This is what happens when your own
         past--
Twisting and turning with you at some
         midnight hour-
  Becomes you, all over again at once,
          all too fast,
Overlapping you,  heart and soul,
          strenuous in power;
   Precious memories posted in
             unchartered  future;
Each note of thought  wearily clings, too
          often
  But a scene with  yourself,  demanding
             an answer,
Yet within past  content, drifting you to
              give-in, just to soften
  The unintelligent trail, past wishes
        revived in ardor:
For, without the pain of the past, can
        there be future?

            
                            -by Hakim H. Kassim.
                             (d. March 25, 2024)

This is what happens when your own
         past--
Twisting and turning with you at some
         midnight hour-
  Becomes you, all over again at once,
          all too fast,
Overlapping you,  heart and soul,
          strenuous in power;
   Precious memories posted in
             unchartered  future;
Each note of thought  wearily clings, too
          often
  But a scene with  yourself,  demanding
             an answer,
Yet within past  content, drifting you to
              give-in, just to soften
  The unintelligent trail, past wishes
        revived in ardor:
For, without the pain of the past, can
        there be future?

            
                     -by
        HAKI. H. KASSIM.
        (d. March 25, 2024)

This is what happens
    when your own past--
Twisting and turning
    with you at some
       midnight hour-
  Becomes you, all over
      again at once all too
          fast,
Overlapping you, heart
     and soul, strenuous
         in power;
   Precious memories
     posted in
       unchartered future;
Each note of thought
    wearily clings, too
       often
  But a scene with  
      yourself, demanding
             an answer,
Yet within past  content,
     drifting you to
       give-in, just to soften
  The unintelligent trail,
       past wishes revived
           in ardor:
For, without the pain of
     the past, can there be
         future?

            
                     -by
           Hakim H. Kassim.
          (d. March 25, 2024)

"Too many fall from
           great and good
       For you to doubt
           the likelihood."
                  -(fro) Robert
                   Frost's (poem)
          "Provide, Provide."



Too many have come
         and gone--
  Too many sought and
         thought--
For you to have lost or                    
        won;

  Too many climb up
        their dreams in
           light,
If only too fast they are
        washed ashore--
  Or left out to be
       'acquinted with the
           night,'
With no second chance,
           beaten to the core;
  And too many have put
           their heart with
               trust
In brute, brute another's
            heart,
  In the end with no love
            but driven to
               dust;
For too many fail to give
              another
  Try, too eager to treat
              with hate
The very lover with
        whom they felt
            together--
  Hence with no heart,
         and for nothing in
            hope to wait.

                       -by
            Hakim H. Kassim
             (d.Oct.12.2022)

This is what happens
    when your own past--
Twisting and turning
    with you at some
         midnight hour-
  Becomes you, all over
      again at once, all too
          fast,
Overlapping you, heart
      and soul, strenuous
         in power;
   Precious memories
      posted in
       unchartered future;
Each note of thought
     wearily clings, too
        often
  But a scene with  
     yourself, demanding
          an answer,
Yet within past  content,  
    drifting you togive-in,
       just to soften
  The unintelligent trail,
      past wishes revived
         in ardor:
For, without the pain of
     the past, can there be
        future?

            
                -by
        Hakim H. Kassim.
       (d. March 25, 2024)

Eyes I saw full of me,
  Blue, or brown, these
       now pass by me,
The lore of Love thus
       defined
Remains unspoken,
       though refined:
  'To where is he gone,'
       she in muttering
            tone asks;
We've left so much for
     the WASPS;
  Now, retreated for
     Allah's sake,
Where can I, for her,
     make the bake?
  Nor, for love, where to
     rest and reign--
To escape all of pain?
  Hello, God, hello saints,
Yes, we're your guests--
  Should we have to pay
      for our souls,
So exploited within
      these walls?

     -by Hakim H. Kassim.

Wild wishes, too high for worldly tries,
Celestial glows that do not fit into time
        and place,
  Lost love's tormented hopes and cries,
Come with fresh face at my dooryard.

   Wild wishes, desires that cannot be quenched
         in poor world's weak  arms,
Joys treading my footsteps  from Heaven
         above,
    All my loves long ago, my sweet heart-felt
         urges,
  Of all I ever seek, of all I ever wanted in heart,
Beckon to lead me to Higher Houses of
        content.

  Wild wishes, her face, her eyes, and the love I
        have for her,
Feelings I cannot put aside  no matter what,
  The deep-felt dream of uniting with her in
         truth,
She comes to me riding high on Wild Wishes
        for my  hand!

    -by Hakim H. Kassim.