empty.

|

|

|…

I sit to write what is to be my first novel,
and the cursor blinks at me.

I stare at the white screen as it glares back,
daring me to perform,
daring me to begin,
One strike against a key
one letter
one word..
a sentence perhaps,..
… a paragraph
or two…

|

|

|…

moments later
the cursor persists

determined
from deep within the white canvas screen..
Taunting me

Which of us is truly empty, it  implies..
You or I?

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It is not the pain, but the hope, that hurts..

It is not the pain, but the hope, that hurts,
I insisted, thinking I was wise;
as he plucked two twinkling stars from the sky
and placed them in my eyes

My head upon his shoulder lain
he carried me to my resting hour;
climbing the tresses of Ferdowsi’s Rudāba*
he freed me from an imprisoning tower

‘We’ve seen each other’s scars‘, he said
our imperfections seem so perfect’
As I gaze into his fathomless eyes
my heart, in soothing undulation, swept

Carried away on an emerald ocean
within the cadence of my wanting,
the deeper you dive, the less violent the waves‘,
I immerse, the current no longer daunting

First buds break through winter’s frost
ushering the blessed re-birth of spring,
his kiss, a flame, melts the ice in my soul
re-awakening my heart to blossoming.

 

*  Persian lore similar to the story of Rapunzel

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i long to hear the nightingale sing..

barren tree

I miss him
he was the poet in my poetry
the leaves of my poet tree;
and now this winter is so barren.

˜
I miss him
like the flowers miss the springtime
like the nightingale misses  its song;
and this silence is a deafening cacophony.

 ˜

I miss him
and I long to hear the nightingale sing
rather than recall it from memory..
before it becomes an unfamiliar fragrance
in my garden.

˜

I miss him.