FERESHTEH SHOLEVAR
Aunt Betty-Moon
We all knew that Uncle Frankie
poured witchcraft powder
into Aunt Betty-moon’s tea
to extinguish the wild flame
of her sexual appetite.
We also knew that Aunt Betty-moon
did exactly the same thing
to arouse his dead flame of sexual potency.
Neither of them knew, though
what the other one knew.
Madam Esperanza, the fortune- teller
wore silver ear rings and golden teeth
and owned a shop filled with strange scents
from remote fields.
In her colored plissé skirt she looked
like a full blown purple lily.
Both Aunt Betty-moon and Uncle Frank
were losing weight with no shade of rose
on their cheeks
or shade of life in their eyes
unaware, they were poisoning each other.
Running long after something
which wasn’t there
they both went out of breath
on the bumpy road of their lives.
Ironically, they slept in their graves
one on the top of the other
and stayed together
in the silhouette of love after all.
Their secrets remained unknown to a few
one so feminine outside inside out
the other feminine inside only.
poetryrepairs #212 15,05:058
FERESHTEH SHOLEVAR
The Eagle
red rotating eyes
white patch on his head
blue sky glider
wind-dweller
free!
His strong wings hold all the flights of the world
he captures you, crushes you
and thus teaches you how to free yourself
from his claws.
The eagle has not learned kindness
and envies the innocent swan
gliding on calm waters.
He has flown over mountains and seas
forests and deep valleys.
The immensity of his flights
has fatigued him
and solitude in heights
has deprived him of empathy.
Upon his last descent
he fell into a deep abyss of sands
and lost the memory of his flight.
Now the eagle
with closed wings
is dreaming about the blue sky
under a leafless tree.
poetryrepairs #212 15,05:058
PETER KROK
SEPTEMBER 5, 1957
Jack, I can see you on that New York corner waiting
For the Times, knowing a review was coming out,
knowing something good might happen.
In that classic photo, you stand by the corner
window, a Lucky Strike dangling from your lips,
an Orpheus in a black leather jacket.
That night you’d never forget. Going out at dusk
you got an early copy of the Times. The next day
On the Road would be on the streets and highways.
You’d be celebrated as the beat. Who was to know
how your life would change? Who could understand
it all? Who could imagine what would come?
You drove across America,
always on the move and always moving on,
searching for wherever that somewhere never was.
poetryrepairs #212 15,05:058
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