Cinnamon and Clove

I do not have a hiding place

Or ancient words whispering low

My lonesome walks are not a race

To hide a scar but to gently, let itself show

My dog is old and of one eye blind

But when he sleeps next to my feet

It is all peace, comfort and a moment so kind

That no pain finds safe harbor in the night’s heat

But still, as if the seeing eye of my old dog

I do sometimes look into that simple place

Where a name has found its whisper and song

To share with very few, as if a sunset dance

I do not have a hiding place

Just a name in which I often rest

And whisper

Low

August 29, 2018

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2018

The Choice

It was a choice

I did not make

Like sitting under a tree

In heavy rain

Or forgetting a name

But hearing the goodbyes

In every departure

And every sunrise

... It was not a choice

But I made it

To take away all future choices

Rainy days next to the bluest sea

And the name that remains uncalled 

For all memories survive sunsets

By choice

August 19, 2018

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2018

Finding the Way

To get lost while knowing the way

When the evening is warm and simple

To get lost because I still can

Stay away from a name 

To get lost on purpose, on a whim 

Because the way is lonesome and dim

When the moon is full

Of many faces but not of that name

To get lost alone, to get lost with no reason

Except to look for the way, the old way 

Where the full moon left shadows and scars

Upon the oak tree at the crossing of times

To get lost and find that oak tree

Upon its bark a name carved out 

Of hope that the way may get lost again

And keep the tree, and the carved name

Out of its way

August 5, 2018

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2018

Vino Nobile

Anybody can live without anybody

Will that make the three red coated priests

Answer my question

By running away?

Vino nobile. 

Stop crying for your glass is empty

For the night is full of cries by those

Women who still have bird feathers in their hats

And fox tails around their necks

And they do not recall their names

As all last missions are unfinished

That is why they are the final respite

To all dreams that start in streets of concrete

And end near the bluest of seas

… A bouquet of carnations 

And a door key 

The stony walls of medieval towns

Smell of moisture like young faces do

After hours of tears

About a name they thought to be their last name

Before they learn

That anybody can live without anybody

If their glass is empty

But the vino is nobile

Like a promise made

Under a white parasol

Next to the bluest of seas

July 23, 2018

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2018

Spitting Watermelon Seeds

It was a simple tune, stormy but calm

We once whistled without fear

When the waves crashed by near

Before the moon let her hair down

For a midnight bath

I can still fill my fear

With the thick smell of salty moss

Which made the rocks shine in moonlight

Covered by the acrid cloud of tobacco smoke

For a midnight escape

There were walls of old stones

Eroded and pensive like sailors' wives

Waiting, hoping, yet offering wine and fried fish

To sailors other than their hairy men

For a midnight companionship

... Today

When lightning lights the desert sand in silk

I revisit oceans, mossy rocks and waves

And secretively whistle a tune stormy yet calm

And sometimes wonder if that wall of rocks

Still offers wine and fried fish

To sailors lost

In a midnight moon

And a tune

July 14, 2018

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2018

Scar Tissue

It was secretly cherished

The song I read written in words

On scar tissue

A life spent in silence

Holding hands that only left

Scars and constant echo

Once on papyrus, then

Deep into tree pulp

What dropped as tears, stayed dry

And I wiped unfallen tears

With the same scar tissue

Upon which I secretly wrote

A name

A place

A time

June 3, 2018

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2018

Stage

My role was of an old script

So I stayed in the curtain fold

And watched the accolades

For those who had no role

The nights got too short

And the days too unexpected

Yet the stage carried all secret

Without interlude

And just when I was tired

Of my quiet role

And was ready to watch

Others find their voice

My role found its own stage

On an August day, near a sea so blue

Where fishermen found pieces of the skies

In their net

And on that August day

The skies lost a small piece of blue

As I brought it to my stage

In the shape of a simple poem

And I read it alone

May 28, 2018

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2018