one of those times

sometimes...
i just don't know what to do
or the right thing to say or play
when the sky is smokey gray
and you are down and blue
other than to simply pray

 

grisaille july

writing in the fog
this grayish haze
in these modern times
of forest fires blazing
hundreds of miles away

the clear sky clouded
in every breath
a smokey tinge
tearing the eyes

this is a new something
a new style of summer
more grumbling than outrage
and no real action
muddling along working
consuming and acting
oh well, the new norm
the smoggy smugness
of it all... 

an antihero at gibson's

i.
writing this blind
more like blurry
    notebook here
    pen in hand
    glasses at home 

ii.
contemplating
taking in the whir
the leisurely bustle
and gold coasty buzz
of people living
urbane and urban

iii.
you should be here
beyond just 
in my heart
and weaving 
about my thoughts 

it seems so...

there is a unique place
where heart and soul
spirit and prayer and 
love in every form
and nuance intersect

this is where you live
in this world
my own creation
this is where you buzz 
from flower to flower 
queen beeing, pollinating 
deep dreamy rich thoughts 
and deeper beliefs 
that delightfully disrupt
playfully disorient
that add meaning
and texture, coloring
the tapestry of my life

july 2026 

solitude

you need it
i need it
you need it more
sometimes

might be a second
might be a minute
might be an hour
might be a day
a week, a month
ugh... a year or years

just to be alone
just to recharge
just to think
just to meditate
levitate if we could
from here to
who knows where 

like superman
like his fortress of...

your fortress
is the sun and sky
the lake and trees
a gentle breeze
birds sitting or chirping
or in graceful flight
it is your recharging
rejuvenation
revival renewal
regeneration 
almost a rebirth

it ends with a calm
a subtle change
in your gaze
more assured
more content
so subtle
just a few 
very few
even
notice

july 2026

 

poemtimes

sometimes 
sketching poems
by keyboard... works

othertimes
it's no better
than chiseling them...
in stone

this is when
i just gottta
scribble and scratch
erase or strike
make circles and 
draw arrows
start and restart
write and overwrite 
and edit and re-edit
work 'em like clay
'til they form and
breath on their own 

july 2026 

more than just a photo

i saw a perfect photo
just a photo of you
another amongst the
hundreds we take 
and take and post
these cell phoney daze

it's just a photo
just a photo of you
in your own unique
beautiful splendor
gazing determined
into an unsure future
assuring anyone
that knows you
that it will be... 

this one hit me
it struck a deep chord
of some imagined past
this perfect photo of you
    a mountain partizan
    a fedayee fighting
    for survival of a 
    faith and a race
    pulling out this photo
    frayed and faded 
    every cold night 
    to renew the will
    to fight on
this simple and perfect 
photo of you

why poems?

just watched a film
lovely, meaningful
an art film, multi-
mediaed with 
images lush
gritty and urban
folksy music
modern irish
hinting of tones
timbres and sage
like lyrics from
oh, so long ago

an art film that
made me think
contemplate, wonder
and bask in some awe
all peaceful, insight full
dashed with a wee bit
of angsty something
    or other

why then poems?
unlayered of all
the noise abound
deep and from
maybe a soul
pure thoughts
nuggets of raw ore
from an earthy core
confusing, twisted, in
some fuzzy fractal form

my thoughts 
unprocessed
in sweet rawness
scribbled down
directly to you

Quand Vous Serez Older

apologies to william butler yeats and pierre de ronsard

when you are old and gray
    as i am now
sitting in a room 
warm with memories
on a cold winter day
    as i am now
    but won't be then
read this poem again
with an almost faint smile
    as i have now
and recall how you were
purely loved just for 
for the lovely soul
    that you are now 
    and i have never been

=== Pierre de Ronsard 1524-1585 ===

Quand Vous Serez Bien Vieille

Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant :
Ronsard me célébrait du temps que j’étais belle.

Lors, vous n’aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle,
Déjà sous le labeur à demi sommeillant,
Qui au bruit de mon nom ne s’aille réveillant,
Bénissant votre nom de louange immortelle.

