"fattened" poems
His fingers wrapped tightly
Around the little hand
Of the sleeping child in his arms.
His eyes traced the silhouette
Of pursed lips to fattened cheeks
And he thought to himself,
"How does something so wonderful exist?"
He listened to the gentle rasp of breath
And watched the slight rise and fall of chest.
His eye soaked up the sight
Of the bundle of unconditional love he held.
And soon dreams of future adventures
And tales and fables and stories
And daily life monotony
Played like a movie before him,
Drawing a single tear of hope from his eye.
All too soon the child stirred and woke
And jumped up and shouted with glee.
And he returned from sentiment to reality
And made breakfast with a cup of tea
Wishing for more moments like these
Because he finally understood his father's word:
Time passes too quickly when it comes to love.
And when his hand paused over the kettle
And his eyes glazed over with this vague thought,
A small hand touched his arm with "Papa?"
Little eyes took in the strength of character
That towered as a model for a future life;
Little eyes that never strayed too long from
Watching and learning all the things Papa did;
Little eyes that now began to see
There's always another side to every thing,
For with great abruptness
Papa looked into those little eyes
And said, "Go wash up, your hands are *****
But the glint in his eyes said,
"I love you, always."
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
Three sang of love together: one with lips
Crimson, with cheeks and ***** in a glow,
Flushed to the yellow hair and finger-tips;
And one there sang who soft and smooth as snow
Bloomed like a tinted hyacinth at a show;
And one was blue with famine after love,
Who like a harpstring snapped rang harsh and low
The burden of what those were singing of.
One shamed herself in love; one temperately
Grew gross in soulless love, a sluggish wife;
One famished died for love. Thus two of three
Took death for love and won him after strife;
One droned in sweetness like a fattened bee:
All on the threshold, yet all short of life.
5.3k
How can I see you yet never go Blind
As Tradition and Heart seek to acclaim?
I carry no Surveys; But keep in mind
A Friend such as you has naught to explain
Sweet and Sour Words not; Joy discovers Joy
And Celebration does reward the Humble
Your Grin is shy by your arms; As a Toy
Compare a Fattened Bee to a Bumble
Trust is falling in love with Pockets. True,
Digging deep you reach Wisdom by the Card
I suggest you shuffle; Then Five Trinkets
Spell out the Sum of who you really are:
Simple. Gay. Serene. Trustsworthy. Beauty.
All locked in your Chest to open when ready.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
The stylish kitchen
was where the chicken
had to be prepared
and couldn't be spared
by the good old chef
who was known as Jeff
on that fateful day
with the baking tray
placed in the oven
heated to govern
the cooking of which
was a dinner pitch
for that very night
with the stars so bright
in the sky above
everyone would love
who were invited
and be delighted
on that occasion
without persuasion
to share in some feast
not saying the least
that could've been said
if it was just bread
with a bowl of stew
for some hungry crew.
And so it happened
they were all fattened
by the food they ate
as they supped 'till late
and when the time came
the guests couldn't blame
the chef or the host
for the chicken roast
and the side dishes
which pleased the wishes
of all the guests there
who enjoyed the fare
with many a thanks
without any blanks
and there it ended
the night presented.
All the guests who came
did not leave the same
because of the food
eaten that was good.
-------------------
Sep 30, 2023
Sep 30, 2023 at 10:16 PM UTC
I've known heights, aimed like a bullet
to the top of the head.
Forbidden songs, jagging
placid landscapes.
Waterblood waterbone --
my body cries out to me.
How long the abuse, how long!
In the barreled pit of my sober life
up from common sense--snapping into it,
my soul came alive.
Alive I say!
By grace I breached.
Free in the wind!
Kingdoms of water, alive kingdoms --
hear now the words of my tears.
Mea Culpa!
I slam on the brakes, tear off the roofs
of steel compartments.
I see sky and feel in daylight every hidden star.
I declare -- the emperor of death
has no clothing.
I scatter forgiveness
across all the fattened streets.
Oceans of me are singing.
A spinning angels' symphony.
Over the graves of ancestors, I vow:
Water, I shall love you.
I shall speak up, shall protect you.
I shall fight for you and die
if I must.
Ten times ten give my very life
-- that you live.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 12:29 AM UTC
I saw him at work;
When he would visit the mangal
With a ***** over his shoulder.
