Under her dark veil she wrung her hands.
"Why are you so pale today?"
"Because I made him drink of stinging grief
Until he got drunk on it.
How can I forget? He staggered out,
His mouth twisted in agony.
I ran down not touching the bannister

And caught up with him at the gate.
I cried: 'A joke!
That's all it was. If you leave, I'll die.'
He smiled calmly and grimly
And told me: 'Don't stand here in the wind.' "

Put down your pencil
the test is over

You won't be graded for
right answers

You won't be judged on appearance
nor by fame, nor might

the clock, not your enemy
no one has conspired against you

Now nothing's left
cool water on your face

absence of mirror
lets you see you clearly

being of light

I am sewing a dress
with the thread of strength,
And knots of ambitions,
And when it’s ready,
Then will iron it
with the remission,
I am sewing my broken soul!

By: Nida Mahmoed.

I was somewhere deep in Kansas,
  on a Triumph 69’

When your song came on the jukebox,
   and hit me from behind

I was headed for a bad place,
  and cared for nothing much

When I heard the song ‘Melissa,’
  my heart and soul were struck

Entranced, your lyrics captured me,
  like nothing had before

When you sang about ‘The Gypsy,’
  I headed for the door

But something made me turn around,
  and grab another dime

Ten more times in that diner’s booth,
  still lost within your rhyme

Now back inside the bus station,
  and sleeping on the bench

I scratch your words into the wood,
  last dollar gone and spent

My bike outside against the wall,
  the kickstand now long gone

And out of gas, my hopes have dashed,
  that unrelenting song

Waking up at ten unsettled,
  across the street I pushed

The sign said Triumph-BSA,
  the owner Mister Cush

He asked, “What’s with your motor,”
   I said “nothing—out of gas,

“But worse I’m out of money,
   can I sell the bike for cash

“Would you please just buy my Triumph,
  I know it’s old and worn

“It got me here through seven states,
   runs great both cold and warm”

“I’ll pay three hundred on the spot,
  on that can we agree?”

We walked back up inside his shop,
  three bills he handed me

I thought about a bus ride home,
  my thumb looked more in line

Facing East on old route #50,
  my heart in deep decline

The first big rig that came along,
  was bound for York Pa.

The driver said “If you like dogs,
  I’ll take you on your way”

In York I caught a fast ride out,
  two ‘dodgers’ going North

And got back home with hat in hand,
  your song to guide me forth

Two years then passed, I met my wife,
  four more and our first child

And we named her ‘Sweet Melissa,’
  her dad back from the wilds

Now forty years have come and gone,
  my beard and hair both gray

I owe you Gregg, and always will,
  your song, her name—that day

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
           For Gregg Allman
I Sent This To Gregg Last March,
It's on His Website. We Spent Two
Days Together In Richmond Va. In  A Blizzard In 1982

At one end of the couch
you sit, mute as a pillow
tossed onto the upholstery.

I watch you sometimes
when you don't know I'm watching
and I see you. Who you are.

You are a self made man.
Hard suffering. You are grey
stone and damp earth.
A long scar on a pale sky.

The television is tuned to CNN.
The world's tragedies flicker
across your face like some
foreign film.

You are expressionless.
Your usual gestures ground to salt.

How do you explain yourself
to people that do not know you?
How do you explain to them,
this is me; that is not me.

However many words you choose
in whatever context with
whichever adjectives you use
could not compare.

Even you describing you
would not be you.
Not totally.

Your hands are folded
together, resting in your lap.
I study those hands until
every groove becomes familiar.

Like a favorite hat,
you wear your silence
comfortably.

I sometimes can not help
but wonder what we will
talk about if we ever
run out of things to say.

You are the curve
I burrow into. The strength
I borrow. You are the red sun
rising over the mountain.
You are the mountain.