Je serai sous la terre et fantôme sans os :
Par les ombres myrteux je prendrai mon repos :
Vous serez au foyer une vieille accroupie,

Regrettant mon amour et votre fier dédain.
Vivez, si m’en croyez, n’attendez à demain :
Cueillez dès aujourd’hui les roses de la vie.

— Sonnets pour Hélène, 1587

When you are very old, at evening, by the fire,
spinning wool by candlelight and winding it in skeins,
you will say in wonderment as you recite my lines:
“Ronsard admired me in the days when I was fair.”

Then not one of your servants dozing gently there
hearing my name’s cadence break through your low repines
but will start into wakefulness out of her dreams
and bless your name — immortalised by my desire.

I’ll be underneath the ground, and a boneless shade
taking my long rest in the scented myrtle-glade,
and you’ll be an old woman, nodding towards life’s close,

regretting my love, and regretting your disdain.
Heed me, and live for now: this time won’t come again.
Come, pluck now — today — life’s so quickly-fading rose.

(originally published in Tide and Undertow by Anthony Weir, Belfast 1975)
Poem and translation taken from http://www.bewilderingstories.com

=== W. B. Yeats 1865-1939 ===

When You are Old

When you are very old, at evening, by the fire,
spinning wool by candlelight and winding it in skeins,
you will say in wonderment as you recite my lines:
“Ronsard admired me in the days when I was fair.”

Then not one of your servants dozing gently there
hearing my name’s cadence break through your low repines
but will start into wakefulness out of her dreams
and bless your name — immortalised by my desire.

I’ll be underneath the ground, and a boneless shade
taking my long rest in the scented myrtle-glade,
and you’ll be an old woman, nodding towards life’s close,

regretting my love, and regretting your disdain.
Heed me, and live for now: this time won’t come again.
Come, pluck now — today — life’s so quickly-fading rose.

(originally published in Tide and Undertow by Anthony Weir, Belfast 1975)

 

another coffee

another coffee
another coffee virtually
in spirit with you
to the spirit of you

one sip, a reverie
a drifting toward...
one more sip, another
line of poetry

coffee and music
and poetry and you
flowers and sunshine
and thoughts and dreams
a lament or two
of what was, could be
and seems all right now

there was a better poem
maybe a shiny gem
in yesterday's coffee
that slipped away
for not picking up a pen 

a few more haikus

what a disaster
forgot my phone at home... eh
amazing sunrise

a weight on my heart
the sun rising in your eyes
sunflowers abound 

not so concerned
about that ego thing this 
partly sunny day 

wanting so much more
with so little precious time
move forward, old man 

a different tone... poem

jotting in the margins
some stream of something
maybe consciousness

some flow of thoughts
spewing from the 
gutter of my soul 

an urban spring of
wouldas and shouldas 
mixes well with spirits 
in a glass over ice

algorithm this: sidebar

i listen to a song
twice and boom
tens, hundreds more 
versions covered by
every tom, dick, hasan
ayşa, kevork, maryam
relentlessly singing 
fadeling me up and 
hoying my nazan with
the same fucking thing 

i wrote about coffee
the darwishian kind
voila, tons of little clips
arabica styled 
fayrouzed and
khalsoumed in 
little ornate demi
tassy glasses foamy
with a wisp of steam
flowers and gardens
nature and siren songs
of some kind of love
we all long for 

algorithm this

so i wrote a poem
maybe thirty
all about love
requited and un
etudes and sketches
romances fantasized
woulda oil painted 
'em if i could

now my feeds
on the big two
owned by one
social medias
keep endlessly
feeding me
a cesspool of 
syrupy sugary
greeting card
artery clogging
little ditties
beautifully graphicked
lovely muziked
perfectly fonted
romantic drivel

soulmates, this
finally found you, that
known each other
past lives, millennias
reincarnated crap
like my very
own poems

to be algorithized
algorithmed like this...
did they read my soul
invade my heart or
my armenian liver

