Millenial Thoughts Poem by Krista TaltsNassehi

I-Midnight

Surrounded by milk breaths
of the child in her arms, she
gazes out the window as
midnight spirals past on
ink-stained ravens wings.

Ashen shadows blend and slither.
Tides exhale nocturnal breaths.
Brambles pinken; early sap awakens
under January haystacks of snow.

Amber sounds waft up, couched in cotton.
Fat, full, celebratory sounds. The child
turns, sweet smelling curls spill over
her arm, and her arm curves around
her mother’s neck.

“To auld lang syne”
whimper unheard, wintry voices
as they stumble over frozen earth
beneath inkstained raven’s wings,
spread wide and thin. “A pox on this vile
century. Good riddance to our
misery, our memories of bliss,
crimson as a rose, lost to our
tattered wakefulness so long ago.
Our wars and hungers are our rags.
Our foes are ashes. Our friends
are dust. Deliver us soon”

Sounds waft up in cotton,
round, full wholesome sounds.
Welcome new era! Welcome!
Peace, prosperity. Welcome,
joy and justice. This new page
so clean and new.

The world turns on its axis. Tides
wheeze nocturnal breaths.
All is well.

Ashes mingle with dust.
Downward, haphazardly
seeds burrow hotly in
the froze dust. Black
eyes. Blue eyes.
Deliver us.

II Morning

“When we were dancing and
you’re dangerously near me…”

“Romantic Sarajevo.
Slow and smooth and
oh so dangerously
thrilling. I longed
to see the prince again, but
there was always Sophia
in the way. They had
this lovely motor car.

“I get ideas, I get ideas”

and then,
and then,
I never saw
him again.

In morning mist, with sleepless
eyes, she stands, surrounded
by the mild breaths of the
child in her arms. The child
reaches upward, pink floret
fingers reach upward to
touch her father, handsome,
splendid on the
prancing horse,
white dappled.

“..non. Je ne regretted rien”


III Noon

The world marks time silently
to unheard music of the spheres.
The seas heave and sigh.

Opaque with soot, the noon sky’s
invaded by humming planes. Soft
fluffy down puffs dot the sky, lighter
than dandelion down. Robust spheres
shimmer, float in the air, arc down-
ward, their downfall quick and large
as children keel over
catching the prize
everywhere.
Anywhere.

“…la vie en rose”

“Children, you were too young to remember
the white currants, transparent, big like
grapes; and the gooseberries, and oh,
we had so many cherries. So beautiful.
But it was time to evacuate and we had
to vacate and everything stayed
there and then father came the last
time and then, then, we never
saw him again.”



Shrouded fields
sprout poppies like
globules of blood to
whispering rhythms.
Our friends to ashes,
our foes to dust.

Moses
Mohammad
Attilla
Adam, and
black eyes
blue eyes
sad eyes
cruel eyes.

The eyes are here but do not see.

Fallow soil becomes fertile
nourished by fulsome rain.
Ash and dust conmingle.

A neglected weed, forgotten
hybrid incubates, grows fat
and full. Ripens redder than
a poppy under generous
skies. It burst its pod in
small, silent sighs. When
it’s time, pollen drifts
and billows.

Borne by the winds, lighter than fluff
it winds into clouds, at ease.
Floats lazily in air and, when its
time, descends
calmly
relentlessly and
settles everywhere.

Deliver us soon

I wanna rock around the clock tonight…”

III Dusk


A child reaches up to touch
the father. Handsome, brave
aside his prancing horse.
Blue eyes
Black eyes
cruel eyes
empty eyes.

The century rocks forward
with digital speed. Boots
strut in blooddust. Shalom.
Salaam. Keening into paradise
or the waters of oblivion.
Explosives shatter.
All’ah Akbar.
God is great
and merciful.
Amen.

Others man consoles, user friendly
spec’d for ecological equilibrium.

“One potato, two potatoes, three.
‘It’s me! It’s me! Solar
plexus hunkered down for maximum
efficiency. “Now” Yes now! Hairtrigger
button, vectors, longitudes,
latitudes, velocity of winds of war and desolation.
Button, button. Control
Alternate Delete. Control
the recalcitrant wind –
erode the sands of time.
The all powerful.
Feactals-black holes

The earth, bountiful
with bees, bluebells,
bracken. Berries
ripen, big as grapes.
Brambles flower.

Weeds shoot up. A red
winged raven zigzags
through emerald trees.
Old oaks shrivel in dry
thunder.
IV – Midnight

Surrounded by milk breaths
of the child in her arms
she gazes out the window
as midnight spirals past
on inkstained raven wings.

The child turns,
sweet smelling curls
spill over her arm
and her arm curves
around her mother’s neck.

Midnight syncopates
the snorting thunder of four horse
men as ashen shadows blend
and slither under
January haystacks
of snow.


To auld ang syne
whimper unheard
wintry voices





Light as milk breaths,
light as the star of the sea,
light as a word,
as light as a dream.
A white wing hesitates and
disappears into the sky.
Small hands reach up and
steeple, white against the
inkstained sky. So small. So small.

Epilogue: Beethoven’s Symphony No.9 in D Minor, OP 125 (Ode to Joy Libretto by Friedrich Schiller) Choral Finale – Baritone Solo, Quartet & Chorus.

Joy, thou shining spark of God
daughter of Elysium
with fiery rapture, goddess
we approach thy shining
Your magic reunites those
whom stern custom has
parted. All men will
become brothers
under your
protective
wing.