Letting go (Reflections) / by Nora M. Barghati


A concept I find to be a paradox of sorts is that of “Letting go”.
It is partly because I know the good that can come from leaving behind dead ends, and hopeless situations. I also know that shedding old ideals and beliefs for new ones to emerge is healthy and a significant part of our growth.

Nature is always teaching us to let go, that nothing remains, and that in place of the old, there always comes the new.
Trees letting go of leaves, oceans releasing their waves, birds flying nests, and herds of buffalo migrating north, are all a display of how smooth the flow of change can go.

But try reflecting that onto yourself, and the paradox I spoke of earlier is revealed. Letting go is never easy, and with it comes an abundance of negativity that at times can be overwhelming.
Why does something that is supposed to be good, feel so bad? Why does it feel like your letting a part of you go with each “let go”? Why are you never the same after that?

Generalization of the human experience is wrong, this I learned the hard way. For although we are all the same in the sense that we all have the same thoughts and feelings, how we interact with them in our life is totally dependent on each and every one of our life stories, and no life story is the same.

Letting go for some can be a release, breathing again, finding peace, for others it can be binding, suffocating, and tormenting. Letting go can mean a new binning, but it can also mean an end. It can leave one open to new possibilities and dreams, but it can also leave another shelled in within himself, and void of desire for achievement and success. Letting go might not work for me, even tough it worked for you.

Letting go should be a personnel choice, a personnel process, if undertaken then supported, but never forced. Letting go is not sudden, it’s never suddenly dark, night creeps in slowly as does day, seasons take their time, and each hour, minute, second; is an eternity going at it’s own pace. Not even seconds are in a hurry to let go of passing time.
(If you ever kissed a loved one, upon the lips, with closed eyes, you will know exactly what I mean).


© 2017 Nora M. Barghati (All Rights Reserved)

Image from Google


Dancing with Salt / By Nora M. Barghati



Not a believer
in superstition
bad luck
and the misfortune
that comes from
Black cats
Walking under ladders
Broken mirrors
and all that
I just spilled
a quarter cup of salt
or more
All over the kitchen counters
And floor
Then standing with hands on my hips
And a stream of curse words
fit for a whore
Escaping my lips
I tried to remember
Which shoulder it was
My mother
Threw the salt over
To ward off the evil that comes
From such a morbid fault
“The spilling of Salt”

Failing to recall
And trying not to fall
Face down
Butt up
On the white crystal mess
I dry my wet hands
on the hem of my dress
And with the tips of my fingers
I gather the stuff
Then with a whirle and a puff
I blow it
first over the left shoulder
Then over the right
Then with a curtsy bow
I bend
That almost had me
bumping my brow
On the basin
I switch hands
And do it again
Once to the right
Then to the left
Then again and again
Switching sides each time
’till it was all gone.

If one was to behold me
One might
Have thought me mad
But you see
a girl can never be sure
When it comes to treachery and lies




© 2017 Nora M. Barghati (All Rights Reserved)

Image from Google.

A Poet’s Anatomy / by Nora M. Barghati


A poet’s heart
A wandering nomad
With a sun scarred face
And earth cracked hands
And a little mad
Roaming the realms
Of his soul
In search
Of greener pastures
And safer lands

A poet’s word
A white dove
Plucked and caged
Then decapitated
At sundown
By a blunt sword
Held in the hands
Of a masked man
With an olive branch
Clenched tight
Between yellowed teeth.

A poet’s mind
A wild fire
Inside a black hole
Bathed in emptiness
And desire
You walk
A maze of pine trees
And flames
Where you’re bound
To get lost
Or burned
But in doing so
You are found.
© 2017 Nora M. Barghati (All Rights Reserved)

Art/ The poet recompensed, 1956 – Rene Magritte

Waking Up / by Nora M. Barghati


Smother me in darkness
keep me here
a little while longer
stifle my yawning
with the pillow
and curb my hunger
with a mellow

I do not want to
get out of bed
wash my face
brush my teeth
and undress
– I mean dress -.

I am a mess
in the morning
I am one at night

when I lay awake
listening to the sound
of you snoring
if you now think me boring
after three kids
a miscarriage
and a lack of appetite to screw.

wire me up.

My overcooked
tangled up
spaghetti like
and emotions
and slap
upon my tired soul
like leaping oceans.

In bed
awake and keeping
the ghoul
wearing my father’s blood stained shirt
away from the baby’s crib
and you
while you
lie next to me

Your limbs heavy and wet
with sweat
seek out mine
like tentacles
seeking out
a rust encrusted anchor
buried in the sand.

I bury my face
in your hand
under layers
of blankets
a moldy ceiling
and a starless sky
all tucked in nicely
under the watchful eye
of a blind God.

I am a mess

And you
Need to wake up
And undress
I mean dress.

I am a mess.

© 2017 Nora M. Barghati (All Rights Reserved

Image by Laura Stevens.