November 11, 2012
Dark Circles

The dark circles around my eyes,

Or your eyes,

Does it matter?

Shared pain manifests itself in shared signs of misery,

I live,

On a promise that was never made,

A hope that doesn’t exist,

In space that doesn’t belong to me,

Time that I can scarcely touch,

And when I look at my eyes in the mirror,

I know that you might, too,

Exist,

So relative,

Makes me want to break through the fabric of spacetime,

Find a corner of the universe that’s both mine,

And yours,

And there,

We could watch the circles around our eyes fade,

And our eyes,

And our bodies,

And maybe even our souls,

If I ever find that corner some day,

I promise to wait for you,

Just as you never promised to return.

4:52am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZdXuowX2Sq7h
(Notes: 3)
  
Filed under: poetry poem no alcohol 
October 24, 2012
Promises Are Forever

You shouldn’t make promises,

If you don’t want to keep them,

Shouldn’t say good bye,

Without intent,

Ask,

For what will always be yours anyway,

The questions will never be answered,

Until we run out of words,

And on the last page of our story,

The final sentence will be a promise,

“If it is forever,

Then so be it.”


- Shahryar -

2:57am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZdXuowVtfMjt
(Notes: 2)
  
Filed under: sufism love promises poetry poem 
September 15, 2012
Happy Endings

Burdened by the weight of my own nothingness,

Tangled in the lines of your radiance,

Like a speck of dust,

Stuck in the web of a master weaver,

Stranded till I drop to the ground below,

By the fluttering wings of a new captive,

Perhaps a moth,

Before it’s insides are metled,

In the heat of passion of your thousand-legged spiderly love,

And consumed,

Then its dried up exoskeleton shall fragment,

Against the never-ending winds of passing,

Turn to dust,

And I’ll wait for it’s debris to join me,

Below,

Over the carcasses of many a fallen lovers,

Under the comfort of your shadow.

2:58pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZdXuowTRf-wU
(Notes: 3)
  
Filed under: sufism love poetry poem 
September 9, 2012
It’s Almost Autumn Again, You Know

If I were you,

And you were me,

I’d let you know,

…because as unsure I am of Heaven,

I know,

That Hell…

is not knowing!

But you are you,

And I have yet to learn patience,

So when the trees get ready to shed their last leaves in November,

Be ready for me to stare down onto the leaves that couldn’t wait for winter,

And muster up a smile,

Because I’m still grateful,

And I’m still here,

To renew that promise again,

“I’ll wait till there’s never spring again.”

— Shahryar —

1:59am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZdXuowT2buOV
(Notes: 2)
  
Filed under: uncertainty poem poetry sufism 
August 25, 2012
Borders of Hate and Bards of Love

Maybe it is possible,

That some day,

I could go on this journey,

I’d start from Timubuktu,

I’d shed my tears on Sidi Mahmoud’s broken tomb,

Pick a pebble,

And make a trail to Konya with my naked feet,

I’d leave that pebble on Rumi’s doorstep and scoop some dirt up,

I’d roll on the ground to Kartarpur, swirling with the sands of Karbala,

And blow it all up near Guru Nanak’s abode,

I’d break my forehead on the steps that touched his steps,

And dance dhamal to Shirdi,

I’d wipe my blood on streets that Sai Baba walked on,

And hug everyone to Medzhybizh,

I’d kiss the hands of whoever lives within a mile of where Besht met his maker,

And I’d fly across the oceans to El Salvador,

To my savior, Padre Romero,

I’d pour the dirt of Konya around his grave,

Then walk across the snows of Andes to where they call you Pachamama,

I’d kiss your feet and scream,

“Mother, no one stopped me!”

4:05am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZdXuowS5js0a
(Notes: 4)
  
Filed under: poem borders love besht rumi guru nanak sai baba Sidi Mahmoud Padre Romero Konya Pachamama 
May 11, 2012
Masters of Rats

We are who we are,

Senseless,

Selfish,

Scared,

A pack of rats,

Hiding in our holes,

Scavenging from the garbage dump,

Scampering around it,

When we hear the roar of a cat,

Hoping to find ourselves in a safer place,

Once the cats get us all,

A place better than the garbage dump we’re in now.


—


I know your secret,

You may try to hide it,

But the way you look at men,

The way you don’t look at women,

I know,

I wish I could tell you, “It’s okay!”

