My Woman

It is not the arch of her back,
nor the motion she puts in her spine,
it is not the endless river flowing black
from her head into curls and unto vines
Nay! there is more to my love, my only woman,
so much more that makes her so fine,
to the peace in my eyes, she is an omen,
and for the rest of my soul, she is mine,
She is more than the embrace in the night,
more than the touch of pure grace,
more than a silhouette in the creeping light,
every morning her neck and her face
and the scent of her previous twilight,
she is more, my woman, my queen,
so much more than just earthly delight,
she is where my sanctity has been.
The mother of my child, though I’d rather
the companion of my many warm noons,
and the leaves of summer that we gather,
dry in the soft sunlight of our June,
though what makes her so special, so perfect to me,
is how she is willing to lie,
that I am her only one, although I can see,
the tears that she wipes from her eyes.

I Have A Dream.

I have a dream that one day,
perhaps tomorrow or years away,
one day the words I have to say,
on deaf ears fall, poignant they may,
perhaps we may see that day ourselves,
or we may long have left this gray
and darkened hall to toll the bells
for many more to come this way,
I have a dream that we shall burn
but not to birthen ashes, nay!,
we shall fall to dust and turn
into men of equal and sacred clay,
no more the decadent halls of power
shall echo with steps of apathy,
no longer shall the Babylonian tower
rise to heaven, and imprison the free,
I have a dream, foolish at best
that one day we shall know the folly
of how we lived devoid of the rest,
lived so large, and acted so jolly,
claimed our youth was the future true,
but a future blind or of misgivings new?
for I see the hopeful faces few,
but a pitiful visage in regret and rue.
Embroiled in games of glory how
the rich and privileged gulping now
from the goblet of emolument of our toil
and our noose and shackles they ardently coil,
I have a dream, these mongers of wealth
should live as we do, lest suffer more,
and know how we longed for dear death
when the land we loved became their whore,
when the water we drank turned to blood,
when our children they maimed and burned,
the rest they drowned in a hateful flood,
and the mourning to slaves how they turned.
Spurn me now, O waking fools
Here and now, tomorrow more,
laugh at me, but to me behooves
dreaming a dream, forever more.
I have a dream, I have a dream,
all the ignorant shall hear my voice,
all the arrogant to whom shall seem,
doubtful my truth and veracity by choice,
that dream is of a better tomorrow,
where the throne is a responsibility,
not a right, or an essence hollow
something bought nor hereditary,
that dream is of a valiant nation,
imprecated from birth, cursed to fail,
but resilience is its very bastion
like a broken ship that is still a’sail,
these great people shall awake again,
and the streets plunged in dark despair
shall echo with voice of hope and then
the flag blood sodden shall wave there,
no longer shall a hopeful child
leave its home as a waking walking
mortal return half dead defiled
by the hounds of war who drool here stalking,
ephemeral shall no longer be
our hopes evanescent as today,
a thousand suns we dreamed to be
forever then we shall be free,
Let me speak, while you lay the wreath
of a horrid noose upon my neck,
let me speak, while I still breathe,
before I hang as a silenced wreck,
I have a dream, my beautiful people,
that one day you shall awake and wonder,
what happened to that fool so feeble,
who with his cries assailed our slumber,
I have a dream, I have a dream,
nothing else but just a dream

Our Children (Our Legacy)

Among the lights, so blinding bright,
under the moon and the embracing night,
on the shores awake and the sea asleep
apathy frolics while antipathy creeps,
let them know, the blissful children,
how their swings shall move lifelessly,
let them see, how we sold them,
let them hear our false melody.
all our dreams left unfulfilled,
all our hopes, how strong we willed,
left in shadows far behind,
instead of promises old and blind,
let them ask, the curious children,
what we did when the war was here?
let them hear, how we told them
let them find the truth laid bare,
for when the war came to our land,
we stood by and watched hand in hand,
we closed our eyes in hope of bliss,
instead lost an eon, now gone amiss,
let them feel, the bleeding children,
how the fire burns relentlessly,
let them scream, let us leave them,
vanish they shall with our legacy,
the smoke will clear then and there,
and the sun shall rise without a care,
the sound of laughter, shall hear no more,
we the people left on the shore,
let us bury our unfeeling children,
far from pain and this misery,
let us weep, at the graves we dig them,
let us tend, to wounded liberty,
for though we have none to call our own,
days and nights now spent alone
and though our seeds, so arduous sown,
the fruits they bare, now aimless grown,
let them dream, the lonely children,
dreams broken by the lives we led,
let them rest, our peaceful children,
let them sleep on our destined bed.

Apple Season in Sahara

Fallow, arid and hostile is this sand,
unforgiving, malevolent and forbidden is the land
of caravans, bivouacs, mirages and oasis
where khamaseen, simoom and sirocco are fanned,
no hope for life in this ossuary of time,
and here each drop of rain is a full gulp of wine,
even opuntia the worshiper of the sun
would rot in disdain lest even pestilence resign,
in this valley of death yet my love is awake,
somnambulism perhaps or perhaps for life’s sake,
with loneliness and misery, their bounties a’plenty,
still forbidden is the fruit, and the bough that I shake,
here a fallen man and whose will is now gone,
for chasing shadows, and the moon doth justly mon,
not to dream tonight but of the grainy ocean grey
which shall turn to gold with the coming dawn,
and it holds a promise, pledging a season new
of gardens in the desert sodden with pearls of dew,
all this man must, is sow his eager seeds
in the orchard not far, where once the apples grew,
although there are not few but countless who leave behind,
the chimera of a spring, a mirage they set out to find,
this man, who is surely me, shall await for ever more
the Saharan apple season, while the rest may turn as blind.

My Waiting Lady, My Dying Lady

In the garden of our dreams, my beloved waits for me,
placid as the morning dew, evanescent as the departing night,
but patiently in a shade’s embrace, sits fanciful and free,
lost in wondrous thought, and a visage fair and bright
awaits my arrival wistfully, under the arched Eden tree,
slightly anxious yet timid, chasing shadows in the light,
but a thousand miles from my beloved, my beloved I can see
and our despairing abode around her, falling into blight,
the flowers turning pale, are not as verdant as she,
and a thousand days have set, much to pathos delight,
where once my prison stood, now there ripples the sea,
buried under so many leagues, leagues of sorrow’s respite,
while in our bounteous home, my woman calls to me,
holding my memory’s vigil, a flame still burning despite
she knows somewhere within, in an ossuary I may be,
forgive me love, I have moved on, for that I am contrite,
but then she tastes the fruit, forbidden which does agree
to let her be with me in death, and deign to leave this sight,
for this garden bounteous wilting, amnesiac of springs glee
can rest with solace knowing, we rest in heavens plight.