Excerpts From
An Old Man
(click on title to go to poem below)
Who can hear, the ever-clear, with the shadows tap, tapping away?
Who can hear, my tears (away), when the soul is filled with grey?
Washing the soul was a mighty task
One not for you perhaps, yet one for me to undertake
For tis my calling from God
My duty to myself to be myself
One who has been lost for a long time
Wonders if who he knows he is, is really a dream
Memories fade fast, faster than we would will them
Time slips by, sometimes years go by
Ashes pile upon till we no longer see; we are blind
But if we take time to remove the ashes,
Realize them for what they represent
We begin to slowly feel the heat from the remaining embers below
As the clock turns forward once again we find new ways to fuel the fire
Making it burn brightly, reaching others,
And life goes on…
Therefore, the flame to us is now as we would will it,
We breathe free, we speak free,
Godspeed the injured-one’s journey back to himself,
Back to self-respect
Back to righteousness
Back to who he would like to be, not as the fear makes him to be
As a child, he did not grow up with a desire to be nothing,
With nothing in his heart
Creating a darkness that spreads easy; a cloth, once unfolded.
The cloth is rounded, with edges not easy to find
Its blackness is such that no light can escape through the outside to he who
is trapped within.
Time trapped does not matter, or seem so important as once anticipated
As the man knows, now he is a man,
He is unafraid to show this to the world, as he was before
To not make this break means not to live
And that alone is hell...
To Children of Men’s Wars –
At long last, the clouds of dust parted
Men sprang up from the ground
(others did not rise)
Men looking around for companions, dear-hearted-
For those whom they had known to be found
(what remained was only the memory of men’s cries)
The sounds of war and battle gone and done
A melee of attacking soldiers, over as soon as begun
Men spring from the ground in disbelief of life
Men knowing only of sorrow, sadness, and strife-
To hear them tell tales, one would never know,
That they had once been children.
The Pirate
An old sea captain raised his eye to me
And said, “Fear not, young lad, fear not what you’ll be.
“Trust in Allah, then you’ll see.”
So I did…
Today I am a pirate
A pirate of the world
Through the lips of many, my name is spread
Like time, like the world, my name is hurled
Fear not; lips uncurled
A pirate, no longer synonymous with the dead
I am a pirate
In the Lighthouse, Dancing
The movement of your hip
And my hand placed upon it
Brings joy to the Sea Captain as he sees our silhouette
From afar he can see the sweet movement
And the love
Which reminds him of home
And his wife
To whom he seeks to return
If only he can weather the storm
An Old Man
An old man walks
Down the street of snow and mud because of the increasing warmth
He thinks of his life
Of his wife, children, brother
He smells the crisp air,
Glances at a bird who hasn't make it South yet
Sighs and watches his breath turn to vapor
He thinks of life and poetry and love
While clutching a gallon of milk in his left hand.
Baby
A baby; such beauty, such bliss
For one more look upon thine preciousness, lifetimes I would miss
Thine innocent eyes
The skin softly unended
Can I tell what your future holds,
Who you’ll become, where you’ll go, what you’ll see
I cannot pretend…
As I hold you in my arms,
Inhaling your sweet baby scent,
I am reminded of springtime,
First thoughts, first sights, first time experimenting with the world,
Puddles in which as a youth I spent.
The baby,
Though not always near me you’ll be,
Somewhere in your subconscious,
A deepest glimpse,
When you least expect it,
When you’re alone, when you’re afraid,
When you need someone to love you,
You’ll see me.
The Reaper
The light of day sparks a magnificent shine
Be it the sun, or the reaper, thine?
To shed a tear could mean no less
Than to have her wipe it away with her sickle (smile)
Yes, ye be blest…
For true is she, to have condescend
To make her mark, from heaven she did descend
Bringing with her the sickle; tear…
As of which, our enemies, those who would us to harm, fear
Yet sparkle her eyes with charm
For as the reaper, her days journey near complete
To whisper a word of kindness, near discreet
As to say what should she next, keep her?
“Fear not,” says she, “I am the reaper.”
The Key
(desolate)
I see a girl sitting in a chair
Not a normal girl…one who is young yet old
(her head turns)
Her complexion is grey, as is her smile, her eyes (stone)
Beyond her lies a stone window
In the window I see a raven
Possibly Poe’s raven…the one which drove him to madness
I feel the madness
My pores sweat and stink of the madness
(ironic) I rage and become insane (ironic)
The girl sits and stares at me
She has compassion on her face, but it never reaches her eyes
(her head turns)
If it turns further, I will be utterly beyond hope
…I will be beyond…
(her head keeps turning)
Her (stone) stare gazes in my direction as our eyes meet
Take me away from the gaze…
This is the gaze of an Ancient Mariner
As the girl slowly stands and strides towards me
(I look at my pen and realize the pen has begun to twist and turn)
I realize I have become like her
We share a bond…a door if you will
Insanity is the key
I Write This Poem
Be it all through time and place
I write this poem to take up space
Thought the words are keen and the message intent
I write in rhetoric, rhyme content
Though I speak of tones englam
I recall back to when time began
While I pass my wondering days
Perhaps a drink for stress repays
And while you grandeur, feign disgrace
I write this poem to take up space
Upon Hearing Mozart's Requiem
A feeling of the death, which surrounded Mozart
As he captured the aura of melancholy
Of a friend after the death of a loved one
I’ve heard colors described
I’ve heard of movements and defining moments
All this does not seem to me a part of this
No defining moment was intended
Mozart was an old man
Dying as he saw the painting of music in his mind
Clear as the paintings of other men during his time
Seeking out death for inspiration
He found death,
Perhaps not as he intended
Or rather maybe just as he intended
Seeing death in the distance
And running to catch up with death
Arm outstretched as a conductor’s
Grabbing death by the shoulder as he would was he flicking a wrist towards the tuba
Turning death around
Staring boldly into the eyes of death
Hollow or not…
No matter,
Breathing deeply his one last breath
And writing the last line of his work
Unfinished as would later be picked up by a student
Mourning for his teacher
Taking the work for what it was
Experiencing a closeness to death by his own grief
And even in doing so
Creating a requiem for Mozart
And for the loved one to whom the requiem was composed
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