In pursuit of nightmares (Dreams of a fundamentalist)

What heathen mons of churning breath,
in ferity spurn who, writhing death;
can’st in retort to such howls of they,
serve madness to those mad astray.
Fore these thunderous furies ground
to desperate fools such luring sounds,
beware the gods of men less meant
Sierra! the gods of dreams misspent.

And Of War Such Fate Demonic

Thus only in the failing hour of our enraged phantom
did we stand witness to the omens of its raging dawn;
t’was anxious in its light, and terrible in its ascension,
as ‘then’ lay decayed mocked by a ‘now’ it stood upon.
Fate as such, when roams unbound by moral or reason
roams unfound by none but the merchants of chaos;
we, who shall not forget, the flags of whitened treason
and by virtue peace fore our virtue of mad disgrace.

Beautiful Fools

Wouldst it please thee, wert I the pope of fools,
for is my fall here to the very least of,
a blasphemy to myself or to ye?
Shalt I rather stand atop Plato’s monument
in awe of all but love, orphaned will,
departed dreams and hollowness?
For doubt I do, shalt thou yet be pleased with
such a wiser fool or even a foolish sage,
or I with myself, a bard to wasted years
and yawning egos too empty conquests.
I speakest of fate, and what you, my love;
morals, decency and fear of silence?
they mean naught, and naught to me doth thou mean.
Fare well the echo of time, without me,
as it deafens ye to be no different than
those I abhorr to which thou liken me,
and see if it pleases thee, O beautiful fool.

Midnight Express

Each dusk from hope outworn by day
a dawn is dreamt of as I lay,
yet bares it through not hourly veils
its visage for it night conceals,
instead what rushes through the dark
and sings out ceaseless as a lark
tis the midnight express steaming
keeping me from thusly dreaming;
Nowhere from and nowehere to
burdened by a soul nor reason,
it travels endless deserts through,
restless hermit fears no season.
In moments black and hours unholy
it awakens me and reminds me solely;
“rest can never come from resting
dawns are dreamt to not dreamt of,
life is from one breath nor many,
hope is worn by age and wisdom,
fear is for fools, sages and men
as freedom lies in the dark unknown.”

Winds of Change

Quiver the leaves while bathed in orange
breath of the winter dawn and its sun,
quiver for now, then without abhorrence
do fall in the arms of fate, they are done,
while known not to you O wearied child
is yonder thy lattice, weaved by the pane,
are the winds of change, of fate, unmild
embraced yet hither unfelt all the same.
Painting the walls a capricious vermilion
its cadence, time, and its time, this dawn
the hour of change sits upon that pillion
which for a steed has our fate, now drawn.
They shall not return, if left unheeded,
not for our children or theirs when needed
the winds of change once left shall heave
no longer O wearied, O wearied believe.

Ramz al Sumud (Hope of Palestine)

Of life who bears the burden, who
of liberty sought must carry too.
By nations, dubbed who is a mother,
of freedom, dubbed a lover true.
With no home who roams the valley
gathering olives from Nablus’ fields
lights its bark to kindle her galley
which victuals for her unborn yields.
Of Gaza, its soul, is barred this dove,
to violence returns a rebellion of love,
shall birthen when our dream unknown,
she, the Ramz al Sumud our own.

The Wisdom of Sacrifice

Wisdom does not reside, nor resides selflessness
in mourning a mulberry’s demise or its bare arms.
For the sacrifice of more than countless,
always more, never less,
yields but a piece of futile silk,
a piece, not even a yarn.