Passing the dark corridors
of old longings
I inhaled Jasmine and roses
wiped my tears and walked to the
garden of nostalgia.
Rosaline and Anton
were dancing.
And I cannot recall who
was playing music.
The passionate soulful
and melancholic music.
My poems,
my unwritten poems are
running like live blood through
this image.
Maybe it is the ache
of missing you and knowing
that this spring nor on
any spring to come,
would you smile with me at
Rosaline and Anton.
And I savor all the
graceful movements in
the garden of nostalgia
because your poet heart
is beating in me and
Rosaline and Anton can dance forever,
they will dance forever
as you grab my hand
and dance away in the
garden of nostalgia while
the blossoms pour like rain
and the red apple in my hand is
shared only with you.
“Forever and always”,
you say.
Category: Hydeh Aubon
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Garden Of Nostalgia
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Your Music
You sat on the wooden chair
with your back to the window
and your cello in your hands.
Outside, the spring breeze
was swaying the tree branches
with green leaves ; Green as a
new life, new beginning.
A new beginning, always for
the first time.
The sun rays were embracing
the blue sky, the live trees and
the restless birds like a mother.
Earth- Mother with her
loving velvety embrace.
My gaze traveling
like a restless bird
from the outside-pouring life
to you.
You, with your eyes closed playing
so beautifully, sadly and passionately.
You were not aware of
the string of my dreams that
disappeared in the sky with
your music.
You were not aware that
I saw the trickle that ran down
your pale cheeks.
What were you seeing
with your closed eyes?
Who and what were you
playing for?
Your hands played
the unsaid and my hands
ached to write down this
fleeting moment.
The fleeting moment
that can never be framed
in anything.
Never, not ever.Hydeh Aubon (5/1/08)
– See more at: https://allspirit.co.uk/yourmusic.html#sthash.vFDVzdlo.dpuf
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Two Warriors and…
Two warriors sat in the rose garden.
With his weary eyes one followed
a white butterfly.
The other stood up and imagined
the ocean while inhaling the roses.
Far away a woman battled with her demons
one stronger than the other.
She wished to stand up in a rose garden.
he wished to forget in the rose garden.
and he wished to leave all to the ocean.
All wished another place, another state.
Where without knowing they were all standing hand in hand
going nowhere and further into mystery.
No, nobody knew.
Nevertheless, they were part of completion.
And the poet thought:
it doesn’t matter.
And that it doesn’t, makes me
write a poem dedicated
to whomever, wherever.Hydeh Aubon (7/31/08)
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If Not A Poem
If poetry is painting your moments
on the canvas of your heart,
if poetry is your soul taking you
to where your body is incapable
of traveling but your soul gallops to
with no limits, then,
this is my lot.
My lot of touching life through
expressing feelings that can be
dreams, or can this limit be a dream?
A nightmare? A mirage?
If my seeing my right foot
entering the pond of fresh water
while a swan is passing by peacefully,
if the first touch of water
bursts life in me,
if I can inhale the wild herbs
the fresh greenery
the wet forest,
then, this has to be a poem.
Maybe not professional
with the choice of words, grammar
or structure. But the swan
that was passing, the water lilies,
the colorful butterfly on the violet,
the playful robin, the poetry
in this raving silence, and God,
no, none of them care.
So this is my lot.
I bless it and thank it and
leave the “naming” to you.Hydeh Aubon (1/19/08)
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For Auta
Before sunrise Auta put
her moccasins on
wore her silver necklace
packed a small bag and
got on her black horse, Thunder.
Thunder, the carrier of dreams
Thunder, always galloping
to no where.
No where predestined, known, or
determined.
Where do you ride to Auta?
Is it the morning dew or
your tears that make
your beautiful eyes misty
and filled with unwritten poems?
When are you stopping Auta?
Where?
She ties Thunder to
an apple tree and
walks toward the lake.
Sitting on a rock she
opens her bag:
a piece of bread
a bottle of fresh water
dried flowers
a book of poems
and a mirror.
A sip of water,
a piece of bread and
the dry flowers that go
with the current of the lake making
magical patterns.
The old book of poetry opens
and Auta reads,
“There is no destiny,
make peace with that and
rest in love.
You are never late nor behind
so, just be and
rest in love.”
Auta looks in the mirror
Her silver necklace says,
your soul is a warrior and
love is your shield.
She gasps as she realizes
her own strength, and her own beauty.
The sun has risen and
Auta is not late
for anything.Hydeh Aubon (9/1/06)
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Moccasins For Auta
In the heart of night,
when the moon is pale and round,
when the crickets chatter is consistent
and the owl hoots occasionally,
In the depth of the darkness,
when the spring is running
cold, alive, and clear,
he sits on his old wooden chair
deep in concentration with his
deft hands.
He makes a pair of moccasins.
The little room smells of
tarragon and leather and when
he lifts his head to sip his tea,
he sees the big round moon
with the shining stars.
A candle burns steadily on the windowsill
and his eyes go from the moon to the moccasins.
Two big dark blue shining stars
one on each, and his work is done.
The stars are your dream Auta,
walk your dream in your dreams.
She feels the wet fresh soft and
harsh earth under her feet.
The cold and the ache run through
her veins like an unwritten poem.
She opens the old wooden door and
when she steps in the room, she brings
the smell of apples and rain.
He gets up wordless and she sits on
the wooden chair as following a strong
unknowing force.
He kneels and puts the moccasins
on her feet.
With his sad dark curls and
her thumping calm heart.
they are both noble and unreachable.
They are just for her.
She walks into the open,
the stars shine the same as
the stars in the sky.
Auta runs to the depth of mystery
She is not coming back.
He knows this, sips his tea,
listens to the crickets, owl,
and the spring, wipes his tears,
puts his working tired hands on his
noble face and sees the poem
of Auta.
Auta who runs with her dreams
in her dream and
Auta who knew all the unwritten poems
that were carried by the wind
just like her.Hydeh Aubon (2/1/07)
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Beautiful Mystery
My tears, since
I’ve known pain,
must have fallen
on your shoulders.
In the heart of eternal
loneliness, in the midst
of fear, in the labyrinth
of finding “the way”,
I’ve come to know
that there is no answer
and this has to be a
beautiful mystery.
Everything changes,
everything has changed,
everything will change.
I’ve felt you
in different seasons of my life:
the happy beginning of spring,
the majestic color and shapes
of what I could see and
what I couldn’t but imagined.
The giving summer,
the poetic autumn
and the quiet winter.
How could I ever trap
you in an image or
a notion?
You, the mystery
in the vein of life
the vein of being.
How could I assume any
shape for you when
my limitless spirit runs wild
and has none?Hydeh Aubon (3/27/09)