What it Takes

It is night-
a welcome respite from frenetic, harried day-
although what constructs this agitation is unclear, its end is gratifying.
If I squint my hearing,
I can almost imagine the lull of the air-conditioner
to be a warm autumn rainfall,
hushing the ever-present thoughts that goad me on:
something is not quite right.
Still, and stillness is not easily obtained,
the night affords the luxury of solitude-
A deserved hiatus,
a whisper like cocoon that envelopes not only body but also mind,
and finally puts to rest the
noise of nocuous playing.
Something is not quite right...
be still,
be yielding,
bend twig,
bend.

A New Me

Were it possible,
I would dissect myself,
(remember that fetal pig in biology?)
And live as two remnants
Neither complete, yet able to function.
I would throw off my abaya of caution-
Send its amorphous black slickness
Flying into the night,
And then don a shawl
Of reckless abandon.

I would ravenously gnaw artichoke leaves,
Licking the sweet melted butter,
All the way to the heart,
Never letting the fear
of choking on the thistle
quell my pleasure.
I would forget my daily vitamins
And never take to heart the bottle’s
muffled insults
again.
And I would cross diagonally-
smiling.

My other me would be diligently
At work,
Studying Al-Ghazzali, Rumi,
and art.
So clear would be my mind,
I could paint cerulean circles while
Contemplating God.
Neither
lessening
the other.
And in the background:
Coffee- Beethoven-
And dust,
Dancing in
The descending
eddies of
sunlight,
sifted
through plated
Windows.

Light

Wisdom the stepsister of age
Knows that woman brimful of life
Sitting at the bar
Drunk with what dewier eyes mistake for alcohol
Not recognizing
passion
Unrequited.
Were it to be coupled
With beauty
The allure would drive
Boxier men to their death
sucking the oxygen from the air
But God in His wisdom
coupled not beauty with wisdom
But wisdom with age
Frail bones, steel hair, papery skin
A crackly light bulb cradling luminescence
She will not look beseechingly into
Your eyes.
Eyes that know what is possible for tomorrow
Yet what is probable
And that alone frees her to stir the
World
Her circle
Benefits from succor
She understands full well radiance
tosses off her
Overcoat
Walking unfettered
Into the
night

Mom and Dad

Traveling through the dust-caked, faded,
littered streets,
I know not what lies beyond the bend.
Strange cadences emanating from stranger faces,
unidentifiable smells and sounds
melded with exotic and mundane colors,
dance before me-
a tarantella of frenzied foreign fabric.

Each step I take on this uncharted journey
I dedicate to you.
Though across the sea you command that same chair,
your voice has guided me.

I search through time to
find you both
chasing dreams we shared
on creek banks
and hills filled with butterflies,
melody, and mud.

I reach out for you,
but you are
already here,
Traveling with me.
You are my words, music, thoughts, ideas, and vision.
And so I do face forward
traveling alongside you,
and yet,
missing
you so.

Childhood Wisdom

When you were little,
much smaller than now,
you took my hand
and
led me to the
little dead bird behind
the house.

Crushed by the contorted
neck and delicate beak,
you said,
"I can fix it"
and led me to another
field filled with
corn and flowers.

From here you said that God would
lift that bird into the wind
and carry him home
to his little bird family,
who, you said,
were no doubt,
worried.

And it was days before you led me back
to that first pasture
where the dead bird was
no more.
A jubilant face upturned to mine.

As it turned out,
it was just a matter
of
perspective.

Bledded Wiss

You said you would not be gone long,
but I'm beginning to doubt that you've
ever really been here.
Time, you said, would give
you insight,
but our steps are slowing
and still I see no
indication
of your understanding.
And if tomorrow comes,
and peeks in the corner of this diorama
to satisfy some wedded curiosity,
I wonder,
will the toilet seat
still be
up?

How to Look

The eyes can decide
what is a storm cloud
or shade,
what is burden
or opportunity,
what is cacophony
or melody.
And each day draws out
its line in the sand,
posing the question:
on which side will
you stand?
Will you stretch into
the morning air
with ineffable grace?
Or will you continue to find
each dead roach
behind the baseboards?

I Didn't Mean It

It was a moment- a split second- you uttered those words,
that cannot be withdrawn.
They hung there-dirty underwear flapping in the breeze,
for all of the neighbors to ogle.
You didn't mean it- you said it with reckless abandon,
but the damage was to the bone.
And the decay resulted in an abscess,
that ruptured and polluted the vision
of myself,
forever changing my
reflection.
Who could have foreseen what
those few words
have wrought?

Greasy Creek

There was a time when butterflies
swam in dizzy circles about her head.
Her now- a xanthous heaven
her tomorrow-sweet apple butter.

The Journey

Something draws me there
from home
and verdant hills.
And tomorrow I will awaken to
parched lands
whispering a deep
longing for
water.

It is almost as if your hand
leads me
away from here
away from certainty
away from linearity,
to some ancient ancestor
who has been waiting
patiently
for my return.