He rolled up his pant legs and walked
Through the tidal wash. Once he had picked a tree,
He hacked for three days to cut
The mud and the mangrove
Free from the surrounding forest.
He piloted his self-made island into the lagoon.
Shortly, he became mangrove crazy,
A disease he called Rhizophoria
In the notebook he had taken along.
With mud lobsters and tree for his only company,
Of course he had mangrove on the brain.
His life became an ellipsis—
The two centers were the tree and himself.
From tubular mangrove branches, propagules fattened,
And seeds nested inside them;
He would scribble notes with delirium as they fell
Plumply into the lagoon
And were pulled away by the warm current.
Each time the tree condensed its salt
Into a sacrificial leaf,
He would sadly add a tick
To the tally of the dead he kept in his book.
He once wrote:
‘The salt is burning my eyes.’
Late afternoons, with beer in our hands,
We would watch him from the beach,
Five hundred yards away.
Eventually, his mangrove island drifted ashore—
He lay by the suberic roots
With a crust of salt along his cheek.
May 4, 2010
May 4, 2010 at 9:45 PM UTC
It was supposed to be fun.
New school, new supplies,
Thin, neon highlighters glowing inside
Vera Bradley backpacks.
Skinny folders assigned to
Pointless subjects,
Which would be fattened
With pointless homework
By the end of the day.
It was supposed to be fun,
And for a little while, I forgot.
I forgot until History.
The new teacher hadn't lived here
Longer than a week,
Which was why he was
Excited
About teaching.
He had on a brand new tie
From Banana Republic
Which was obviously tied
By his wide eyed fiance.
His classroom was bare, as he explained,
"Don't worry,
I ordered posters yesterday."
The teacher wasn't the problem.
The problem was,
Between Richardson
And Roberts,
He still existed.
At least in the school system he did.
"Ashley Paulette?"
"-Here."
"Abby Richardson?"
"-Here."
"Bennett Rill?"
And my life shattered all over again.
The silence felt
Deafening.
Remembering how he wouldn't be there.
Not ever.
"Bennett Rill?"
The teacher was confused, looking around the room
For someone
Who was buried six feet under.
Someone who the teacher might've thought
Was sick, or vacationing.
It was supposed to be fun.
But then I remembered
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
********** isn’t the same;
My collarbone doesn’t peek up through my skin how it used to when I removed my shirt.
I can’t see my ribcage protrude over my flesh under each breast like it used to.
My hourglass figure has too much sand; it’s spilling over.
The mirror seems to hide its eyes and turn away and the scale screams for me to scram.
The numbers glare up at me as I look down over the overfilling sand to where I wonder what it’d feel like if the ocean washed up over my toes in a skimpy bikini,
My hair blowing in the wind as I let the sun kiss my cheeks.
How it feels to be kissed by the glass watching me strip into the dim bathroom light,
Instead of slapped by the picture I see in the mirror.
When I bend over to finish removing the clothing,
I have to look away from the extra bulge of sand that sits directly above my waist
And haunts me by the rolls that hang on to my fattened skeleton.
I wonder how it feels to be loved by the reflection staring back at me.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC
normalcy.
the minds attempt
to squeeze
uniform meaning
from the scolding chaos
which permeates
every square inch
of this perceived reality.
corn fed geese, fattened on memes,
fools world constructed, and
happily closing the door
on the prison, built
with our own numb hands.
puppets to nothing, and
to return to nothing
is all that ever is
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
I'm not your prodigal son;
I'm your abandoned daughter.
Don't wait around for me to return.
I won't.
I gave and gave because I was a child
Hoping for love I received conditionally.
When I stopped giving, you left.
That says more about you than me.
You worship a God in your image.
One who asks for all.
You say he loves unconditionally,
But that's what you said about you.
You worship an abuser,
And in his name you abuse.
You pray for repentance
But are unwilling to change yourself.
I know you miss me.
You want me back so I can give,
And a part of you really does care.
Your actions matter more.
You could love me again
If you wanted.
I haven't hidden myself from you.
I'm still here.
You can't expect me to come
Crawling back to you.
The fattened calf you'd offer only
If I approached on your terms.
That's not the forgiving father.
