Tag Archives: poems

imbalance (on storiesspace.com)

Loved?  *şüphesiz!

Cared for?  şüphesiz!

Respected? şüphesiz!


A son’s finances: hooked to a lifetime support.

The daughter somehow must breathe without!

*şüphesiz (Turkish): “without doubt”

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a fireball of tears (on storiesspace.com and on WritersCafe.org)

Don’t be burning, oh heart;

don’t be yearning

for those who can’t afford a love like you,

mistake life for this and that routine,

hold on to joys so dull and mundane.


You are in misery,

burnt from the core.

They can’t possibly cease,

these fireball tears.

And yet, one hopeful day,

also this hurt will fade away.


Don’t be dismaying, oh heart:

You will not always be ablaze.

You took your other half as love,

devoted to it your innermost.

However mesmerizing it has been

A mere mirage is all that it was.


Don’t be yearning, oh heart;

don’t be burning.

You loved to self-annihilate

What difference does it make?

Someday, this burn, too, will abate.




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Sinopem (on WritersCafe.org)

[The photograph is posted here with appreciation and due credit to http://www.facebook.com/SinopKuzeyYildizi%5D

the homeland enters the main vein

her incomparable scent penetrates each body cell


one stunning aroma after another

thirsting for her, beyond any measure

in hunger pangs

captive in intense longing


etched in permanence into memory

my childhood in many of her spaces

carefree years of my youth

the magic of my early adulthood


in the flesh and the blood,

distant memories,

reappearing as experiences


one corner of homeland

distinctive delight

an all-embracing town,

in unison with the sea

unlocks the long forgotten.


There, where it stretches out

onto the cheery harbor

main street peeks into ancient-old tea gardens

and more sea hugs the salt factory:

Right there, Divan café,

as alert as ever before, eyeing the old prison of the inner bay

not bothered by its maturing bent

sated with ancient echoes from devouring local specialties

on a mouth-watering decorative plate

by my childhood eyes and arousing sighs

a huge piece of revani –befitting my sweet-tooth-fame,

topped with ice cream –vanilla beans,

delighting generation after generation after generation

eight in total, the loved ones of mine


farther away lies the artery of the town

extending the slender path to Ada, the famed island

a ribbon bouquet in an April 23rd  parade

Çocuk Bayramı, Children’s Festival

flowing, in sync with streets so open, alleys so hidden

sweeping from each home

a memory of mine

making one anew


my eyes locked on the path to Ada again

the town’s highest peak

one short look away to the left and the right

the sea struts its clear blue wealth and might, unabashed

like the beauty of the town’s women, young and old


and there,

a breath away

there, right before me

with its mysteries of my childhood

that spectacular house


its paint ashen hue

wooden bricks, all worn-out

still standing high in aging humility

vies to breathe a little longer

its decades-old glances down upon the sea,

a tenderness on the soil, of a new mother’s hands

on which its roots are spread, soon to finally rest

ornate windows reaching toward the immense blue of the sky

Alas! Dear beings of mine

no longer there to warm its insides


on the entry steps

my mother

ever so young

ever so pretty

cheerful, too

my heart then wanders on to the captive past

a child of very young years on the faded print

her father arrives from work

through one of the colossal front windows

seated next to her mother:

a briefcase in one hand

on his head a wide-brimmed fedora

flattering to his stately height;

the child glued to his leg

a very dear soul of mine

my grandmother, however, remains in the dark

I cannot pick her out  – have never known her

for all but one photograph

my mom next to her, her face, in the light

but, the baby on her lap

that must be the other dear being of mine

the one beloved soul in whom none of us could take much delight,

stricken by a fatal disease

bid farewell ever so young


next to me

the unique scent of my mother

the warmest warmth of her heart


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“My loneliness is filled with people,” Kafka states.


Loneliness once:

Nighttimes –the worst, amid winter darkness

Days end in haste, day-ends prolong like childhood’s gummy sweets

in the hands of street vendors, looking unkempt, unwashed

lips not even touching the mom-water cup,

yet, devouring in full trust those stretchy rainbow-colored sugar treats


loneliness now:

Filled with sounds of indecipherable joy

two person bed in the morning, two person bed at night

Quiet at nighttime but witness to a commotion at dawn


the family of birds, greeting each new day, in non-stop frenzy

housed in my bedroom’s right corner window crevice,

frantic back and forth wing-clapping




fighting off intruders


how many birds were victims to slings of childhood’s neighborhood boys,

wood and ribbon killers of baby aviators

on their way to flying classes


loneliness now:

Filled with sounds of indecipherable joy

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A Winter Retreat (on storiesspace.com)

hours of road monotony

the GPS, a self-imposed dictatorship

tired, bored, no more beauty in the snow…



a private gateway;

a much anticipated spectacle:

The Inn.


A compelling magnificence.

No need for a color, a shade, or hue;

a winter embrace of splendor;

the smolder of her fireplace:


I feel  home.


Spacious beyond the eye’s capacity,

not at all an inn of limits;  

high-risers’ luxury at hand;

many may deem impersonal,

out of futile habit:

This, a B&B?


I feel home.


Eloquent, the host; the hostess: of elegance.

The puppy –acts like one yet outsizes me.

Struck by grave illness, the eldest feline

each night, in my Victorian space.

She, too, will break hearts, never to replace the pieces.

Just like my Russian Blue, Duman.


A mere three days’ span

filled with seeing



that authentic self

outside its rushed and rushing

fragmented and fragmenting

judged and judging

tested and testing



I am home.

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twinning with Munch – silent scream (Published in Pastiche, the magazine of the OLLI Writers Group and on WritersCafe.org))

onto death, I want to lay the self

my One and Only’s hope eyes erase the bed

before the head makes contact


onto death, I want to lay the self

deadlock is all I feel

what have I become?

what, though, had I been?


the husband…former already?

weary, distraught, ruined

my One and Only’s sun face takes a shadow now and again


it all began with her inside me

love took off to eternity with her every smile

my only precious bond to life

for whom I pushed aside the self

not one small regret

the one for whose hope death does not get me today


I made us a home, I glorified it

on my own for long, too long of many years

filling in for all marital lack: a promise is a promise after all!


years left, tens of years passed away

multiplied into trying decades

once looked aback, there exists a husband…

my One and Only’s sun face takes a shadow now and again

her graceful, not yet disheartened soul wound up

on the verge of a leap onto her own life


but…how about…


no, no, not possible!

once my One and Only is no longer home

having set onto her own path

the husband and I…

ways of ours ever so apart

how long, until where?

if the self can remain as self, that is!


onto death, I want to lay the self

my One and Only’s hope eyes erase the bed

before the head makes contact


onto death, I want to lay the self

deadlock is all I feel

what have I become?

what, though, had I been?



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silent scream II (published under the title “the silent wail” on www.storiesspace.com – username: meponis8)

no womb to take your tears to

the hurt, above you – you, only a petite full-grown

from a premature fetal fist – forced to let it lurk inside

the three hundred ninety grams of it all

as well as the mere seven pounds

not once

not twice

nor the nth time but

a content and eternal guest in you

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