long before light graced
beyond my sealed lids,
a gray lady sat sewing
squares, "for foundation."

her accent was like the
magenta strips with
which she bordered:
a boy needs foundation,
boundaries to teach him
his boundlessness, dirt
in which to sink his feet.

and unlike my foundational
quilt, linked so firmly to the earth,
she faded
first to rose, and then
to silver pink before
                                   dissipating
into dusted petal wither.

i'll meet her on the next go around.

my sixteenth was bitter-themed
and my parents gave me
a mexican blanket,
colored like mother,
aqueous aquamarine
and patterned like father,
those angular and triangular
movements;
woven just like theirs,
to give me rest and
haven on the roads
of my inevitable adventures.

and when i am eighteen
the women of my family
will meet with needles
and spools, and wool
to click-clack and chit-chat
over my adulthood -

and when it is done,
i will behold azure
like the heavens
entangled with warm tones
and spun prayers
to cocoon
in the chill of
carolina's coast

first light is cavernous,
ochre vivification for
the ruffled goose-down
sage squares

'neath which i seek
refuge in feign dreams,
pores peeled, wakeful,
like a deep-roving shark,

sedate half the brain
and keep vigil, open
every thirty minutes

to secure myself --
perpendicular,
swaddled,
taut.

there are fundamental rituals
with which we are inculcated
in the households of our heralds,  
our inheritance -- idiosyncrasies.

"the day begins when the bed is made."

i devoted nine nights
to avoiding nuestro cama.
i spent six siestas
preferring the loch ness futon

and three on the threshold
to the bathroom
because i couldn't always
bring myself back to face it.

now, just like mother says,
i make the bed upon first light
and la cama rests in a tight corner
on a frame piled high with pillows

like i'm filling up space

i keep my books cushioned
and my homework has become
a permanent fixture, sprawling,
embedded

i've remade my queen's cot
207 times in the last
18 days and regardless,
can't say i've started my day.

/
When you are growing as a poet
your pain is pining to born a poetry
where there are too many clouds of emotions gathering,
also a pensive mood longing
then the thunder of thoughts growing,
your paper is awaiting for the first word
as I was waiting for you, my love
when you were coming slowly
then words of rain raining,
automatically,
randomly

When the first raindrop pings on the pond
even you don't know when it will be stopped
how far it will be covered
which path it will be taken
even its density,
dignity,
or the diversity

Your first word inks on the paper
you don’t know when it will be finished
which way the words will be taken
even you don't know
its size or style,
its fashion or the scheme

Either it's a long or a short
or even a sonnet or a verse
even its rhyming
or the rhythm

You should not think about its length
of course words grow as long as
the metaphors can travel
through its thoughts of cohesion
and its feelings moving
naturally,
poetically

You should not count the words
or even you can't stop within a limit
it makes your thoughts imperfect
rather you can tell totally
about the life,
or can tell about
the love easily
or beyond the life spontaneously

The words can grow 3,5,7
lines for a haiku
or even it goes for a mile for an epitaph
or more for an epic  

Poetry executes through words
words come from thoughts
thoughts come from the emotions
and ends with the wisdom
/
@ Musfiq us shaleheen