Whale And The Doorway

By Hydeh Aubon

Facing the ocean,
I stood in a doorway
with no door.
It was made out of ancient rocks,
it was unsteady and full of cracks,
and, it was built on sand.
Nevertheless, I stood high
and observed the ocean.
Once, a horseman passed
with a basket of fresh herbs.
I accepted the herbs,
the passion and generosity
of healing, turned my face,
and I let him go.
Once, a lady passed with
a basket full of fragrant blossoms.
I accepted the promise of life,
the promise of never-ending
new beginnings,
and I let her pass.
Once, a child was running with a group of
colorful butterflies and in her
hand she held a kite
soaring so high with
a rainbow tail of dreams,
manifesting with each step.
I watched her pass as I envied her.
Once, a group of
unknown spirits passed
lovingly smiling at me;
vast, as the unknown
beautiful as uncertainty,
unreachable as answers,
and familiar as nothing and everything.
I closed my eyes, so afraid of
the possibility of them being real.
Recently, an old being
stood in front of my doorway
and without uttering a word asked me,
how long was I going to
stand in a fragile doorway
without ever stepping forward?
I said, I know of a whale
in the vastness of this ocean and
sometimes, I just close my eyes
and the whale hears me.
One day, I will walk to the ocean
get on the back of that whale
and go to the endless
unknown.
I looked into the unknown’s eyes
an old hand was stretched
and I grabbed it stepping
outside of the doorway.
The smell of apples, herbs, blossoms,
the ocean,and
the presence of eternity,
What could be more magical?
What could be so uncertainly reassuring?
No, I do not need to follow the colorful butterflies
or enviously look at the birds soar
or a kite of my dreams vanishing
in the beyond.
The hand I grabbed was my own
and when I smell the apple,
somehow, I know
that nothing matters.

Hydeh Aubon (2/1/09)

More poems from Hydeh Aubon

 

 

Paper Star

It was mid-June
the sky clear as if
nothing ever went wrong,
as if nothing was ever going
to disturb your poetic melancholy.
You stood before the tall glass window,
walked determined and unsure
and suddenly you were before the ocean
and suddenly I was drinking tea
on the peak of Himalayas
this is what I’ve always loved about you:
knowing and not knowing,
daring and not caring.
making a long trail of colorful paper stars
and letting them fly.
They don’t seem to ever come back.
“They don’t ” , you say.
One day , one night,
they appear in your darkest hour.
When suddenly you are breathing
the salty fresh ocean air,
when the fresh scented air
on top of a mountain makes you one
with the running spring, soaring bird,
wild flowers, and the shiny little creature
that crawls on a dandelion.,
then unknowingly you felt it in your being
that everything you did, said, learned,
longed for, suffered or struggled for,
no matter how real and harsh,
was just another paper star.
And only when you let the star go,
It came back to you
certain, shining and guiding
like a true friend.,
like your beautiful soul.

Hydeh Aubon(6/12/09)

No

Deep in the desert
she sat on the honey colored sand
and watched an eagle fade in the far.
Her tired hands dug uncertain shapes
in the sand that was warm
like life.
Look how it slips away
from my tight fists.
Several steps away
there is a lone flower.
I don’t know,cannot know
and shouldn’t know
of how it is that
a lone flower stands in the
midst of this vast desert,
so proud, so beautiful,
so certain, brave, strong
and fragile.
This silence is holy.
Having no answers is holy.
I am not looking for enlightenment,
awaiting an epiphany or a miracle.
Why should I complain?
If my journey
has been crooked, twisted and
thorny with endless labyrinths,
I also have known beauty,
and I have known and always
will know of longing
in the midst of this
endless desert.
To long is passion
passion like poetry
running in the veins of life.
I’ve seen a lone beautiful flower
my heart aches from
the thought of what has been, is, and will be.
I stand before the unknown.
The unknown that
has always been there and
with all my being, I know it.
The unknown that is so certain
of leaving me in pain, darkness
and confusion;
The unknown that reassures
me of the vastness of love, growth
and beauty.
The unknown that is my shield
against everything and anything I encounter.
You slip away from my grasp
and yet,
you are always here
and no,
I do not have any questions.

