Poetry

I was at the Highland Park Poetry Open Mic last Friday, and got to participate in my first on-the-spot poetry challenge. The theme was Gifts. I managed the below in the eight minutes I had.

It irks me when I
Can’t figure out why
I can’t think of what sort
Of present to buy.

I know who its for,
And what makes her smile,
Yet this silly task
Is taking a while.

Oh well, I won’t sweat it,
I’ll settle for flowers;
So much for my ‘riginal
Thoughts all these hours.

And if she despises
My gift to her, I’ll
Utter these words with
A sincere smile:

And then I ran dry. I was stuck, stuck, STUCK! When Jennifer Dotson called my name, I walked up and recited it, and generated some laughter at my dangling ending. And NOW, three days later, I decided to finish with this…

“I fear to buy
What dazzles the eye
Lest it become to you
Much dearer than I;

But flowers shall wilt
Till they are a mess,
And spare you the guilt
Of loving me less.”

… just had to finish what I started.

Your anger is an ocean wave
You cannot leave to rise,
For once arisen must it brave
A path to its demise:

To slowly draw into its breast
Each vessel in its wake,
Then shatter all upon its crest
Before the downward break;

Or swell in silent solitude,
Across the fickle seas
To crash upon your shores and quench
Your grove of poison trees.

So slay no spirit, spare your heart,
And know the ocean wide,
That you may breathe the winds that quell
The ever rising tide.

To every orphan child, with love.

Up from my mother’s arms so cold,
I looked around the room to see
The many faces looking on
My handsome Abba peacefully
Asleep during the day.

I turned to see my mother who
Stood quiet with her statue face,
I put my hands around her neck,
And held her in my baby brace;
Then in the softest tone,

Inquired: “Ammi, Abba get up?”
Her face retained its rocky state,
I slapped her cheeks with both my hands,
And made the room to resonate:
“AMMI, ABBA GET UP?”

And then her face went soft and warm,
She slowly blinked her moistened eyes,
Her lips went tight, and tears streamed;
I thought an Ammi never cries;
My Ammi never cries.

And so I kissed her face and said,
“Ammi, Abba get up” again.
But that just made her weep some more,
To sadly shake her head, and then
To sit upon the floor.

And that was when I raised my arms,
Before announcing loud and clear:
“Ammi, Abba get up, Ammi,
Abba get up TOMORROW”. Dear
Ammi wept on but smiled.
Well said, my little child.

Take heart from what was spoken,
This true reminder token
Of sweet and soothing patience,
Absolutely beautiful:
Tomorrow to be woken.

My child, you live one day of you,
So live your day – gold, green and blue;
But live it right, and live it true,
That when the sun does set on you,

As I did, you may get up too,
Get up to live the rest of you;
Unto the Ever Living Who
Does love you with a love more true

Than mine could ever be for you;
So patience for one day of you,
This day of me and you;
Tomorrow is forever.

I heard this lovely story, supposedly true; beautiful regardless. I picked the names Jameel and Jameelah for ease.

No man could compare with gracious Jameel,
And there was no lady who was fairer than Jameelah;
Her beauty unmatched and manner genteel
Had earned her the admiration of the whole qabeelah.

So when he made known his noble intent,
The tribespeople feared an immediate rejection.
But when she did bashfully give her consent,
Jameel was commended by them all with great affection.

With only a week until the big day,
Jameelah was injured in an accidental fire;
Her beautiful face was burned in a way,
And destined to never be an object of desire.

She sent for Jameel, and fought back her tears,
Determined to free him from a formidable kindness,
But news of Jameel came flooding her ears:
A poisonous meal had just resulted in his blindness.

They met, and they wept, and patiently sat

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.

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 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”؟

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.