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Saturday, October 29, 2011

Self Discovery

Self Discovery

I sat in a meeting once; a school improvement meeting, as my children were in elementary school at the time. The principal asked the members what we dreamed of becoming when we were children growing up. Answers ran the gambit from doctor, lawyer, accountant, to ballerina, athlete, and rock star. When it was my turn to answer, I took no hesitation and replied...a mom! At first people were aghast, taken aback. How could a child not dream past the captivity of parent hood? This is not a career, a calling. Then there was embarrassment, as all of these people were parents themselves.

Yes, I replied. I have always wanted to be a mom! I loved my mother, my childhood growing up, the idea of loving and being loved in return; unconditional love, I believed, that existed only between a parent and child. I devoted %110 of my time, patience, and self to the nurturing of my two children. Night after sleepless night of feedings, fevers, and night terrors. The reading of books, rocking to sleep, and eventually sending off to school; where the influence of the outside world could undo the morals we, as mothers, so meticulously instill.

Fatherhood is a different beast. Men define themselves by what they do; I'm a doctor, a lawyer, a government stiff. When their career is defined, and financial status secured, then, they look to accessorizing with wife and children. All the while, however, that part of who they are, the career, never waivers. They go to work every day secure in the knowledge that the doctors appointments will be scheduled, school lunches packed, homework completed, and wife will be happy to greet him at the door, as long as the paycheck is in hand.

Then, the day comes when the children don't need round the clock care. It is enough that they know your physical presence is located in the kitchen or living room where they can easily access you if need be; god forbid you be in the bathroom, bedroom, or laying on a beach somewhere, their world falls apart. Now you are asked the question, “What are you going to do with the rest of your life?” People now want to know how you are going to make a living, pay for college, support the house hold. All the while you thought you had a career, and your home was it.

So I started on a journey; one of self discovery. Who was I? What interests and passions did I possess past those of the immediate needs of my family? They should never have asked, because I found I did have them; and the universe fell apart. I revealed abilities within myself I did not know existed.
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Wednesday, June 8, 2011


Smile for me

Show my reflection
through scintillating eyes
Radiate your warmth
from dimpled cheeks

Share one thousand thoughts
coaxing concupiscent dreams
with a mere visage

Melt away my vulnerability
using only the soft fullness
of your wanting lips...
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Sunday, January 30, 2011



Sky lines filled with rich aromas of hearty green tea
no longer wet my palate; instead golden pound cake
dipped into robust flavored coffees give one last burst
before winter's slumber

succulent fruits turn to pumpkin pie and the
elephant's eyes search the mazes for children
dressed as goblins and ghosts.
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Monday, November 1, 2010

Life's Breath

You two
are life sustaining
My world
umbilically tied
to one
rhythmic beat

And I grasp for air
for time to allow me
to once again
breathe easy.

My lungs
fail me
Pain sears
my chest wall
My heart aches

And I grasp for air
for time to allow me
to once again
breathe easy

Life's Breath
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Sunday, August 15, 2010

Du'a Khalil Aswad

Recoil into your resistance
into your self
into fetal dreams
that once nourished you...

For man, in his dominance
is dehumanizing;
shrouding your dignity
under the feigning of salvation...

Let go the remnant
of this mortal life.
Induce reverie's delivery
to a celestial sphere filled with love...

Resile your fear and subjugation
allowing your supernal soul to flourish
with all the purpose you were born...

The Stoning...

When winter winds
fellate through naked limbs
clinging to their trunks
howling and moaning

When the sun submeres
into a cold dark sea
not allowing the sky to blush

When thick fog
breaths heavy on the ground
indifferent to the beads of rain
slipping from the lashes of
the meadow's wild flowers

Then Mother Nature did not prepare
her daughters well...

For the forces known as man.

As Nature Would Have It...

Why don't women invest their assets
At whose cost do children end their futures
What is the price tag on human worth

The reason all beings continue or stop...

Give me the going rate for a smile
Is there a fee for a word of encouragement
How much is the outlay for a headstone

One that reads "Much Beloved"...

Real Power isn't in an external portfolio
It is in an internal stockpile of consumer confidence
Owned and operated to share the wealth

People live to be valued...

