before commencing his third
poem of the day, to review,
reiterate, reorganize his day’s
life, and his life’s day, to establish
better value, logical priorities,

He thinks,
better to let woman sleep,
as no pressing pressures
of  decisions or choices
need be made before noon,
and another huge mug of
coffee seems logical, wise
and a prudent next step

and no sin needs forgiveness,
by the act of sleeping late

He’s torn,
between readying the
coffee machine’s unending
needs for water, beans, snd
careful waste disposal,
shaving a  2 day stubble,
and starting his next poem,
when he grins stupidly, or
stupidly grins, for clearly
he has made and an acknowledged
decision, certified by a silent
exclamation of duh!

He reassures,
his inner demons
that all will be satisfied
in no particular order as
the day is young and the
coffee hot, good and satisfying
and he can  type letters without
spilling coffee (again),  and the
world will be no worse off
or improved if he focuses
on completing this dirge

here then the third poem:

life is nothing but an
endless series of decisions,
many, most, low hanging fruit;
ironically, the big ones,, the
important one, get made quietly
without malice and forethought, by
deliberations so quiet they go
unnoticed.

At Nine o’clock, he will
wake the woman,
because he’s lonely for company,
but wisely
will bring her coffee and breakfast
in order to
soften the blow of his arousing action

There are trees of knowledge everywhere,
but true life blossoms and joy drips like honey elsewhere;
There is abundance! I repeat it: there is abundance!
I will eat and drink and use all I gain for glory; freedom.
Not "knowing" what’s ahead; I step forward with anticipation of what’s to come!

In this world we will have troubles:
Daily struggles, some self-inflicted, some externalised.
I can now see my greatest sin has been: refusing to accept God’s grace.
Lavishly bestowed: freely given: no strings attached, no punishment afflicted.
I repent of being internally conflicted; rning my eyes to His face,
He holds me, loves me, molds me,
As hard as this journey of life has been,
I see beauty is springing forth from within me from thee.
As deeper understanding is gained,
I can release the heavy burdens and unnecessary chains.
Grace: freely given, I now receive,
Grace: everlasting gift truly unmatched and unrestrained.

I rollover on the bed
face the wall
stare at the lines and cracks.

I give the wall a talking to,
tell me lies. I'll tell you my lies.

and i'm telling the wall,
the future looks bright. i'm planning
my own crazy, this time,

i use a black magic marker,
draw a wide rectangular
picture window across the white wall, then

sand, seashore, and sea stacks in the ocean.
can you smell the salt air?
i'm asking my wall.

don't look at me cracks,
like that.

the wall sighs,
and the bones of this old building
reply with a moan.

i'm inventing my own madness, so

look,
the sand pipers
are darting here and there
across the sand
avoiding the gentle lapping of the waves.

and the long wing shearwaters
flying low, gliding,
just barely above the tips of waves.

i'm planning my own foolishness.

some loves last for so long
like a song without a name
and you never know
when love will walk into a heart

and I'm going to run
far away
from sidewalk ledges
rooms with cracks in the wall,
far away from here.

and, Oh, wall, hang not the albatross around my neck.

~
the night starts here,
the night starts here
in the dunes,
fixed in time;
incipient waves falling into place,
their subtle purpose
to roll over and sing;
the fountainhead above us,
like it's above the shore,
attaching softness to a shell.

we blew on a dandelion
and the whole world disappeared;
love is a mysterious shape,
love is a remembered rhythm.

I have trembled
my way deep,
I'm a guest in here,
drinking at the stream,
seeking bliss in
the plural homemade kiss:
peppermints and orchid rain.

we please the night,
we please the night in interlude,
and it merrily leaves us that strand
of pearls called "good morning."
~

I hold breath before the expanse.

Past the ups and downs
and struggle for air,
the magic of the blue lake
the barren mountains rising around
root me to the ground.

Lovelier than all the dreams
I had of her
all the colours
I painted my imagination with
she arrests my heart
in the way
I found no word for.

I feel her once
and she remains fulfilling for ever.

The day thins out
my eyes blur
in the thought of her.

You can see her among Egyptian girls' styles.
Her rosy lips like Tharia's when she smiles.

Her eyes glow like Thania's, twin stars shine,
Her wavy hair cascades, parted to the left, neatly in line.

With the sweetest hairstyle, she seems like Kamal's bride,
Her deep golden wheat skin mirrors Khadra's pride.

Her tenderness, as breeze, shows Sawsan's grace.
Blush roses on her cheeks, painting a glimmering face.

Oh my God, truly, she is a masterpiece.
Her photo moves from hand to hand, hearts aspiring peace.

A gaze of pity towards her youth,
While those unaware wonder about truth.

Djamila's fate, a truth, can not be silenced to set her free.
Djamila from Algeria, the land by the Mediterranean sea.

Proudly, knights of legends, our brethren sharing the Arab identity.
A flag planted, fluttering on the peak, symbol of fidelity.

Those abandoning their homes, comfort, and warmth.
Standing firm for justice, to live a dignity's worth.

A rebel from the people's heart, who hates the wrongs, brave and true.
She loves Algeria, songs, buildings, gardens, and children, too.

Djamila's fate lies beyond all imagination's might,
She runs while bleeding,O wound, endure the plight.

Locals count the days, and my love for Algeria exceeds worship.
Cut and run, with a bullet in her shoulder, bones shattered in hardship.

She bled, ran, until she crumbled from strain.
The attack dogs caught her, yet she never surrendered despite the pain.

Yet she never spilled, despite torture, crucifixion, and relentless force.
Oh, the sorrow for the youth, trapped in dogs' jaws, with no remorse.

They wrote torment upon her, where wedding vows should have been.
The world spins, and the eye has silently seen.

In her picture, her eyes, like Thania's, appeared.
Fading lips that once laughed like Tharia's, that now disappeared.

Her wavy hair, parted from the left side,
It was soaked in blood rather than cascading like Kamal's bride.

The apple of her mother’s eye, the sprite of strife,
Djamila’s fate is a load  that even mountains can not strive.

A single string from the violin's heart wailed in the anthem's prelude for her,
The remaining strings screamed without tears, reaching the throats of the masses everywhere

Before the courthouse door, the crowd stands still, singing a thunderous song,
While judges, a ruthless band, with hearts of stone, their judgment wrong.

As if upon their eyes, a haze,
A blood upon their hands, ablaze.
They listen to the songs, as in a distant land, so wide,
What good are meanings in mind, so dark and blind?

Through endless nights, the guillotine is whetted, chains are drawn,
While in her cell, she waits till dawn.

Throughout the night, the battles rage within the mountain’s stronghold deep,
And Jamila, through the storm and cage, lives on hope, her soul to keep.

O hero, move forward with the rifle in your hand,
Let the fire ignite, for the battle will stand.

For Djamila, her fate is naught but never to give up.
No escape from striving, nothing but to rise up.