in her eyes.
Once, we really tried to hold
the pendulum three hands
still, at the same time,
But it was stronger than both
and we had to give up.
I still wonder if, by any chance, 
time had actually stopped
for the two of us
not to stare but to reward
such a bold enterprise.                                    For the better version check this:


A Flower Girl’s Wordbook

Gone into the sun light
A mute distance away,
She is much farther
than the noon shade
of the late cherry trees
in blossom.

Tales printed on a pillow,
with scented prayers for the mighty sail,
from an unheard "goodbye",
tearfully translated
into the underworld oaths of Hades
and a painless tattoo
on a silk coffin veil.

Pencil figures on her anxious palm,
capital letters 
and arithmetics
scribbling down a repressed anticipation
on the quiet map
marked with controlled impatience
between the steel cell bars.

words hidden
words explained
words secluded
words forgotten
words misunderstood
words dying a while after 
the stone cross
is lifted
from a marble grave yard;
Words fallen down, 
under its heartsick burden.

Words, words, just words,
my angels,
my demons,
Flowering in the four corners 
of your mind
out of a closed window.

My deadly curse-
Holy icons painted in street colors,
Imaginary riddles and puzzles
For unseen eyes.

My ardent vows,
My fake self-promises
to resist a gambler’s urge
in their pursuit of happiness.

…to miss…

The torn, flying label
by a short-term web
of a short-lived spider
erased then re-drawn
on a round table. Beloved.

Obstructing piles
of icy suffixes and prefixes
In a dark desert of silence,
Solitary echoes
At the bitter end of a delayed eclipse
Inversing geography
to strike the right balance.

Words- tons of vowels and consonants
Cuddled together
like some big, chance blunders
half-blind from a glacial epoch
Their sweet ashes overrun 
but preserved  
In a mutual language.


Survival Theory

Though totally wrong about other matters
Darwin was right:
It takes more than intelligence
or strength to survive.
An ability to embrace change,
As your own,
While kneeling down or looking up,
With a renewable smile on your face
 is quintessential.



Down and deserted,
at the bottom of a limestone curtain  
I'm taking one last look
before my first step
can follow a single,
self-sufficient route
up the sublime mountain.
A new, exclusive trekking on my own
- with manifold trials -
Ready to enfold  their adverse adventures,
in front of my eyes.
With no one to care for my wounds,
Reaching the peak, by myself,
Would be like breathing in
the sad, 
lonely permanence of the altitude
and let my long-conflicting desires
finally click.
But for the distant silhouettes
of those kissing and hugging
in a wretched but divine place,
and the parting scents,
elevating their graceful decline,
I’d still be buried alive
inside  the scenic ruins
of the same distant homeland.


Homing Dusk

A hostile night breeze
wipes out the tears of a child
in the fast lane, for the first time,
the same way, the midday sun
dries up the high-yielding springs,
timing the return flight
of a single-winged
race pigeon.
A wind gust
caresses the aged surnames
carved in tree trunks
by chance third parties
while the deformed impressions
of their rightful owners
carry their sins to a collective grave
dug deeply under the dust horizon.