little girl, you better hold on
hold on tight to the charcoal
sturdiness of a railing, to the
warmth emitting from the
barrier of your father's arm, for
the bus would bring you there
once, twice, a hundred times
to the first turbulence of a
flight you are onboard from the
very start, and like that tedious
twenty-two hours to america
like the cousins who followed
the eldest, coolest brother up
hanging on an escalator track
turbulences come one, another
until the odyssey sews to a close
along with your shredded dreams
your corrupted perceptions, your
wrinkles, your bruised, weary heart
which would thus lay within your
burnt, soulless corpse

exhaust’d thru months of
stress’d quandaries. have
clear’d the worst. and
i ripped through older
pages, stealing the words
that sound’d best. the
only ones
able to fluidly
patch fragments. brake.
been a long couple day(s);
singular, i guess. and
the sassy black chick,
she doesn’t give a ****.
never did. and friend is
asking why, asking
questions of the sky.
  - what if what’s complicated
     is so because we never
     let it be easy?
infectious thoughts of
what to do to complicate, or
of how we might proliferate.
and ringing:
  - why not just be easy?
and ringing:
  - you’re just going to have to
    stop having fun for a while.
and ringing:
  - i mean, not quit, but
    ease up. don’t spend
    your money.
knowing is ninety-percent
of the problem with
stubbornness. and remem-
bering when first told
to get on with it –
to let go –
the other ten-percent.
and being one day closer –
to be one minute closer –
brings restlessness. and
i lay my head to rest, if
only to pass time as lids
squeeze light from eyes.
and thoughts, peaceful a
moment prior, begin to
rage. to thrash and stomp.
to draw from dead qualms
and questions. and past
turbulences become reali-
gn’d.      yet,
most were left behind or
under the Pinelawn.
something missing,
memories of how her
**** were like tiger claws.
brake.       get on with it.
and the vessels of my eye
throb in ticks. forcing
metronome. and i count the
seconds, the seconds
on minutes
on hours
on eternity. and if
i were here – if
i were awake – when
the sun came ‘round,
then perhaps the metro-
nomes tick would cease. or,
let it go, get on with the
passing of time.
getting on with it, to
force the dawn sun
to rise of me.

Who am I to question,
When hardships befall over me?
Let it be a vast circle of bulky mountains,
Ensnaring me from all sides.
If I fall into a threatening void,
A void that gnaws at my soul,
And is ravenous for my worn-out soul,
That helps me encounter more turbulences.

But who am I to question my tolerance of enduring a void that ravens for troubles for me?
When my Master, the Beloved of the Almighty,
Stated that Muslims are prepared to confront
Whatever situation they may face with their faith.

With my faith,
I can pull myself out of the void,
Shove off bulky mountains,
because
they ain't heavier than my
Iman.

I was neither too naive
Nor too ignorant
To let myself falling...
falling into you...
It was either me
or you
Who let the door wide open
causing heart turbulences
and silliness started to happen...
Love is crazy
you smile unnecessarily
You dream castles and mountains
Craziness is love...
Till
one day
you...
Come back to life...

See!
The savage will's sinking fangs
bite deep down into the bubbling head
of the madly laughing larynx
where the screaming- in-silence turbulences
are launched through melting marble eyes
into the distant heights of blue celestial skies
where they become bloated
and explode into nothingness,
beautifully lost in their pre-existence.

You don't want me to forget you
Don't you worry that will just be a myth for you
You dagger me straight into my heart ,
Kiss me and throw me a dungeon
Left as a stray and to rot
You show your warmth ,    
By laying me over a sheet of ice .
ohh ! You just showyour affection so right ...
Carve into my body so deep with all your artisan skills so bright .
You splatter salt as a paint to make it look more beautiful .
I am left there still and scarce ,                                        Your fear of oblivion is a good and disastrous in its on way    
Even without the winds gushing  
I Feel all the turbulences in my head  
You shake the very definiens of the word , obsession .

Regardless of how you might be so flawless,
Regardless of how tough,
You will forever be in need for solace.
But when the words are not enough,
When the strokes of a brush can’t explain,
When the hustle ceases to provide you with reverential gain,
When the tender sounds of music can’t calm,
When the turbulences of your soul hold more energy than that of an atomic bomb,
What on earth can possibly make your soul find the alleviation it starved for?
Maybe the realms that are worth to explore,
Are the heavens above, for the answer is non existent on this mortal planet.
Anything else that would make you believe otherwise, is nothing but a spell: an enchantment.

I.
The gleaming moon shined light
Emits bright luminesce, Paul holding his breath.
Floats over the hills
Valleys and streams, shadow of doubts.
Count it, another star rises!
And falls burning.
He wonders about the lantern of faith,
hides an omen of a stormy night

II.
Of those star turbulences of tragedy
Of these days passed with no respite

He lifted the lantern, his soul withstood.
He pondered on a one-way path
Confused but never scared, Listen－
the mountains echoed

III.

A lantern luminates its own soul
and
you are my light, Paul mumbles,
Absorbing all sparkles， Look
over folk lore, they glow.
Glittery magic, under a mellow hill
He lifted the lantern, a full moon
the faith and fairies bestow

04/July/2020

PUPPETS ON A STRING

We are worse than puppets on a string, at least feelings they have not

Thank God, in emotional turbulences or sentiments they are caught not.

We puppets, dance to Your tunes O Lord, our wishes to You, matter not

Impossible it is for us to fulfill our dreams; unless You wish, we dare not!

Decide You, our birth, death, illnesses, marriage, love, kids, success, what not!

In fact, even the reason for our birth, of its very purpose, we are aware not

Ask You I, answer me please; why are You so secretive, this mystery I know not

To surrender unto You, from childhood we are taught, then why these desires; I know not.

The individual purpose of our birth, of these puppets, understand we will not.

Sadly, millions of puppets, continuously dancing on Your string, stop will not.

Armin Dutia Motashaw