The Postman

His bag was light

One small dirty brown envelope

But his shoulders weighed heavily

As he walked through

The desolate streets

Littered with army men

And stray dogs

His gait heavy, the men

Stopped him and searched

Looking for stones in his pockets

For the weight made

Him walk slowly

But all he carried was

One small dirty brown envelope

The muddy slushy road

That led to a desolate house

Surrounded by wails and

Other small houses

The trek became more treachrous

With each step, the bag with the

One small dirty brown envelope

became heavier

When he walked in

The wailing stopped

As a small kid stared at the

Anonymous man with the

One small dirty brown envelope

He had been too late, the

One small dirty brown envelope

Was too late

There would be no goodbye

No tearfull final re-unions

the one dirty brown envelope

had a small carefully folded paper

its edges betraying

the shaking hands which had folded it

In it beautiful mornful Urdu

Which only said

“Don’t mourn, Rejoice”

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Indigo Halls of Imagined Gods

In the indigo halls of Imagined Gods of Love, Lovers leave half burnt letters of incense and trails of broken hearts - Among ruins of shattered Love knots, she sits alone Weaving a rosary out of Thin air With longing as its thread and Beads made out of tears -- In the Indigo halls of Imagined gods of Love, The walls conspire and whisper Into her ears Telling tales of unfaithful loves And unrequited desires -- The rags of threads once Tied at the Astans of Hamdan, Lie at her feet, as she sits alone Knitting desolation from the whispers To sacrifice at the altars of the imagined Gods of love

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The Empty Apartment

I draw a deep breath, An empty chair sits in the corner Hastily scribbled notes scattered Around the desk, abandoned Like lilacs in battle filed Wandering eyes rest among the Clumped clothes, a black sequined Scarf pokes pathetically from Among the ruins of our lives, Staring at me, accusing me A half-eaten apple still Sits on the top the fridge, next To the owl totems from the time We visited the dead shaman, You used believe in -- The movers are here, Walking up the narrow stairs Stomping feet leaving shoe marks, You so hate, across the Floor, Our floor The empty boxes laid in front of me Forcing decisions I never wanted To make, what to keep and what To ditch, how much luggage to leave For the insidious new occupants -- Tz

Tasenda

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The Postman

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Indigo Halls of Imagined Gods

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