has it all shown
how trifly trivial
easily mapable
sadly shallow
predictably pathosetic
all this stuff 
i wrote and 
overwrote and
emoted over and 
pounded into
these mediocre
offerings

it ain't magic
it's shit 

blankness

the empty page
it looks up at me
indifferent but resolved
defiant and challenging
benign in daring me
to touch it with the pen 

the blank screen 
this etch-a-sketchy
electronic first cuz with
its carefree mocking glow
a buzz only dogs can hear
this monocular orb
just watching, just waiting
to see if i'll ever
    keystroke 

a few haikus

my heart just melted
into a misty something 
deep and bayyati

a mere offering
to one with a heavy heart
the sun shone briefly

looking upon you
singing and dancing, happy,
a white rose blooming

a real page turner

she was fair enough
nothing too special
in a peculiarly special way
je ne sais quoi but...
    a kreutzer sonata
    waiting to happen 

coffee alone

what happened to my muse
not a single thing
not a single damn thing
my muse stayed the same 
maybe even grew
still inspiring

'tis i, the me and myself
the sty in my own eye
saboteur of the ambitious me
the me trying to change
forever trying and maybe
just maybe succeeding 
for a nano day or week

yeah...
let me get a coffee
and start-up again 

variations on 2 richie b poems

that's where i see
your face baby
so many painted posies 
on cristoforo's toesies

taking off 
his designer 
brautigan shoes

is there anything
more beautiful than...
oh fuck it
who gives a shit

springhill, indiana
may 12, 2026 

 

The Richie B poems... here they are 

Discovery

By Richard Brautigan

The petals of the vagina unfold 
like Christopher Columbus 
taking off his shoes. 

Is there anything more beautiful 
than the bow of a ship 
touching a new world?

 

The Historical Interpretation of Red Armour

By Richard Brautigan

It’s the color of 
Christopher Columbus 
taking off his shoes.

That’s where I see 
your face, baby,
on a tank,
all around the main gun.

a room with a view

chatting amid your plants
the sun setting on your wall
sipping coffee, an hour of
bliss, joy, serenity, basking
in the glow of you

april 24, 2026

 

dichotomies highlight
complexities existing
in our hearts, souls, and minds
warped by news and
fake news or just 
plain old propaganda

chanting never again
never again!
never again!!

to no! not again!
not again, no,
no not again...

we gotta do something!
we must do something!
it has to stop
can somebody do something?
say those who can't
do very much

grandchild of a genocide
of a genocide survivor
pulled every which way
by what we see
happening now
by what we see and
can do nothing about

reminds us
how they, yeah them, 
our tshnamis 
emptied us from our lands
and then dismantled
anything, everything
anything that mighta
shown we were there
we were once there 
on what were our lands 
our "we lived there
forever lands"

they destroyed 
our churches or
made 'em mosques
or worse barns 
now carpeted 
in işı budur
    but we still
    got the photos of...

    holy mother of god
    they just fucking did it again
    no! not again!

now others, once victims
are 'perpetrating' 
emptying others
new victims 
from their lands
their "we lived there
forever lands"

these perpetrators 
doing it better, 
more efficiently
emptying the lands
blowing up everything
all of their everythings

blowing up their homes 
with them still in them
they have to leave
there is nothing
no reason to stay
people gone 
evidence rubbled
    in one vile
    massive 
    genocidal
    war crime...

so what if, it, 
this crime 
every heinous act
documented and
social mediaed 
real time and 
we all feel lost,
horrible, emptied
sad, devastated
    many of us
    give a shit
    and no one
    no country
    no person
    that could make
    any difference does
    a fucking thing

war by remote control
the ultimate, efficient,
obscene, and vile,
violent abstraction 

drafted while listening to the 
laments at the TAYF concert 

a sketch of an etude

overwhelmed by
that unbearable
lightness of being

not trying to
rip off kundera
but he said it so
amazingly well

but the concept
oh yes, the concept
so very real
these days
probably real
all the days
of mankind

buoyed and 
anchored
simultaneously
by the precious
pursuit of, you know,
trying to fathom
life and love and 
death and disease
kindness and inhumanity
none of which 
ever
    go
        away

none of which
will we
    ever
        understand 

april 14, 2026 

 