Hydeh Aubon (7/16/09)

Eddy

It was pure poetry
when you were
a lone traveler
in your canoe and
suddenly the sky
darkened by a flock
of migrating birds.
All you could hear was
the flapping of their wings
and their wild calls.
For a brief time there was
no time.
You put your hands around
your shoulders and looked
the other way where
a lone bird was flying
in the opposite direction
determined, noble and
uncertain.
You saw the bird among
the crowd of many.
“That was my unwritten poem”,
you said.
“Where everything is
so urgent to survive,
I go where the unknown may
or may not welcome me.
I go embracing pain
to be embraced by
beauty”.

Hydeh Aubon (1/27/09)

My Spring

Yes, there is someplace
a deep place,
a lonely place.
Unreachable, unexplainable,
and mysterious in me that
longs for you.
When the air feels still
and a cool soothing breeze
suddenly brushes my face,
I know, in my heart, that
you are aware of this longing.
The Dogwood has bloomed
outside my window
and my feet long to feel
the fresh lively earth.
It is in the shower of
pink, yellow, and white blossoms
that I imagine you.
You twirling and smiling as
if there has never been
any pain. no,
only rapture, only love.

Hydeh Aubon (3/29/07)

 

The Gypsy Man

He stood there everyday
with the colourful cloth
spread on the ground.
People called him “tinker”
I called him “beautiful.”
I never got tired of watching him
putting his beautiful items one by one
on the beautiful cloth.
The story was always the same:
I’d walk to him
and point at one of his items,
“how much?”
He’d look at me with his big beautiful eyes and say,
“it’s not for sale.”
Enviously I’d look at the items:
little suns,
little moons, little stars, and little horses.
They were all beautiful
and they were all made out of thin colourful paper.
There were “real” earrings, bracelets, and necklaces too
but, I never looked at them, not really.
One day I asked him angrily,
“why do you display your art when you’re not selling it?”
“It’s just a reminder”, he said.
“A reminder of what?” I asked.
He smiled and I saw
the ocean in his eyes.
I was falling in love with him and
he didn’t know it.
One day he didn’t spread the colourful cloth
“come to the ocean with me”, he said.
I followed him as if under a spell.
The ocean looked like his eyes:
deep, mysterious, and full of life.
He opened his cloth
and the wind blew away
the paper suns, moons, stars,
and horses.
I looked at him with tears in my eyes.
“my dreams will never die”, he said
“and neither will yours”, he added.
And then he smiled his beautiful smile.
I reached out and held him.
My lost home was in his arms, a gypsy traveler.
Knowing that he wouldn’t understand,
in my native tongue I whispered,
“I love you.”
We walked back to the city.
We bought hot tea.
Thinking that I wouldn’t understand,
In his native tongue he sang me a goodbye song.
Before I left he looked into my eyes
I saw the ocean in his eyes.
With tears in his eyes he said,
“I love you too”.
His words drifted away
like thin paper stars
They were my dreams
and my dreams would never die.

Hydeh Aubon (1/11/04)

Red Scarf

Your face halfway hidden
in the red scarf that she
knitted for you long ago
when you wouldn’t turn
your face from the ocean and look
at her.
I remember that day when
she was sitting on a wooden chair,
the room smelled of tarragon and firewood
and you stood with your back to her
staring at the ink blue ocean.
Her hands knitted steadily and
you never knew the pain she endured
with the hands that disobeyed with
pain. And you never knew
that each time she stared at your dark
sad curls, she knitted her stifled
poems into a red scarf that
you wear now to hide your beautiful face.
And she remembers all this with
a faded smile while she knows
the ocean could still be inky blue
and your scarf must still be poetically red.

Hydeh Aubon (12/27/07)