Grass Pollen

 

 

Once the fields were of that yellow

And the morning wind made waves to shake

The sleepy stalks

Where lonesome hare

Had shut an eye

The night before

 

Once the cities of steel

Cleaned their streets of brown bags

That shaped bottles of the green fairy

And made unshaved men dream

Of names they once knew

Before they slept alone

In a cardboard box

With their dog

 

Once I walked these fields

My boots covered in that yellow

And got lost following concrete streets

My soul touched by the grace

Of men who slept alone

 

And became who I always was

 With intention

 

PS/ These will be the last lines I write from Arizona, where for the past 13 years, I lived under large skies, firey sunsets and open desert spaces. Colorado is where my path is leading me to snowy mountains, new muses, and new musing.

... When I first came to Arizona, over a pint of beer, a man who kept his leather cowboy hat on in the bar, told me:

  "Remember, they never made a two-person saddle -- you always ride your horse alone"

I am still thinking about that line.

May 18, 2026

©Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2026

Adiaphora

 

 

 

When I learned to drink spring water in my palm, I gave my cup to a thirsty soul

 

When I searched for words to paint a poem, I found all the shades my passage had already left upon my path

 

And under the summer rain, I heard the whisper that became a song, upon a warm pillow where dreams had once slept

 

In welcome shy, and in hope for the tender embrace of unkept promises

 

And I heard nightingales sing, at noon

 

May 3, 2026

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2026