 

 

unholy warfare

speechless
empty
gut punched
broken heart 
crushed spirit  

a village rubbled
a father digging
weeping and digging
in his ruined home
for his children
he already knows
are dead

april 9, 2026

 

afar

i
in love with the idea
of loving you
adoring the notion
of adoring you
yearning just to
yearn for you 
even dreamt about
dreaming about you
while missing the longing
of missing you

ii
thinking these thoughts
while conjuring and 
scratching out these lines
from afar

from afar
some distant corner
of my fallow mind

from afar
but rooted in some
genetically coded 
sameness
from afar
probably
too far
 

different boots, different throats

Israel Passes Law to Hang Palestinians Convicted of Deadly Attacks
Experts say the law was written in such a way as to ensure that it was 
unlikely to ever apply to Jewish extremists who commit similar crimes.
~ New York Times, March 30, 2026

the powerless 
have the power
the subjugated
now subjugating
the once pacific
armed to the teeth
those disenfranchised
now disenfranchising

once viewed as vile
less than human 
viewing others
just as vile and heathen
casting them as animals
those that were gassed
about to hang 'em high

a village for a tooth
cities for an eye
a hospital for a house

the powerless 
with the power
have become
what they
hated

existential etude

finding my voice
using it well to mine
a wave of poems
loded in the bedrock
below the basement
of my soul

the voice 
getting hoarse
i feel it waning
the vein is baning out
the well, just sludge
the river, wadifying
the metaphors
coming up lame

bereft and wandering
in a world gone mad
lonely in a loving fold
joy coming only
from the stars
in the desert
night sky of
my mind's eye

 

a curcina etude

one two three, four five
    expressing, something
    curcina, for you

meg yergu yer-ek çors
    the way my, heart works
    oddly beats, when you
    just enter, a room
dum tek tek, dum tek

bir iki, üç dört
    wanting to, jump up
    and surç bar, with you
    wanting to, watch your
    naz nousing, sweet dance 
hoppa pa, hopa

march 17, 2026
for this one, you might need 
hagop martayan dilâçer's alphabet  

a hamasyan state of mind

kaleidoscopic
continuous blossoming 
fold upon fold 
upon unfoldings
cacophonous harmonies
of a  mobius rainbow
understandably
just out of reach
head bobbing from
gyumri to our souls

scraps of rosemary and sage

is anyone going
anywhere near her
where she lives now
in scarborough, yeah,
with the parsley 
the fair and all

should i send
my greetings
some herbs
have you kiss
the eyes of the
one who lives
there

we were something
once upon a time
(mighta said thyme)
then it just ended
maybe she said 
something i said
makes no nevermind
since it's always
gotta be on me

once we were
really something
then it grounded and
thudded to a dull end
we didn't think twice
and it's alright...'

forget about this notion
taking my greetings
with you, to give her
i'll just text her this

march 7, 2026
you know what to listen to
when you read this... 

eine perspektivische Etüde

just two of us
lobbied in a 
community kinda
college i never
been to or taught at

me grading exams
him learning to play
the accordion
i sure hope i didn't
distract him too much

Variations on a Theme

salimli alieha
send her my greetings
my wishes for a beautiful life
convey to her my message
my message of love
send her my greetings
and kiss her hands
give her my message of love
that could never be
which she understands 
far better than me...

send her my greetings
our nightimes of kisses
endless and fragrant
in the bath of moonlight
send her my greetings
and these memories
we never made...

sing her my greetings
sing her my greetings
in a longing uşşak
or the mysterious
wisdom of hüzzam
send her my greetings
with this melody in sabah
sing to her my greetings
soulfully from the heart
so she knows...

