Ribbon Time: the Week Before.
Ribbon Time: The Week Before The women of the family still immersed in their prayers, As the shrine surrounds them with patience and half-darkness, Between the murmurs and the two of us Stand iron fences, a dusty ground and some blue tiles. Almost visible tears in his eyes, Not sadness, just the wind -- my father. Nothing to be afraid of, he sighs, just a red ribbon. My eleven years old mind gets offended. The older brothers of mine clear as a schoolbook: Sterilized hypodermic syringe, a government certified paramedic, Centuries old traditions and our young, modern republic. My friends jubilant, nasty firecrackers: The barber, the old barber slices it, With his dull, rusty razor, shaky hands, hairy, wrinkled! Emerging from the shrine My great-grandmother, my grand-mother Black shadows, ghosts, vague. My mother lovingly crisp As she pulls down her scarf -- soft, white. My father taps the end of his cigarette On the light brown packet. Tilting slightly my ceremonial cap With a smile hesitant between mischief and tenderness, What about a blue one, he says, Instead of red?
Adnan Adam Onart is a software architect. His Turkish poems have been published in various magazines; English work has appeared in the Boston Poet.