My poetry series on Channillo, Sand in my Parfait, now has twenty poems. My latest post is titled Grocery Blues. I’m off again upon a quest Here at the grocery store I’ve got my list upon my phone To help me keep the score Two yogurts, butter, milk and cream Three dozen eggs cage-free A packet of old fashioned oats A wedge of well-aged brie . . . . . You do have to subscribe to read the rest – just how Channillo works. Stay hydrated out there!
This was it. Samuel Elijah Perschbacher kept his eyes fixed on the gaggle of tots playing in the dirt. But that wasn’t where his head was. He had picked her out when she got off the bus on the other side of the park. He followed her every move – looking about innocently, stranger in town, casual conversation with a passer-by, asking for instructions, brush sleeve here, cough there, looking in purse. Oh she was good. He watched the lady in blue circle around till she was at his Two o’clock, then she made a beeline for him seated on the parkbench. A brown bag sat next to him. He watched without looking how she floated toward him like an angel. Slow but sure steps clicked on the pavement. They echoed inside his head. It helped him focus. “Excuse me. Is anyone sitting here?” * * * Read the rest of it on Channillo.
I enter where the cries of children sound And therein dwell until they die away Where mothers’ soft embraces can’t be found And fathers’ mighty hands may hold no sway; And though my anger swells, I have no leave To act till comes to pass the death of time, But well I see the the stricken when they grieve And well I study souls that fashion crime. My day will come, and when it comes, the damned Will find their hearts within my horrid clasp When all their hands had wrought, their necks, shall brand Until escapes their lips a wretched gasp. I weigh, withhold, withdraw to watch and wait For when inversion bears the damned their fate. – – – – – – – – – – Even the lowest angel forms are an intelligent force to reckon with, sworn to justice, unwavering, serving only The Muntaqim. Preserve us, O Rahmaan, in Your Love and Mercy.
My most recent submission to my short story series, The Gulmohur Tales. Abdullah Rasheed stepped off the quaint cobblestone pavement and entered the coffee shop. At thirty-two, he was an attractive man with large, caring eyes, a prominent nose, and a headful of wavy brown hair. His lips blended into ruddy cheeks in an ever-present smile. A lean and muscular frame showed through the snug apparel he wore, topped by a bright orange Cashmere sweater and a tan sports jacket – attire that a certain brand of confident yuppie specializes in pulling off without even trying.
This is an account of all the hands I love. I love: The hands of my father worn by service torn by sacrifice raised in prayer destined to be answered; The hands of my children moistened by their tears as they implore the Hand that encompasses my soul; The hands of my mentor that grasp my own when I lose my footing on that bridge, pulling me safely to firm ground, such strong hands; The hands of my Habib giving me drink from His Kauthar That I may feel thirst no more. I love his hands. The hands of my mother holding my face, kissing it, at last. She looks into my eyes, she finds them searching for something… someone… She knows. So she takes me by my hand to another mother I recognize, who steps aside to reveal you and places your hand in my hand. That’s why I bought this, this sorry product of silver and stone I’d like to think was wrought by some caring workman’s hands only to end up in a Macy’s display case, begging for rescue, longing for adornment: would you give it that? You know how much I love your hands. – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – Eid Mubarak! 🙂