i miss her greetings
i miss her greetings 
has she forgotten me?
no messages from afar
has she forgotten me?
without her greetings
without her love, i am
but a galley slave
aboard a ghost ship
on this sea of emptiness
i miss her greetings

երազ

by your river or mine?
under your orange tree
or my chestnut or apple?

you leaned against the tree
looking over the river
me lying down looking up
contemplating the bluest sky
through the leaves and branches
flickering sunlight and shadows
upon our very selves lost in
the slow dance of a shared dream

you begin to sing
old love songs, deeply rooted,
in our cultures that are both
so different and the same
you sing so semai-sweetly 
bayati sweetly bitter 
ayp tsa to my ears
acapellic songs of 
of intense yearning
unbearable love
as the river
flowed
on...

and then there's this

always
retooling
retrenching
re-calibrating
rejuvenating
seemingly
forever 
 

oh calm down
take a deep breath
start anew, restart
take a higher road
inspire yourself
be inspiring
be... alive and
just fucking do
    something

you have that cool
aluminum pen
so, sit down
take another
maybe deeper breath
exhale and start
writing some
    better shit 

etudinality

feeling desperation
mid-winter blues? 
cabin fever?
fear of missing out?
no, none of these
not these at all
more a reality check
a settling reality
    of aging out

i'm on another plane
a shorter runway
no air traffic control
and no parachute
but then i ain't flying
    very fast 
    very high or
    very far

the thrilling days...

yesteryearing
not for a lost homeland
a lifestyle never to be
relived by us 
the offspring, the youngens 
of the displaced survivors 
now all gone

yesteryearing 
not for the old west
but the masked hero
the trusted scout
william telling
for law and order 
and justice always
in the purest truest
bestest propgandized
tv show could offer
a fifties kid that
stills lives within
    hiyo silver... away

valentines day 2026 

Դուն Էն Հուրին Իս

floating gracefully upon
the pluckish tendrilities
the babbling brookiness
the very armenian kanun
the effortless emanation
from marianna's heart and soul

i am there, in hayastan,
in amberd, at saghmosavank,
nowhere near yerevan
in the small villages 
just imagining, channeling,
our tarn upon tarn
centuries older than old
sacred spirit vibrating 
in our very genes

february 12, 2026 

 

a syrian feature fiim

working
grading somethings and 
listening, background 
youtubing... you know

a few hours of shajarian
then randomly udi boghos
a fasil here or hüzzam
hrant, sayat, and tatyos
uşaklı, the kızzy one
neither tahir or there

and then...
it became poetic 
something you sing
that you sing real good
and i just paused
as my soul drifted
in ethereal currents
headed in your 
general direction 

it's life you know

you texted a very 
simple thought
"it's life you know"
i started to type
and backspace and 
type and delete
again and once more

then...
i just stopped
just sat there
with nothing
nothing to say
nothing clever
no insight
no whimsy
certainly nothing
deep or profound
nothing at all
to convey

i just sat there
the sound of
one mind
doing nothing
idling, stalled
on the bay of
eerie tranquility

"it's life you know"
i guess i do
maybe the best 
poem i ever read

 

stream of subconciousness

maybe, probably,
no... for sure 
this isn't the can
    of slimy worms, nightmares, 
    dreamy dreams
    snails, spiders, leeches
    fluffy plush cumulus
    lovey doveyness
    stalking leopards, gazelles, 
    warlords, liberators
    swords and plowshares
    and any number of
    scary primal 
    suppressed urges
that i want to open

stream of unconciousness

a blurry of thoughts
while gently adrift in 
the independent sway
of shallow emotions
lapping in counterpoint
to the tidal swell of this
    the demotive sea

vortexting

poeming while
vortexing in this
frozen suburban
misplaced tundra

can't help but feel
my inner zhivago
over and over again
in this bleak new age
more bleak and lonely
in this glorious cold 

scribbling verses
    well... 
    taping on a keyboard
trying real hard to
write something
profound, impactful
world changing
but no chance 
of that today...

