4:00 PM haiku
in the longest pause
winter of my surrender
new life awakens
Breath
The first shared breath at birth
The next shared breath in June
My parents have breath
and so do I
we locked up our breath
in a small trunk
we can hear it
everywhere in the house
everywhere breath is creaking
back and forth
as a ship
the breath
days tremble now
as if time is old
and is not limber
porches, driveways, stoops
now rooms
now parlors
looking at faces
looking for naked faces
looking for nose and mouth
that will suffocate me
another breath
can suffocate me
as the tally does:
up, up, steady
steady up, up, up
the breath keeps breathing
we who have seen a ventilator
push its work into tender lungs
my own face poison
my own hands threaten
hours of home lean delight,
lean despair,
tip to contentment, tip to when, when?
the ship, back and forth,
and far at sea.
Decisions build our boxes
boxes within which we are pitched
that way,
and that,
and seasickness becomes baseline.
Days are queasy
breaths are held
when we land
we sill will sway.
3:00 PM short
i turned my life upside down
to reach for something bigger
where my heart can grow fuller
and overflow to gently quench
the barren landscape
of habit
Poem 12: The Toll of Toxicity
The Toll of Toxicity
The ghosts of my past have started to haunt me.
I know that they are really just humans, but that is scary nonetheless.
I am scared that they will hurt me
Or that someone will find out.
My life could be ruined by tomorrow!
I force myself to take a deep breath
I have wronged them but I’m safe now.
Safe from their taunting
Safe from their fighting.
All I did was cut them off
Ending my relationship with those toxic friends.
My anxiety eases
I am free.
Hour 12: Him
I was revered and loved,
My words cheered and read,
Read with love, with longing, in all corners of the world
Until I met him and everything swirled
My fame, my love, drowned in his name
And then all I could think was him
And so all I wrote was him
I write
I write,
I write because it is an extension of my being.
I give pieces of me to the world,
And in return, the world gives me a page to write on.
So that my words can reflect my emotions,
And the pages can voice my thoughts.
In the past, I wrote for healing,
As my emotions and tears found synchrony on my pages,
There I could be vulnerable and speak the truth,
The truth I could never say in the open.
I wrote to heal the broken,
To shatter their silence and show that,
Amongst the million broken shards, there was beauty,
Waiting to be reassembled
Now I write for identity.
I crave to know who I am and what I stand for,
And that answer can only be found as my words write over the tear stains.
So I search these pages that contain my words,
In hope that they may also contain my soul,
Finding myself searching each piece for an answer.
And not just raw emotions,
But refined words and emotions.
As I bleed through my pen and use the words,
That course through my veins as ink.
I create art only I can truly admire,
And criticize.
And in that blend of love and hate,
I remind myself that the world is not a fairytale,
Rather it is a story,
Used as teaching to guide yourself to your goal,
The rising of tides and falling of empires.
It is what you leave behind,
The echoes of your legacy and the labors of your journey
It is beauty personified, it is,
Leaving my words as footsteps,
Etched in the minds of my readers.
Opening myself up to a larger ocean of views,
Perspectives and knowledge,
I become a voice for the voiceless.
And pave my own journey,
Through my characters.
Stand At The Ready – Hour 13
Five times a day
Sometimes more
I stand at the ready
To salute my Lord
I recite his poetry
Reminding myself of his words of advice
Then I reach deep down
And loosen the valve
I confide in Allah
And ask for guidance in all that I do
Then I make a verbal tribute to a time when heroes led us
Let their legacy continue to bring light to this world
I end by acknowledging the angels by my side
When the day comes
I shall let them defend my case
One, two, three, four, five times a day
Sometimes more
I stand at the ready to salute my Lord.
Hour 11: He Came To Me in a Dream
He came to me in a dream,
God, he used to whisper secrets divine
Watched my thoughts unwind
Behind, the ruse of godliness
Was unkind ugliness,
Blind, I built his shrine
But he never returned to my dreams
I no longer sleep
Oh, but I weep.
Dusty Brown
Starting into space, seeing dots of particles
Clear the budding mess with strokes of cane brooms
Side by side flaked with dusty browns
Watch the swaying stick of no rhythm
Moving in distance from thoughts to thoughts
Changing courses as dusty Brown moves
With the music, playing blues
In a Brownian motion of light effect
Be free dusty Brown
No escape is crucial
For as the ground is swept
Nevertheless wet
As the air is also vacuumed, dusty Brown.