when the shining glass looks back at us
like a stalled rerun of our personal opera
of soap, and the technicolor turns to charcoal gray
we know we are coming to the end of our day

and we look to other faces,
and their “windows to the soul,”
for a reflection of who we are, or
were; they cast an obligatory glance
or do an avoidance dance, when
we give an imploring stare
to see if they know,
we are still there

each day fewer shine bright
or glitter with glee and we wonder
what happened to me, the me they saw
and sought after in the colored world
of before

others disappear into their own dark night
having long endured their inevitable plight
of the cold mirror’s still, shattering view
and disappearing eyes of all but a few
who see us yet faintly in the light
that remains

always in the fog, the klaxon sounded,
announcing another round of shelling

Tuck was terrified, for he
thought this was a hound
from hell, and it was

telling London to head
to the underworld--dank cellars
or shelters built for survival,
or mass burial

depending on where Gerry's
bombs decided to land

the lasses knew well the drill:
grab their favorite doll and say a
prayer,
             going
                        down
                                   the
                                         stairs

Mum would grab Tuck--his shivering body
not soothed by her warm embrace

for when the hounds stopped their menacing moan
deeper doomed demons would begin their call;
the beast sensed this, and he had no god
to beg for salvation

he could only feel the rumbling of the ground
and not close his ears to the sound, which riveted
stakes through his bones

A negligible volume and infinite energy
A limitless interval of knowledge and intimacy

Wisdom surpassing reason binding the creation
Imprinted information in our core's explanation

I am eternal, i will never die
Death is conquered, though you will putrefy
Because
You knew too much, still you chose crime
But
I come from the outter margin, beyond space and time


Words Of Harfouchism

the lamb's lame leg, its death sentence
the rest of the herd headed up the hill, dog
driven; the shepherd, home in his hovel

they wait, the vultures; they
know no haste, though hunger pulls
them closer to the babe

abandoned by its mother, and whatever
god watches over such beasts, its breathing slows,
the carrion eaters tighten their circle

the babe kicks its three good legs
in defiance or desperation--neither the buzzards
nor I know, even though, I created her

to be devoured soon in this new grass
while the other sheep chomp the sweet swards
close to the earth, oblivious to her fate

the circle grows smaller; the creature
kicks no longer; her eyes yet blink, slower, until
the first talon tears into the left or the right

the choice matters not

three miscarriages: God's
abortions her curse, the third time
not a charm, though with a marriage
of joy and alarm, she feels a flutter

more wings than feet
taking flight amniotic;
she lies still and waits for another,
the expectant mother

she is not
disappointed;
it moves again
to her delight

climbing closer
to the light, wet wings
flapping slowly

this web fingered,
big-brained swimmer-flyer
son-daughter-carrier
of the eternal flame

who will be to blame
if its eyes never see the sun?
what God would will
such a denial?

the one who gifts all
things life, yet has been
but a fickle teaser
with her

she lies very still,
holding the breath of life, hoping
its exhalation will be the current
on which new wings take flight

To the sound of your strings i fade and disintegrate
To the touch of your keys i disolve and evaporate

I merge into the wild tone of my incarnation
Liberating myself from the lost echo of my incarceration

Your dark notes nurture my sole existence
Because
Light corrupt the night in the realm of my subsistence


Words Of Harfouchism

Let my unseen wild stream take you there
I have become nothing but air, truly heavenly air

A new way has come to me a language only the old tongues could speak

Is imaginery wisdom not the mother of all ennemies?
Would they believe once the wild wisdom win for them relief?

Few will miss for leaving so suddenly
But i must tell you everything for i have become invisible, impossible to see
Voicelessly i hope you'll understand
I shall tell you briefly how it all began

Alone in the mountains above the trees a child's whisper said to me:
For many years i see you here wandering slowly above the trees
Your humility made you worthy of my peaks
You shall become a wild stream
Then i just dissappeared

Words Of Harfouchism

on the trail today,
I thought of something
I wanted to say

I told myself
I would remember, but
nothing's there

perhaps I wanted
to mention I had seen
a dozen bikes

peddlers whizzing by under 
cloudless sky, with no whipping
winds to ****** them

where the prairie's rude
riding gusts were hiding,
I do not claim to know

wherever they chose to go
their sabbatical left surface
waters calm, blue

but that's not what I had to
tell you--tales of cyclists unperturbed
by a stiff breeze

i said i wouldn't forget
and yet, here I am rambling,
scrambling to recall

what inspired me most
of all: not nascent blossoms or
butterfly wings, of all things

but the absence of an invisible
symphony, a silenced howling from
the sky's spectral lungs

i said i wouldn't forget; tomorrow
surely the winds will blow, and I will
catch whatever they meant to say

***** and he
make their way
across the stretch
of sand

behind them,
the hard rock land
of memory

the crustaceans
will return--the tides
their clock

not he;
this march
is his last,
waves will
swallow him
gag him

while he briefly
forgets his purpose  
and clings to
this world;

soon though,
his lungs with fill
he will sink
to depths:

a blue burial,
a seaweed symphony
his dirge

the ***** return,
but not he--the ebb and flood
of waters no longer
his province

(poem's image: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=1174175556043500&set;=a.102525519875181.1742.100003531994461&type;=3&theater;¬if;t=like¬if;id=14914495906541620

Teresa climbs on the bus
before the sun, if she has
the fare

to get there, where she
makes the bread; she's been at this
two of her nineteen years  

yet she has fears, they will
come for her--green card or not;
though they like her rolls

she kneads the big *****, pulls,
pinches, a sculpting of dough, a laying
of trays, one after another

then, from the Iglesias,
they come, decked in their finery
though she does not see

she only hears the litany
of language she can't comprehend,
a clanging of trays, laughter

the urging of the jefe to work
faster, bake the bread; the communion
wafers did not fill them

now they are here, breaking fast,
forgetting the words they just heard
the songs they sang

Teresa does not complain; she
is glad to feed the worshipers, though
they will never know her name

nor will they stop for
her in the pouring rain,
the blistering sun

Teresa never wavers
next Sabbath will be the same:
dawn, the dough, the oven

it is the work--her hands
which make the bread others break,
the grace granted to serve

holy, holy, holy...