That's a parent still grasping
For control of their child.
I don't need your food.
If you wanted to learn,
Maybe even consider
You could be wrong,
I might call you again.
You won't even use my name.
Like the neighbors of your savior,
You say, isn't this our son?
I'm unwelcome in your home.
So I've finally done it.
I did what I knew I had to.
I shook the dust from my sandals,
And I left.
Sep 9, 2021
Sep 9, 2021 at 1:39 PM UTC
An ogre set out to have a
feast one day.
Dreaming of all the creatures
he would slay.
He'd have bowls
full of trolls.
And fairies buttered
on rolls.
He'd eat hairy mountain
goat coats
And fattened up ducklings
full of their oats.
He'd chomp on legs
of forest elves
And pickled gnomes feet
from his shelves.
This fearsome young ogre
planned quite well,
Except for a troublesome
oyster shell.
It landed quite wrong
deep in his gullet.
And never more was heard
from Ogre Trullet.
Jun 10, 2011
Jun 10, 2011 at 4:12 PM UTC
We can escape, now,
it's smoky with a chance of curtain drawn,
our minds won't tramsit light
from our empty, covered windo- the train is here.
I'm ready to go.
And though I'm leaving on a train
with room for only one,
I'm hoping you can catch a cheap ride
hidden in my pocket.
Nobody checks your person, anymore,
Nobody cares;
Homeland Security lovingly fed
us fattened falsities
As the fat cats in suburban alleyways
tore off the thickest
pieces of marrow from the national animal
of our Fiction States of America.
I have known this
because I have seen it from my seat
in coach,
thank god, too, because the train is packed.
So fill up
if you aren't going to hop in,
wishing to distort
your mind with all of their public drugs,
community opiates
transmitting across electrical wires hidden
in the ground,
the trees,
the air itself,
stitched into the layers of
dark matter and cosmic foam insulating
our fragile and overdone Universe.
I hear their static,
that pantomimed reality,
caught inside carbon fibers running through everything,
running through me,
running through you,
running into and out of your brain like
a thief without pause or moral.
We could run, too,
the heavy bass notes of the
nurturing ocean could shield the screech
of the battered train's wheels;
the wheels need a rest from screeching, anyway.
Quick!
While the conductor isn't looking!
The wires will tell him you're here
until you're gone,
hidden in my coat pocket
inside a layer of my inner smoke.
Well, if you insist,
I suppose you may leave,
but once the wound of knowledge opens,
just know it never closes.
It will fester and
prickle
with the fetid odor
of truths turned into lies.
I know I'm talking
to myself, now, but I don't
want to let you go,
though I'll stay here,
safe,
in the train carriage,
hidden in smoke.
Smoke,
smoke,
smoke,
the train heats up,
breaths out smoke from its burning
and throbbing pipe.
The engine has built up
an overdose of heat,
trying to throw off the weeds trying
to grow inside.
They tried to enter me,
and they will soon enter you,
now,
without my smoke to shroud you,
to leave your naked wound
easily hidden in
paranoid dreams.
Screeeeee,
screeeeeee,
screeeeeeee,
the wheels screech out,
ready to go,
ready to run,
to run down the track,
to run through all obstacles,
to run through everything,
to run through me,
to run through you,
to run in and out of your brain,
blown away in a puff of smoke,
my memory has burned away
and blows off as ash
and smoke.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 7:32 PM UTC
If she sang the way she looked,
you might expect Kate Smith
singing "God Save The Queen."
That *** Pistol's hit did not
come out, more voice pixieish,
a song unknown. Words were
bleary but delish were notes.
Complete meaning lost,
her elfin aria enchanted us. Indeed
there were whispers, "What is it
she's singing?" Then shushes
from those already spun
in her spell. We drifted into
her Mother Goose downy lullaby.
Fattened by unexpected
mellow mouthwatering coos,
her taken audience drank it in
and from beginning to end
were somehow morphed into
fuzzy waddling fans.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
Most of my time is spent in a Piggly Wiggly line
So you know the Hollywood rags I have seen
Scouring them inside out, top to bottom, back to front
I know all the skinny on all the skinny stars in-between
This day Mona in a Moo Moo says from behind me
Something about this must be done
So with the east in our rear (That doesn't sound right does it!)
