Phone Pains

When I was just a child, the phone Would ring to let you know That somewhere else a someone sat Awaiting your ‘hello’; You’d pick up the phone, or leave it alone; And that’s how far you’d go. And then there came the softening blow: The answering machine, That played (thanks to your greeting from Attempt number eighteen) Each message amassed, the first and the last, And all those in between. But Murphy’s law had barely seen The things that we’d bemoan; We sigh and roll our eyes at each Reverberating tone; Our hunger for tools has made us such fools: Won’t leave ourselves alone.

A Sonnet To My Children

Of all the things that make for sunny skies, And send upon my heart a summer breeze, I love you child, the coolness of my eyes, My anchor as I weather stormy seas. For when I put my arms around you, dear, And feel the softness of your warm embrace, It shrouds me in a love that is sincere, A love that goes beyond this time and place. But when I gaze into your sparkling eyes, And see myself in all my vanity, I gradually come to realize How superficial a love can be. Afford me love, surpassing mine for you, Well-founded in a greater love that’s true.

Becoming Friends

Day One: I sow my softest smile, And reap the harvest wilted frown. Day Two: I flash that smile and see Just why the fallen must stay down. Day Three: my customary smile Begets a mostly vacant stare. Day Four: the stare is lessened in The degree of its vacancy. Day Five: sweet reciprocity, As I detect the slightest nod. Day Six: the nod has swelled to bow, I marvel at this work of God. Day Seven: I get greeted first, We trade our names excitedly. Day Eight: I sow my softest smile, And reap the harvest ‘bundantly. Day Nine: we shake our hands to seal Our warm relationship in style. Day Ten: my dear friend receives Me in his arms before he leaves. And by the bye, know I ain’t I, I’m usually the other guy.

The Tracker

A hundred camels; fair reward, Thought Suraqa bin Malik, who Had set his eyes upon that prize, And knew precisely what to do; Instructing thus his faithful slave, He ordered her in secrecy To go prepare his agile mare, With the utmost rapidity. Then Suraqa slipped out of town, And with the greatest care was bound For where the bounty hunter’s mount Sat patiently without a sound. He started from the mouth of Thaur, And let his heightened senses glean From every trace in every space, The path his quarry must have seen. Into the desert, Suraqa Picked up on every clue with care And on he pressed without a rest To overcome the fleeing pair. Then as he came atop a dune, His skill and patience bore him fruit; For came in sight, to his delight, The object of his long pursuit. He gently spurred his trusted mare To canter at a steady pace, Then drew his bow, which he held low, And nocked an arrow, just in case. But when they came within his range, The duo swiftly turned around Which caught the bounty hunter’s mount By such surprise, Suraqa frowned. He masterfully reined her in, And forced her round to face the two, Their noble faces full of grace: A grace that graces very few. He drew his breath and shouted out A call to give in peacefully, But not a word, not one uttered By Taymi or by Hashimi. Then Suraqa, his bowstring drawn, Attempted to […]

On Certain Knowledge

The new anti-depressant pill, The iron-clad pretexts for war, That caring education bill, Those coupons that we line up for, All make us feel secure until… You drown your baby in the bath, You lose your son to smart-bomb wrath, You ace the test, but get no call, Our GM diet kills us all. Our home-grown double-yew-em-dee Is knowledge without certainty; And that is no knowledge at all. Lets read the writing on the wall, And taste the glory in the shame Of trying out this simple cure: As we defend the good we claim, Could we just mention, “We’re not sure”؟

About Me

The more I say, the less you hear; The less I say, the more its clear, That wishing for to know me more Is not a fancy you hold dear.

Humbling Fatherhood

‘Fit weren’t for fatherhood I’d never’ve understood That all the hurt my Dad did blurt Had come from something good ‘Fit weren’t for fatherhood I’d never’ve understood That every time he lost his mind He’d done the best he could ‘Fit weren’t for fatherhood I’d never’ve understood That if I can be half the man As he, then I’d be good.

Furrows In Your Brow

It ever pleases me to see The furrows in your brow That come about with every pout Begotten by a row; So let me plot and fabricate An argument somehow, That I may sigh, and gaze upon The furrows in your brow.