Sonnet

He labeled every Mexican a rapist,
And blacks and immigrants as murderous tramps;
He mocked a disability, will stay pissed
At Muslims who he wants to put in camps;
He said a fellow-candidate was ugly,
And spoke about a moderator’s menses,
Said P.O.W.’s were lesser, smugly,
And wants to stand up walls and barbed wire fences;
He quoted Mussolini; he has stated
He’d lose no backing if he’d kill a man;
I could go on about the stuff he’s hated,
But wonder in conclusion if he can
Convert the greatest nation on this earth
Into a land of negligible worth.

To see a flower open into sun,
To hear the crack of dawn in sparrow's tweet,
To breathe the sounds of children having fun
Through syncopated pats of toddler feet;
And then to leave that all behind to join
The wheel that swallows everything it finds
To spin its labor straw into a coin
As shiny as its meal of chewed-up minds;
It's hard upon a silent, weary eye
That misses hearts long dead and longer cherished,
That knows no inability to cry
And cries so long as longing hasn't perished.
The solemn rite of weeping in the rain
Is all a fool for love can hope to gain.

Part 1: She

She tuned out all the noise around her to
Resolve the last equation in her head.
It is a thing resourceful students do
To bide their time on school bus rides instead.
She owed her sanity to math and shop
The numbers and the wood were her recourse
From arguments at home that wouldn’t stop
And parents inching closer to divorce.
But how she loved her sister very much,
Her twin, her friend for life, it made her smile
To feel her sister’s hand reach out and touch
Her own, they sat together for a while.
They left the bus and parted ways for class,
That’s when she saw him standing on the grass.

Part 2: He

The grass was wet, but he was feeling dry,
Although he hadn’t slept the night before,
He didn’t spend a moment thinking why:
That ship had sailed and left behind, the shore.
He’d known the combination all along
And found in there the fully loaded Glock
He’d long believed that he didn’t belong
The time had come to break free from the flock.
He chucked the cigarette and made his way
Across the yard without another thought
Then walked right in (was just another day)
Without the slightest care he would be caught.
He went straight down the hallway and began
To execute more than his deadly plan.

Part 3: They

She set the papers in the usual place
As tiny feet tapped syncopated beats
To send a golden sunshine to her face
That greeted students rushing to their seats.
The ultrasound had said it was a boy,
Then someone made a joke about her size,
She joined the laughter, planning to enjoy
Whatever kept the humor in her eyes.
She passed the graded papers out before
Announcing there would be another test,
Then touched her belly lovingly once more.
And that was when she felt the need to rest:
Why was the flooring pressed against her cheek?
She couldn’t breathe, nor had the strength to speak.

Part 4: We

They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re dead.
They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re dead.
It was supposed to be another day.
Tomorrow may be just another day.

I'm on my back, and staring into space
And though my eyes seem vacant, they are filled
With broken spirits from another place
Where mothers watch their children being killed.
It doesn't matter who the killers are,
It doesn't matter who the bleeding be,
What matters is that although I am far,
I feel the dark effect it has on me.
For laying frozen on my bed, I stare
As if each passing second is my toil
Against this grave oppression laying bare
My shallow games of empathy that spoil
An evening of laughter, games and fun,
And lists of silly things that must be done.

Note to Ode Enthusiasts: This is a ten line stanza in iambic pentameter following the scheme ABAB and a Miltonian sestet CDEDCE. Styled after the first stanza of Keats’ Ode On A Grecian Urn, and guaranteed to fall short.

Warning: Elizabethan tone ahead

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What magic doth transpire 'tween mind and pot
That warmly welcometh what once formed cage,
But now is seasoned, salted, shredded, brought
To tenderness thy hand hath come to gauge.
I sense the bay leaf draping sprigs of thyme,
Its fragrance courting parsley laying soft
Upon a bed of blushing carrots and
Rosemary aromatic, wont to waft
Toward my sense olfactory till I’m
Impassioned forth to rise and kiss thine hand.

A sonnet deploring the apathy and inaction of wealthy neighbors letting hapless refugees seek out asylum far away from home. The use of first person here points to government rather than citizen.

My palace isn’t big enough for you
And me, so I suggest you take a ride
Just down the street to where a pot of stew
May see a face that has no place to hide.
My gross insensitivity may seem
Disgusting to the world, but how can one
By any measure realize his dream
With mendicancy blocking out the sun.
I need my oil to generate me power,
And power runs the air conditioning:
You know we need it hour after hour
To cool the passions all this wealth can bring.
So let me breathe and be now on your way,
My gold will weigh me down another day.

Order. It pervades all things, inextricably linking what we sense in this world with what we cannot beyond it. It’s everywhere.


The stars above, and the galaxies of souls below.
The tongue, and the eternal Garden it tends to.
The soft bloom of a rose welcoming sun, and a prayer answered.
The silent obeisance of the trees, and the circumambulation of the planets.
I imagine the marauding armies of men portending hosts of avenging angels joined in ranks, faithfully holding back for an appointed time.
I suppose then that one may hope to divine the next move of a man by looking to what his child has done.


But then I also expect rain at my every act of heedlessness. It seldom falls.

In Sonnet

Each thing that meets the eye is but a sign
Of something that lives on beyond this earth;
Our souls reflect celestial design,
And cool remembrance brings a Garden’s birth;
The answer to a prayer like the sun
That bathes the petals of a blooming rose;
The silent bowing of the trees as one
To match the manner every planet goes.
I wonder if the blood that armies spill
Portends a host of angels foming ranks
Awaiting the allowance of their will
To carry out the justice it demands.
I often think my sins will bring the rain,
But all that falls are hopes that rise again.

There is a moment in the still night air
That passes by a pair of swollen feet,
A moment when each heart submerged in prayer
Breathes in the sweetest fragrance of retreat,
When all of space is folded in a tear,
And time compressed into a Word Divine,
It is a moment cool, compact and clear
Like drops of shiny dew upon a vine.
You seek this moment fervently without
And speak of it at every chance you win,
But all that ever matters is about
A silent search entirely within.
There is a moment in the still night air,
A moment that is you submerged in prayer.

Inspired by Shaykh Amin’s profound words on Laylat-ul-Qadr.