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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Sunday, August 15, 2010
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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.
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.
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...
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...
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Sailor
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
SAILOR
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
SAILOR
Mêlée
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
Mêlée
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
Mêlée
The Kiss
Butterflies
Conjured thoughts of
The sound of his voice
Prickly?
Tickly?
Smooth, moist
Like space with no air
Succumbed intimacy
THE KISS
Conjured thoughts of
The sound of his voice
Prickly?
Tickly?
Smooth, moist
Like space with no air
Succumbed intimacy
THE KISS
Monday, November 16, 2009
PRIVATION
There was a moment, a connection
when the breeze whispered
your inner privation.
I stood silent and listened...
Its rustling stirred the smell of Jasmine
embedded in your dreams,
blowing through my fingers, wanting to take hold.
PRIVATION
when the breeze whispered
your inner privation.
I stood silent and listened...
Its rustling stirred the smell of Jasmine
embedded in your dreams,
blowing through my fingers, wanting to take hold.
PRIVATION
Saturday, November 7, 2009
To My Daughter
It is for me to remember the joy
in the news of having a girl. It is
for me to remember the sleepless
nights and constant worry.
I can still feel your newborn fingers
grasp my one, and the smell of fresh
milk on your breath or the feel of rocking
you in my arms to sleep….
It is for you to keep in your heart the
endless, lazy summer days of jump rope,
chocolate chip cookies with milk, and the
opened door of a house filled with love.
But remember if you can, the silver hair
of an angel, wrapped in the crocheted
blanket of autumn colors; for although I
am in the winter of my life, I look forward
to reincarnating in the spring time of heaven.
Where I can once again know the joys
of birth; yours and mine. I can once again
know the love of a parent, a husband and
again a child; and the river of life will have
made its way to the horizon.
TO MY DAUGHTER
in the news of having a girl. It is
for me to remember the sleepless
nights and constant worry.
I can still feel your newborn fingers
grasp my one, and the smell of fresh
milk on your breath or the feel of rocking
you in my arms to sleep….
It is for you to keep in your heart the
endless, lazy summer days of jump rope,
chocolate chip cookies with milk, and the
opened door of a house filled with love.
But remember if you can, the silver hair
of an angel, wrapped in the crocheted
blanket of autumn colors; for although I
am in the winter of my life, I look forward
to reincarnating in the spring time of heaven.
Where I can once again know the joys
of birth; yours and mine. I can once again
know the love of a parent, a husband and
again a child; and the river of life will have
made its way to the horizon.
TO MY DAUGHTER
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Safe Haven
You are...
a beach house in the pouring rain;
my life coming down in buckets...
an assuasive presence on a blustery night
whose golden autumn eyes makes this heart smile!
You are...
brilliant fall colors on a New Hampshire afternoon;
an inglenook blaze rolling through the hills, poaching twilight.
a safe haven snuggled under Eider down
whose nurturing affection fosters impassioned emotions.
Safe Haven
a beach house in the pouring rain;
my life coming down in buckets...
an assuasive presence on a blustery night
whose golden autumn eyes makes this heart smile!
You are...
brilliant fall colors on a New Hampshire afternoon;
an inglenook blaze rolling through the hills, poaching twilight.
a safe haven snuggled under Eider down
whose nurturing affection fosters impassioned emotions.
Safe Haven
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
NO WORDS
Frustration is the manipulator
Of my fingertips.
Lead is pushed across the page
In an effort to express my
Inner most thoughts.
Lines squiggle
As my voice shakes
Starting and stopping
In discursive ramblings of feelings
Meant to turn one’s heart
Arouse one’s senses
And liberate one’s soul.
Analogies of flowing rivers
Seductive sunsets and
Sensuously soft roses
That bring to mind the
Smooth supple anatomy
Of this woman’s strongest aphrodisiac
Seem trite in comparison
To the fervent emotions
Stuck in my throat.
NO WORDS
Of my fingertips.
Lead is pushed across the page
In an effort to express my
Inner most thoughts.
Lines squiggle
As my voice shakes
Starting and stopping
In discursive ramblings of feelings
Meant to turn one’s heart
Arouse one’s senses
And liberate one’s soul.
Analogies of flowing rivers
Seductive sunsets and
Sensuously soft roses
That bring to mind the
Smooth supple anatomy
Of this woman’s strongest aphrodisiac
Seem trite in comparison
To the fervent emotions
Stuck in my throat.
NO WORDS
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