I did a couple of times,

Veiled terms,

Yeah, I’m a writer, expect ambiguity,

You didn’t understand,

I can’t express more empathy without your confession,

You’ll never tell me,

But your lovely shy eyes do,

Even when you have a stubble on your face

To advertise your masculinity,

When I saw you last,

The hug was very long,

Because I was trying to hide my tears,

I know you are a victim of forbidden love, my dearest,

You can never see love in another man’s eyes,

And return it,

Even if you want to,

I know how much you want to love,

It’s like a little seed in your heart,

Just waiting to break free of its shell and turn into a flower,

A flower that’s not allowed to blossom,

So it’s fragrance won’t stop some rats,

From getting to that safer place.


—


“He made fun of me in front of a friend,”

You told me,

“We’ve been married for 40 years and he still humiliates me!”

I could see tears that wanted to slide down your cheeks,

They didn’t,

I’ve seen those tears want to come out,

For 30 years,

I just cringe,

I cringed again,

But what can I say,

I told him not to,

I know he won’t stop,

Because you are to be subjugated,

To be humiliated,

To be treated like a slave,

Your kind,

Or so they say,

That’s what you are,

Not human,

But a small metal rod,

That can’t feel,

It has to be beaten down,

Till it turns into a key,

A key that some rats,

Can open the door to that safe place with.


—-


I hear you cough every night,

Sometimes while you’re asleep,

Sometimes when I’m asleep,

It sounds like a broken chainsaw,

Sometimes I wake up to the sound of you violently vomiting,

Closing the bathroom door behind you,

More coughing,

I wonder if there’s blood in there,

The medecine that’s to stop you from dying,

It’s killing you,

I witness,

I know it’s incurable,

I love you, though,

I hear your suffering and I can’t stop thinking,

Would that thing they were doing with human embryos help?

You never know with scientists,

I still have hope,

But it’s killing little children,

So we both suffer,

So children that will never be born anyway,

Won’t suffer,

And some rats,

Can get to that safer place for saving them.


—

I know you’re dead,

I can’t stop thinking about you, though,

I wonder what your body looked like,

Eight years and I still wonder,

Did the bits cling to to the walls of the van?

There were five others,

How could they tell which piece of burnt meat was whose?

Bombs don’t leave victims,

They leave pieces of flesh,

Mangled bones,

I hear the heads just roll away,

Skulls are tough things, they say,

Do you even have a grave?

I never asked,

I don’t want to visit a mound of earth,

You can’t be in there,

In my thoughts, perhaps,

And the thoughts of those who sent you there,

So they and their rat friends won’t have to hide from cats,

So they can all cuddle together in that safe place.

—

A safe place that’s not a garbage dump,

The garbage dump that I’m in,

That we’re all in,

Sometimes I wonder if I, too, will go to that safe place,

When the cats have shredded my body and soul,

I wish I would,

I’ll ask the owners,

“Maybe you could have created humans,

Maybe you could’ve given them some compassion,

You didn’t, though,

So here you are,

Masters of rats!”


— Your Josh —

3:24am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZdXuowLGu2eh
Filed under: poem poetry compassion 
April 7, 2012
Restless

Sometimes, I want to write.

—

About the longing I have for home,

the frigid winters; the scorching summers,

the months-long dust storms that fling dried excrement in your face,

the water from the aquifers that taste like sheep eyeballs,

Yes, I know,

and the dried up trees and pebbled pathways,

of how much I want the muddy roads to coat my pants in liquified earth again.

—

About how much I miss your face,

and that birthmark,

which your neighbor’s mother tried to wash off,

I still laugh when I remember that story,

and your laughter as you recounted with horror,

how you nearly bled,

I can still draw it’s shape.

—

About demons wearing human skin,

feasting on the flesh of the young and the restless,

on the hopes and dreams of a million silent voices,

that shatter their peace,

asking for the permission to ask a question,

only to be told: “It’s not your place!”

—

About the cigarettes I smoke now - Marlboro 72s,

they’re short as my pinky,

taste like chocolate-butter syrup,

if that even existed,

it doesn’t - trust me,

don’t look - you won’t find it.

—

About how much it terrifies me,

that I don’t fear death anymore,

or that life goes on,

in a manner as repetitive as that phrase,

and did I say how much I hate repetition?


—


… but I just don’t.


—

— Your Josh —

8:23am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZdXuowJEf7_d
Filed under: poetry sleepless late night poem tired whatever 
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