Word, like wind, cuts through you / Withers all but true you
To be one with the babble of river,
The soft whispers of cedar and pine;
To be one with the mountain, the wind and the sea
And the swallow and swift in decline;
To be one with the wave in surrender
As it breaks on the shore in relief;
To be one with the dew at the first light of dawn
As it kisses the face of a leaf;
To be one.
We’ve fled the city with its memories
Of breaths and names, and instead left behind
Our fickle footsteps lost to every breeze
And found again beneath the weight of mind.
I teeter on a slippy edge of time
As teenage chatter drowns the car I’m in
In laughter that must constitute a crime
When fused with snores designed to waken Jinn.
There is no thinking I could ever do
While in this otherwise efficient train,
No headphones block the sounds I play unto
My mind which never falters to retain
The garbage that once heard stays on repeat
Until I’ve gotten off this blasted seat.
The first, when tragedy befalls a soul
Through sudden death or grievous injury,
Through feeling quite a measure less than whole
When comes the hurtful loss of dignity.
The second, when a soul is drenched in praise
With all its humbleness exposed as wealth
That in its terribly intricate ways
It attributes all greatness to itself.
The third, when heedlessness sets heart on fire
And pours despair abundantly as fuel
But then the inward eye, it drowns desire
And sends its soothing waters up to cool.
This is the day, now is the time to cry
To let your love return and cool your eye.
We like So Much so much; let me explain.
Some nights we cuddle up as dad and tot
And let the rhyme and flexible refrain
To captivate us for the time we’ve got.
Mom’s cool, and although Auntie Bibba rocks,
It’s Uncle Didi, Nannie and Gran-Gran
We love: the lingo Cousin Kay-Kay talks,
Big Cousin Ross, and Daddy who’s THE MAN.
“Again!” I dodge the sleepy tot’s protest
And send the book to shelf with skillful toss,
Distracting him with “Who do you like best?”
He flashes toothy grin, “Big Cousin Ross.”
So much is such an entertaining book
By Helen Oxenbury and Trish Cooke.
Knocked before shot.
The silent must go
If a clue’s to be got.
Turn me over, let me be
Every opportunity
That you lost, and then there’s those you had.
I was once alive like you
Green and sprung from morning dew
Life is beautiful when times are glad.
Watch me close and trace my veins
Seen my share of storm and rains
I’m a story waiting to be told.
Stay the course and you will find
All you’ve wished for in your mind
Sit with me and feel the green turn gold.
Strong is my spine, so hold me
That I may relate all that’s told me
Through leaves often red,
And though I be dead
I’m yours till you’ve given or sold me.
Another Friday here, there’s nothing new
But words of hate and death and plans to kill
All justifiable by parties who
Have pawned their souls to execute their will
Who measure justice, let oppression rain
Who ought to love their neighbors, want them dead
Who swore submission, fight for petty gain
Who long for peace, burn children still in bed
It’s time we turned to where our faiths still stand
Abandon feeling good about our states
Because if feeling good is all we’ve planned
Then we have crystallized our rotten fates
Humanity, all, at a banquet rests
Let’s eat what’s served and spare the other guests
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!
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 fettered souls within my clasp
When all their hands had wrought, their necks, shall brand,
And naught may ‘scape their lips but wretched gasp.
I weigh, withhold, withdraw to watch and wait
For when the cold inversion seals their fate.
– – – – – – – – – –
Even the lowest angel forms are an intelligent force to reckon with. They are sworn to justice, unwavering, serving only Al-Muntaqim.
Preserve us, Ya Rahmaan, in Your Love and Mercy.