 

just stupid enough

this thing
this thing we have
this beautiful thing
this friendship
this deep platonic
connective bond
forged in our 
minds and souls
rooted in our
past and future 
incarnations

this wonderful thing
can never ever, uh-uh
no way, ever become
you know, carnal
but, hey, i am just
stupid enough to...

a little rage

okay then, enough
of these sugary
insulin laced 
high fructose 
'life is good'
corn syrupy
she or they
hell, all of 'em
are graceful swans
the earthly embodiment
of the ethereal...
    eh, i will get back to that
    but now, time for 
    a little rage

rage?
yeah... pissed off
upset, disillusioned
tired of the same old
same old, shit that is

and of what same old 
do i dare be ragin' bout?
'tis the fucked up 'leaders'
that have us in 
stupid wars
land grabs 
that manipulate 
way too many of us
to hate on others
to support their wars
their addictive lust for 
    money and power
    more power 
    more money
    no limits
    ain't never enough 

yeah... 
and no worries
not a care for 
who dies 
who's displaced
no matter 
what the fuck 
anyone says

watching you sleep

after a long, tiring, day
this cold winter night
you fell deep aslumber 
on the couch cocooned
in my grandma's afghan
by the warming fire

watching you sleep
softly plucking
on karibian's oud
melodies known
mostly improvised
soft, sweet, uşşak, 
gentle lullabies just
watching you sleep

watching you sleep
i laid the oud aside
for a notebook
replacing mizrab
with caran d'ache
and penned this poem
content and comforted
just watching you sleep

 

ode to my muse

i have a muse
so undeserving to have one
so very blessed, so very...
how do i have a muse?

to muse and inspire
she does nothing
but simply be 

a wave of her hand
    fireflies appear
    each one glowing 
    a poetic theme
as she walks
    verses of wild flowers 
    bloom fragranced
    in her wake
    each one a dream
as she speaks
    butterflies emanate
    each flutter a
    petite metaphor
a mere glance
    a sonorous lament 
    an uplifting swell
    heart and soul
    melting and melding
and when she sings
    'tis a master class
    bübüls listening
    for inspiration 

i cannot explain
not in ten thousand
suddenly less mediocre 
poems and songs 

عيونك

a simple word
in many songs
i've heard it often
    maybe i've even
    heard you sing it
this word in every 
other song maqamed 
in my head

knowing it was 
meaningful in
some hopelessly
love lorn way
    yet... 
never bothering
to ask or try 
to learn

i have seen the word
set in your face 
steely icy hazel bluish
tear dropped almond
flecked kaleidoscopic
with bits of brown
teal and ebony
all set in the wonder
of divine geometry

etude in freud minor

it is the end of the day
tired and weary 
i should be sleeping
but choosing instead 
to write this little bit

writing tired and bleary
like driving drunk and dreary
really not a good idea...

what if something
    deep and strong
    something i would 
    or should or could
    you know, never share
    something dormant 
    in the dank subconscious
    basement of my soul
made it's way into this poem

and we both realized
how i really felt about 
the 'us' we never discuss
imagine that...
 

cat lady

you think you are
because you have two
a cat lady
i think you are too 

you glide gracefully
in and about 
wherever you 
wish to be...

aloof yet dedicated
actively lazily
doing what you
wish to do...

playfully solemn
radiantly quiet
contemplating what you
wish to wish... 

wanting to be loved
but not possessed
loving nature
sun drenched 
loving life
on the wish
of a wisp...  

new year's day

a blank page
a fresh start 
anything is possible
anything we want
that ideal, that person,
we want to be

this year
this very first day
of this new year
it's different
we sense it
we know it 
in our very core
no looking back
no surrender
i got this
you got this
we all got this

not just me
not just you
all of us
all of mankind
    no matter 
    our differences
    all our hatreds
    and biases
    that we've clutched
    with such passion
    most of our lives
    'til this very day

it wasn't
until nine 
a of the m
that the very first
pristine cynical thought
of this newborn year
bloomed in my head
breaking my old record
of 2 am...
    i am encouraged
    by my progress