The pigeons are sad

The pigeons saw that

The future comes with bad

The pigeons were telling that

The prophets born here

The prophet know that

It is the land of kind

, welfare and tied

The religions at that land

The assembly of religions

The peace between nations

Were established there

Here was the prophet David

Who the mounts the trees ,

The stones and  the birds,

Repeated his prays

He governed with justice

After him ,Solomon was gotten

He governed with justice

The welfare had increased

And the peace with there

The Romans occupied it

And the injustice appeared

The killing and the theft

Were actually increased

Here was born Jesus

Who invited to peace

At shortest and clear

That was not admired

By Romans or Jewish

Who were there

They planned to **** him

The land became unfair

The decreasing of welfare

The increasing of fear

Till the new nation appeared

The new religion increased

It called for justice

It led to peace

The Muslims achieved a victory

As they built a great glory

And they blockaded the land

The patriarch man said,"

We didn’t give the keys

Except to your leader

Who is justice’s famous"

They wore one of soldiers

The smartest cloth

They introduced him

As the prince of Insurers

as the caliph of Muslims

The greatest patriarchs said,"

That is not the man we did

Actually knew and have red

At our book that mentioned

Him actually as we saw awake."

The leader of soldiers ordered

To sent a letter to the caliph

At bright city wide distance

As he wanted to keep blood

Out of bleeding

He wanted not to ****

The innocent people

He didn’t want to bore

His name over death

His religion ordered them

To save the innocent people

To the caliph to came

The caliph and a servant  moved

The leader of the greatest land

At that time, at that moment

From the kind and light city

He read the yassin of holy

Quran that equals twenty

Minutes

For riding the donkey

And his servants walks only

Then the caliph got off only

And the servant rode the donkey

And they read the yassin for away

To count and know time

And mention the God only

Then the caliph and servant  also

Walked with their donkey

To rest it also

They keep reading yassin only

Till they reached near the holy

City that mentioned with  holy

In Quran with great respect

The turn is on the servant  

To get  that donkey rode

And the caliph would walk

He said," my prince! I must

Get down and you must

Ride that donkey"

He said," then I will be called

Injustice caliph led the insurers

To be injustice at every talkers

And it is your turn

If the air came to me smelt

With good smell than yours

If the water I drink

Have more delicious than yours

If I created from mud

Made of silver and gold

I will rode that animal

And you must go walker

Ride it my good insurer"

The soldiers saw him

They did great clutter

They wanted to salute him

The patriarch said with amazed,"

See what is that noise?

He looked and said

That is him , that is him!"

The patriarch went and looked

He counted patch in his

The cloth of the greatest prince

Of the greatest Nation motioned

At the ancient, at the present

He said," you are who is mentined!

You are the caliph

"Omar" was the caliph

He gave them the safe deal

That mentioned by his name

The patriarch gave him the keys

Of  Jerusalem to him

The time for afternoon pray came

The caliph prayed out the church

The patriarch said

Why you didn’t pray at that

Place at the inner of the church

Omar said if I prayed here

The Muslims after that

Say "Omar" prayed here

And they took it

To be a mosque indeed

My couch is a wasteland,
Pulls me down, I cannot stand.
It scares me that I’m drawn to gore,
I see destruction, I want more.
I don’t know if its anger,
Or if it’s something stranger.
I want to shatter glass,
I need to make this feeling pass.
I want to throw things and scream,
I want to get out of this dream.
Running isn’t satisfying,
I feel like I need to break something.

hopefully when i call
the constellations will appear
tears hang like crystals
from yesteryear
the vapors sail out from a distance
yet leave my soul feeling very cold
underneath the moonlight
deeper than the sky above
hoping that when you come
I will call again.

I like using fire as an analogy, a metaphor, the punchline for most of my poetry

I often describe the heart as if it were a hearth, while its beats were the heat it radiated

I see it—sometimes a roaring flame, often times a steady bonfire, other times a dying match.

It could scorch you if you aren't careful, but it also provides you warmth and light. A sort of clarity. Comfort.

It allows some of the toughest things on Earth to become malleable and mold itself into something new

It turns the bitter into sweet, the biting cold to teeth-sinking warm, the tasteless into delicious

It allows the spirit to soar with columns of smoke to the heavens while the body becomes fertilizer for daisies

It takes beauty, and burns it black and ash to the point of no recognition

Fire is so precious, and dangerous, and essential, and beautiful, and ugly—just like this hearth of a heart

Tended and regulated well, it's the greatest discovery of mankind

Allowed to burn out quick, or spread out of control, then it's the accident that burned down London in 1666

I believe I should end this by saying: find someone who will tend to your hearth as if it were their last dying light, instead of a person who would simply roast marshmallows with forest fires

i only write in the middle of the night
while the stars watch me
waste ink of blood
dripping from the veins of my brain

i only write in the middle of the night
while the moon guards me
as i write the message of my soul to the universe
solely dug from my heart

and suddenly everything comes back to reality
the sun sets high
illuminating the pitched black sky
and i wonder,
will i ever enjoy the daylight
while carrying the burdens i hold inside



a.t.

For Al, who left us, Nov. 22, 2014

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for body restoration,
Transpositional for poetic creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, 
poem aborning!
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied!

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
__________
(this poem more than most,
for its birth celebrates
my loss, your loss,
which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18)


__________
written at 4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.

a  flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one

my poor soul,
my rag tag heart
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy spent, easy get

if only, how I wish I
could harvest my best,
with golden cutlery excise
the single flawless poem,
that I know in my possess

lay down this hand so weary
from cupping tears,
be satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that my casket lowered,
hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best, easing his rest,
a paper record to join his ash,
his flawless poem,
at long last