Strips glazed over my kids wish list,
airline emergency runways razed
upon the rivers of Indian burial sites.
Cursed pavements of evermore, how
could we have forgotten the sacred
sanctum’s of Columbia’s yesteryear.

/
Many days
I do not read any newspaper
Even do not see television
At all
Many days have gone
After You
I do not read any poetry

How to feel that since this morning!
Repeatedly hear identifying tunes on the air

Your arrival in the sky,
The air reverberates
Looks like another day
In the Paradise,
In another song,
Which brings the soul
The Aroma

Everyone is coming out
From all sides
Young Old
Babies Boys
Women Men
Everyone
Everyone is clapping
Singing the song of the same tune
This song is not the song of Rain
Not even a lamentation

The Southern breeze whispering your words
Slowly Said,
The Little Tailor Bird
No, No,
Not such a summer afternoon
Not even a hurricane warning

Each of the human eye
Follow the Eastern Sky  
Tireless Eye
Watching the sun,
The Red Sun,
You went to bring dreams for us
From the Sun

Hundreds of thousands of people
In his next question
Hand with Flower
Shoulder to Shoulder
Today will be the day of strangers,
The poet will come
We are standing in the flowers
Fist full of dreams to take

Float in the sky with white clouds
My dreams are calling again
Today is not such an Autumn
But Still feel like an Autumn
Indeed,  
The poet will come,
A poem in the New

Where each word will be spoken dream
Love to be evacuated
Poems that will repay
The debt to my Ancestor
Take revenge on thee
For their injustice,
Torture
Poems that would bring the stars
For our next generation
A poem that would bring the red rose for my darling,
Would bring such a smile to my mother's face
As Moon that smile
And that is simply killed false dreams
Will we ever Released
Sing Freedom Songs

The Poet,
My beloved Poet
You will come,
Will surely come
And will recite your immortal poem
/

@ Musfiq us shaleheen

If only, if only I could think of one line.
I would write anything. Carroll-ing,
in Wonderland, ring, bing, ting, ting,
but in actuality, that is the sands of time
“Passing Me By” – like the Pharcyde, far side.

Anything, I would write. Insects, parasites,
diseases. God forbid if I wrote about Jesus.
I need something to quill that I cannot resist,
I will, believe this. I take the keyboard swiftly...
but the key is, I’m bored; mind keeps shifting.

Write anything – I would. True Yoda –isms,
Star wars, chores, ignorance galore; I’m bored
Of uncovering the ills of NSA’s PRISM.
******, I want to travel! A world to explore
And unravel; out there are words to score.

Would I Write Anything? I’ll just sit here
Like the man on the marble slab. Blank screens,
White walls, smoke green and sip all the beer.
It’s weird, I’ll sit here and it hits me sometime.
If only, if only I could think of one line.

If only, if only I could think of one line.

On the lonely road to Chicago,
I reach towards my passenger seat,
Open my pack of squares, when suddenly
I realize that I may have misplaced something;
I can’t believe that I lost my lighter!

Minutes pass and I set the sedan to cruise,
Scavenging the car seat’s abyss with one
Eye on the road, the other with peregrine’s
Vision, gazing for the sight of the red flint.
Where in the hell is my lighter!?

Cig in hand, waiting patiently for puff one;
A sign appears: “next stop in forty-six miles”
The road, more desolate without my sly,
Pyrotechnic, sidekick; How could I lose it?
I would do anything to have my lighter!

Time perception; out of mind’s reach,
Twelve miles away, eight miles to withdraw,
The car’s engine at full go, the road dragging
Further than the Lake Michigan shoreline.
I can’t make it without my lighter!

I pull the car aside, open the convenience
Store door and walk to the clerk with
A hyena’s grin and ask for the red bic;
On the road again, and once again smoking.
Ecstasy! I glance in jubilation at the sight of my new lighter.

The Sky is the Limit*

When you “feel” a beat,
not one that is felt with your hands,
but a delicate crescendo that resonates in the streets.
It’s a whole sound, like DNA strands
vivid and teeming of livelihood or even timing;
yes, a beat to forget all of your problems and stress.
One that seemingly strips strife, increasing syntax and rhyming;
a beat that somehow serenades smoother than the rest.

That one, “The Sky is the Limit,” by Biggie or even Wayne
is the one I felt today, unhinging the helix
while simultaneously simmering the pain;
any hindrances had that could not be fixed.
But we all feel ‘em differently in a multitude of mixtures,
oh, it’s a human breed indeed
Especially because it is far from the perfect fixture.
But, sometimes, it is all that I need.

A good fastball
is not achieved
without a good
changeup. That
is to say that one
must feel the circle
within his stretched
hands and gently
unravel her laces
with your fingertips;
before you simply
jam it up inside of
the zone as fast as
you can.