I walked past blue mountains,
Beside the crystal stream —
I ambled deep into the forest,
In a mist of emerald green.
Beams of light pirouetted,
Sol’s fire of purity,
Birds preened their wings,
In a shade of serenity.
Whispers rustled in the air,
Earth, water gushed,
A hymn of wind in symphony,
In harmony though hushed.
Midst the song of the forest,
A murmur in the breeze,
My soul, engulfed in silence,
Yet singing . . . at peace.
I stood on firm earthen ground,
At one with trees and ferns,
Knowing it’s from here I come,
And here I will return.

To have been anything at all, what a strange honor.
To have seen and felt.
To have heard the three words of “I love you” whispered in my ear at night.
To have felt the soft blades of grass grazing my skin in the hot summer sun.
To gaze up upon the stars, and wish on the falling ones.
To have seen love, loss, and longing.
To have heard the waves splashing upon the shore— a hymn of peace.
To have been anything at all.
It was an honor.

men, they spend hours, days, weeks
seeking, searching, running
to the Promised Land.

their bones, cracking from strain
their bodies, weakening
as their humours run dry.

all in the hope of finding roses,
delicate in petal, soft to the touch
this is where they will lay their heads.

but what if Mother Nature were to rear
her wiry head?
leaving weeds, un-ripped from their homes.

i suppose the weaker men would get lost,
unaccustomed to rich thorn,
glorious thickets, never ending forests

our great Mother, she laughs
as they trip and fall,
tears falling, rendering our grass fertile

they’ve made their bed now, she supposes
now they must lie in it.

When I uproot the hairs sprouting from the glabella
and strip my cupid’s bow of its wildflowers,
Frida Kahlo writhes in her grave.

She haunts me.

“You are beautiful.”
[unibrow and all]

“You are beautiful.”
[moustache and all]

“You are beautiful.”
[sadness and all]

You assign to us the connotation of fragility–
“a woman is like a flower.”

Entangled in your own bias,
you see a flower for its petals only,
so blinded by their delicacy,  
you forget the blazing pistil.

What if I told you a flower
is no different than a loaded gun?

I don’t believe in “God,”
but the way your breath goosebumps
my soul
and controls every thought
only proves
that we must be sinning.

how could anything
righteous
feel so good?

you are naked,
bathed in sunlight
and you tell me again how
you wish to practice an ascetic life;
then let me teach you
how to turn my water to
sweet, sweet……

worship over my *******,
kiss my neck and
resurrect the animals inside us,
watch how we shine.

Oh.

Practice with me
I’ll show you how
your head can bow
then rise…

Ruku

then rise
and oh, I promise,
my palms will lift upward
toward your holy skies;
I’ll pray
the way only you
can make me do.

For the love of Allah

bury your face between my thighs,
lock your hands with mine,
look into my eyes

I want to watch you

come
bow into Mirhab
turn to Mecca

Please
I beg you raise your face toward
the heavens
while we fall down
from grace.

Please, oh god, please

don’t stop.

Glory awaits;

whisper me prayers til
your words drip
from your lips
down onto my sheets,
Oh
please whisper,
make me quiver
til I see God
and believe
that you must be right…

Alhamdulillah.

With you,
I’d pray every night.

Time’s a thief
—though can you blame her?
I want to be in a room
bathed in shades of you, too.
So long as your laugh echoes,
still in the corners of my mind,
your birthday balloon
will remain; limply dangling from
your favorite chair in the family room,
nylon ribbons frayed and loose
Because time is unkind.

It serves to remind that
you should be here;
And I,
Bathed in shades of you.

I sit in my chair, as I often do,
staring through melted sand
into an ocean of darkness,
where illusory stars shimmer, never quite real.

Here, time almost stands still—almost.
The clock ticks, and 3:07 becomes 3:08.
For each minute passing by, more phantom stars ignite.
Until the true light finds its breath,
and shepherds us into yet another day.

And while the false stars continue to burn.
I shall continue to sit in my chair, as I often do.
Until the sky is ready to tell the truth
Until even lies fade away.

And then at last, the morning returns to keep the lies at bay.