Beauty is a Million Colors

By Mihran Kalaydjian, CHA

Consultant, Strategist, and Writer

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Beauty is more than appearance
Beauty is love
The graceful wings of a dove
The endless imagination in a dream
Beauty is not always something that can be seen

Beauty is laughter
And the remembrance after
Beauty is hope
When you have no reason to
Beauty is he and she and me and you

Beauty is forgiving
No matter how hard
Beauty is kindness
Making the best of a mess

Beauty is tears
And overcoming your fears
Beauty is individuality
The courage to be yourself
Beauty is a book, sitting on a shelf

To define beauty,
An impossible task
Because truly,
Does anyone really know, I ask
Beauty is different to me
Than to you
I wonder if anyone ever knew

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Lips to touch your lips

By Mihran Kalaydjian, CHA

Consultant, Strategist, and Writer

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Lips to touch your lips
And my lips near
vôtre by your panties touches you both
And your augmented lips and augmented
Until augmented, your flow of juice began
By the center of your
panties and as I drank through more
And more, by the mutual exchange
The hole was humid and
While the environment to you was moist
your panties developed tropical and hot
Lips
Cannot they be yes, ‘apart made
expected by the center of your panties.

Is It Poetry

 

 

 

Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem

By Mihran Kalaydjian, CHA

Consultant, Strategist, and Writer

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My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think

praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what’s happening,

it’s what they write grants about: the chromo dynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of Old Battersea Bridge.
I like the idea of different

theres and elsewhere, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook

of a cousin universe I’ve never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,
your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb

but couldn’t hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother’s belly
she had to scream out.

Here, when I say I never want to be without you,
somewhere else I am saying
I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet,

in all of the lives we are, it’s with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don’t touch you it’s a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.