Saturday, September 22, 2012

Land of talking poetry-

In the long rantings of my brooding pen
I have found that poems never answer 
but they groan, ache and talk 
whatever is left unspoken by them 
can hold the vastness of pacific, 
that their metaphors are nothing 
but lost lovers who speak in thoughts 
fulfilling themselves in illusions 
and that what poetry asks, must be answered
and fullstop them to an end.

We talk like old friends
(which we are)
and I promise them their lives
while walking to a synagogue 
of unknown distances.


If I could 
I would travel to a place as far as carpatus
where words have home and the doors they are bookmarked
where forgetfullness is permitted and I am naive 
a place, where the sky rains into prayers; where wishes resign to end 
and clouds are a prophetic darwish to tell you what you need. 

There, perhaps
I would know how your name on my lips 
leaves me with the sweetness of baklava.

How your skin is filled with the softness of a breeze 
yet the warmth of a sun.

And just how your eyes can hold 
all the powers of the galaxies and stars 
and days and nights
and me.

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