Look out Hollywood California here we come
Not long after landing in Los Angeles
Before we even barely had time
We set up what "THEY" think is an organic juice hand squeezed by Virgin's
and Himalayan soy Sushi bar
Out of our Hot Dog cart on the corner of Hollywood and Vine
And yes, we've added a little secret ingredient
Something to fatten those Hollywood types up
So they'll look like the rest of us in America
With the line around the block it looks like they can't get enough
With a little dab here and a little sprinkle there (wink,wink)
Our food has become the talk of the town
You'd think they would have figured it out by now
As each delicious bite adds a few extra pounds
And menu items with names like
-Add Another Roll Sushi-
Or the...
-Don't Look Behind You Sushi Surprise-
Then there's our most popular item
The -California Your **** SuperSize-
Now that we've fattened up most of the Movie Stars and then some
California's so heavy it may soon slide into the sea
With a new concoction we've developed to stimulate brain juice's
We're now taking our Hot Dog Cart to Washington D.C.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
Edgar Allen settled evenings in the room at the rear
at a desk by the window where he could hear
breeze-rustled sycamore leaves sleeping
behind the neighbor’s house next door
through night’s florescent blue moon light,
its mist through low leaden clouds
he imagined the phantom he named Lenore,
and remembered lost Annabelle Lee
amore he'd left laid alone aside a blackened sea
hers, the voice of a tree speaking, hushed,
like distant waves rushed upon shore,
faintly whispering heart-secrets
the ardent couldn’t keep evermore
was it she who sighed with love’s breathless lips
to flicker the flame of a tortured oil lamp’s light
the words born laboring children
with pen put in service to cover past rent,
refill an empty flask of verdant absinthe
for a nine-dollar-half-column poem -
fodder for fickle romantics to tear over
before a performance of Bellini’s new Norma
hardened, our modern hearts
fattened on diets of swollen bellies
that belie the dour misery of starving
they’ve grown sclerotic and cynical,
hungry for suffering flavored substantial -
a greasy disaster to stain the paper wrapper
enclosing depths of the human condition
sophisticates, we dismissed puerile appetite
for honeyed songs of longing,
the ornamented confections of jealous angels
old drunken poets sang
until dark full comes, alone, and we’re small again
then shadows still speak to starry skies
and fairy tales may come alive
to suspend belief with secret dreams
of the dear, lost Annabelle Lee
Mar 13, 2011
Mar 13, 2011 at 12:59 PM UTC
Most of my time is spent in Piggly Wiggly lines
So you know the Hollywood rags I have seen
Scouring them inside out, top to bottom, back to front
I know all the skinny on all the skinny stars in-between
This day Mona in a Moo Moo says from behind me
Something about this must be done
So with the East in our rear ( That doesn't sound right does it )
Look out Hollywood California here we come
Not long after landing in Los Angeles
Before we even barely had time
We set up what "THEY" think is an Organic Juice Hand Squeezed By Virgin's
and Himalayan Soy Sushi Bar
Out of our Hot Dog cart on Hollywood and Vine
Of course we've added a little secret ingredient
Something to fatten those Hollywood types up
So they'll look like the rest of us in America
And with the line around the block it looks like they can't get enough
With a little dab here and a little sprinkle there (wink,wink)
Our cart has become the talk of the town
You'd think they would have figured it out by now
As each delicious bite adds a few extra pounds
With menu items with names like
Add Another Roll Sushi
or the...
Don't Look Behind You Sushi Surprise
Then there's our most popular item
The *California Your **** SuperSize*
Now that we've fattened up most of the Movie Stars and then some
California's so heavy it may soon slide into the sea
With a new concoction we've developed to stimulate brain juices
We're now taking our Hot Dog cart to Washington D.C.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 4:28 PM UTC
the vacant eye of a birdhouse.
a tiny black plate
that in a dream
you cannot pinch. the mute
cat’s meow
in your belly’s
lack wink. a dry
cookie
at the pursed
fanfare
of mouth. your thumb
moving over
your mother’s. dark foods
untouched
as the shadows
of fish
by water. your father’s
ear
taking blood
from the tilt
of a baby swing. the peasant
swallow
of a mannequin
whose ******
once fattened
your brother’s
lip. the paw print dice.
the ***** nurse
her long teeth
packed away
like cigarettes
in the shirt pockets
of men
shy
by this
much.
