The Tashtoo Parlour

Author of Pushcart Prize nominated collection "Nothing Left to Lose"and "Pulse" available everywhere. Poetry,Music,Art

“Like the eyes, the heart has a way of adjusting to the dark.”

—   adam stanley (via iamadamstanley)

So good…

(via iamadamstanley)

A wild rain dance

mason-rhett-ford:

Indian summers, quickly turn
during the rains, monsoons leave
nothing untouched, even slum-dogs
roam free between jaundiced yellow
bricks and darkened unlit alleys,
the night-sky revels in a painted
cloak of black above them, eyes
bank wide as they hasten steadily,
treading lightly,…

tashtoo:

#poetry

tashtoo:

#poetry

tashtoo:

There are ghosts here. Vaporous voices, whispering of times past.
We pretend not to notice. Go through the motions, never questioning the ache that weighs heavy on our bones.

Their bodies caress, a cold hand against a warm cheek. Our flesh shivers, we pull our sweater tighter, a smile that never warms our insides.
We know we’re dying, still we grasp for yesterday, though we know it’s never more.

We ignore and wither. Slow, painful…they warn of the bitterness that festers. Angry at our denial.

It is our own voices, singing from the past, trying to force our living hearts, to turn toward the light. To let go and let them be.

A haunted heart
Cannot be free. 

Natasha Head
#poetry

tashtoo:

There are ghosts here. Vaporous voices, whispering of times past.
We pretend not to notice. Go through the motions, never questioning the ache that weighs heavy on our bones.

Their bodies caress, a cold hand against a warm cheek. Our flesh shivers, we pull our sweater tighter, a smile that never warms our insides.
We know we’re dying, still we grasp for yesterday, though we know it’s never more.

We ignore and wither. Slow, painful…they warn of the bitterness that festers. Angry at our denial.

It is our own voices, singing from the past, trying to force our living hearts, to turn toward the light. To let go and let them be.

A haunted heart
Cannot be free.

Natasha Head
#poetry

(via tashtoo)

tashtoo:

Space is an illusion Escape futile Red has never held the promise of hope Scarlet letters painted to keep the lie alive
We are dreams within nightmares Belonging to the monsters we ignore Ignorance colors our windows A landscape without form
There is concrete above and below Every secret wish, hidden longing Cementing our failures in a world That would never let us achieve
It remains content to let us keep running Corner to corner Locked doors In a room with an imagined view.
#poetry #Tashtoo #NatashaHead

tashtoo:

Space is an illusion
Escape futile
Red has never held the promise of hope
Scarlet letters painted to keep the lie alive

We are dreams within nightmares
Belonging to the monsters we ignore
Ignorance colors our windows
A landscape without form

There is concrete above and below
Every secret wish, hidden longing
Cementing our failures in a world
That would never let us achieve

It remains content to let us keep running
Corner to corner
Locked doors
In a room with an imagined view.

#poetry
#Tashtoo
#NatashaHead

ignudiamore:

The Communicant.
Henri Le Sidaner.

ignudiamore:

The Communicant.

Henri Le Sidaner.

(Source: shakypigment, via shralec)

i. I should have returned to you that morning, instead of boarding that well lit early morning city bus. How zombie-like with gaunt faces, sleep still heavy in our bones, we made our way to give ourselves to the moil of soulless work.

ii. I should have returned to you that morning, feet echoing through the dank, dark Philadelphia air, where fools and early morning runners seek to stave off dying.

iii. I should have returned to you that morning, raced again through the familiar welcoming foyer, the cramped apartment anxious with future days, passing the mire of unpaid bills and sleeping shadows, to where I’d crawl back into the oasis of our bed.

Your skin succulent with the water of roses, the pure mist of innocent mountains, the life giving trees of

Your arms.
Your arms.
Your arms.

iv. Into your arms warm yet fresh with the joys of living to deliver myself…to be twisted into the gentle shapes of madness - all over again.

—   (via sirmorose)
The exodus from the village
Driven by the myth of plenty
Stole the youthful 
And with them
The hope for better

Elders left to fend for themselves
Wise words now shared with the wind
The breeze not strong enough
To carry them to the ears that need to hear

Orchestrated by the greedy
Content to feed upon the needy
There was life here once
I lived it

Natasha Head
#poetry