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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...