Personal Fortune...

This set of poems is dedicated to Du'a Khalil Aswad.
All children should be allowed to pursue their dreams.
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Tilghman's Island

Tilghman's Island

The air felt like summer's friend; maybe a sibling, older and wiser. It had an autumn calm that threaded her tires as she crossed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. Sails, each filled with the season's last breath puffing toward the horizon, caught the corner of her eye. And her thoughts turned whimsical.

Memories, like candid snap shots of a playful summer's afternoon, filled her head: Dark hair, dimpled cheeks, and eyes that spoke to her when he smiled. Golden tan, early August heat, and a cool wind that skirted through her sundress as she emerged from her car. These were the flashes that gave texture to her dreams.

She met him at a road side stand while picking fresh produce: A pint of strawberries so ripe one could not tell where the berry ended and the edge of her lips began. Then there were the peaches; succulent and soft, with chin dripping juices that seep from the corners of your mouth, and he, with his roguish good looks. He helped her to her car. Placing the basket of fruits in her trunk, their fingers grazed one another, and emotions stirred.

Today it was the smell of Old Bay permeating the air that drove her toward Tilgman's Island. Trucks clawing the curb-sides posted signs tolling Steamed Crabs and her heart fluttered at the thought of seeing him again. But the fruit carts now hosted squash and zucchini. Fields once green with watermelon, grew pumpkins for suburban front porches.

Down shifting, the engine slowed as her Audi TT convertible crunched pebbles, rumbling into that same snapshot in time. Engaging in conversation over the fall flowers and Indian corn displays, she casually inquired of the young man who had helped her only a few months back. “College”, was the reply. She nodded with an ironic acceptance; “mine too”, she acknowledged, smiling, and continued on her way to Tilghman's Island.
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Voices In The Sand

The sand, soaked in mid-day sun, scorched her feet. “I wish I had worn my flip flops.” entered her mind while she played hopscotch to relieve the burn as she made her way to the water's edge. Tranquil surf greeted her. Gentle waves lapped against the shore accepting imprints of passerby's.

Careful to check the tides, she placed her chair just out of reach of encroaching waves and into the direction of the sun. The breeze shook yesterday's sand from her blue and white stripped towel as she lay on her stomach, having wriggled an impression in the sand.

With arms raised above a make shift pillow, warm granules rolled across her fingertips creating a sound like coffee scooped from its canister. Soon, feet crunching between sun bathers melded with voices in the distance; voices reverberated through the sand. Children laughed, women talked, and people interacted with one another. “People Listening” rather than “People Watching” coined itself in her mind as she lay there with her eyes closed and senses open to all that was going on around her.

She focused in on a conversation similar to tuning in to a radio program. Bits and pieces of superfluous talk: A mother handed her child a juice box and carrot sticks, two boys discussed the depth of the hole they were about to dig, and a little girl who had to pee.

“Just go in the ocean.” Her mother directed. “Sit down in the waves, no one will know.”

Then came the laughter, genuine laughter born of familiarity, comfort and reminiscent emotions. One could differentiate this joy because it was deep and meaningful as apposed to shallow and insincere. And it intrigued her. Having begun the season on her own, she missed the camaraderie of her girlfriends and listened in.

Voices In The Sand...
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Thursday, February 4, 2010


My dream catcher
Sits atop a lighthouse
Waiting for that ship in the night

A sailor, with the look of
A beautiful horizon in his eyes
Has lips that whisper words
As gentle as the trade winds

His touch is as soft as
The island flowers
And his presence brings
Adventures of past voyages
Stirring passions that
Create the sweetest nectar
Ever to be tasted

When the dunes finally
Receive the force of the ocean’s tide
Hurricanes will blow
And the stillness of this island beach
Will be awakened once again

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Your eyes fluttered
As if in deep REM’s
But this is no dream
Just stark contradictions in reality
For what feels like a dream
Is yours for the asking
And the real pleasure
Is accompanied by
The pain of conflict

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The Kiss

Conjured thoughts of
The sound of his voice
Smooth, moist
Like space with no air
Succumbed intimacy