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 11:58 AM UTC
*Skim milk masquerades as cream
Wolves self-ordain themselves as custodians
Of the “good” of sheep and that they’re a team
In the quest for universal good, poor proletarians.
A fattened up emaciation
That derails the pursuit for accountability
Paving way for many a loophole
A stranglehold on emancipation
The sheep simply merely sign a treaty
With fate to elongate their back breaking life before taking a stroll
In either heaven or hell, that’s if an afterlife exists.
The wolf menace is thus a malignant cyst
To “body politic”
Posing mind boggling potential harm, worth incisive critique.*
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 5:02 AM UTC
There are men in the yards
Boys, really
That teased me endlessly
In school
And now they are grown up
Angular in their carhartts
Corn fed
Sun red
From bailing too much hay
A little extra money on a weekend
They are clad in camo hats
Soft denim
Work clothes
When I knew them they were farm boys
Who were never looking for more
Than a corn fed
Country princess
A pair of cowgirl boots
To take to bed
And now they’re driving fire trucks
Tractors
International harvesters
Their princesses
Have fattened up
Wide hips are good for children
Easy enough to let yourself go then
Cute clothes are for the rich city *******
Who still fit into a 2
And their kids
A new generation of
Freeburgians
Are drawing with chalk in the streets
And the older ones
Are riding bikes
Long outgrown
Scraping their knees
Getting stung by bees
Shoplifting from the motomart
They will grow up normal
Grow into their work clothes
Keep that small town pride alive
Keep the corn fields, keep the rye
Keep the beans and wheat and barley
Growing high
And I keep running right on by
I never knew these people
Though I wear boots too
And my hands are calloused
From working with the soil
In the distance I can see the steeple
And my car
Parked for a quick getaway
Another day
Avoiding this place
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 3:50 PM UTC
I spent my early life
Looking out from behind
The chain link fence on the turkey farm
There they fed me right
Fattened up my thighs
After all, what could be the harm
If it was up to me
I would never leave
It's where I prefer to spend my years
But alas will come the day
When all good turkey's have to say
Arrivederci...I am outta here
I was born to be a Butter Ball
Unlike those sloppy pigs that live next door
To be a tender turkey is my call
And all you want to do is eat me
Yes, you wanna eat me
They just took Turkey Jack
To the shed out back
Where we never heard from him again
Just like yesterday
With my friend Turkey Dave
Strange they haven't messed with Turkey Slim
Am I the next in line
Could this here be my time
My head placed on the chopping block
As I say my goodbyes
To all the gals and guys
I gobble to Mary Lou as an after thought
I was born to be a Butter Ball
So delicious they're coming back for more
Tenderized to the very core
All they want to do is eat me
I was born to be a Butter Ball
A slap in the face to the Honey Ham
To be a tinder turkey is my call
Heavy on the gravy with a side of yams
Now that you know my tale
I hope I told it well
Enjoy this day with your family and your friends
So remember then
Don't leave the stuffing in
And dinner will go the way that it was planned
I was born to be a Butter Ball
The highest honor of them all
Into the open oven I must fall
Cause all you want to do is eat me
Yes, all you wanna do is eat me
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 8:14 AM UTC
This road is every dirt road,
every grassy ditch and wheat field;
that hill near every river. The stairs
that shuttle down are the same stairs in dreams,
like fattened finger bones. Nothing,
not even sky can bear the road.
Pear trees are sometimes inverted,
sprouting soggy fruit underground
where muddy birds lay their eggs
and hatching babies paddle up for air
like sea turtles. There are alligators
in every river, gardens of them wilting
and waiting for the man who presses his arms together
and carries the water to the mouth of the road,
who gives what he has, and knows he’s no good.
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 1:58 PM UTC
Sown as corn at little cost
And doomed to bloom amid the frost
Struggling through frozen earth
Weak and withered after birth
Swaddled up in soothing lies
With jingles as our lullabies
Numbered at our fledgling breath
Weighed, tagged and worked to death
Grown into a paper mould
With ball and chain of solid gold
Impotent to break or twist
The wireless shackle about the wrist
Conform, obey, do not resist
A silken blindfold binding eyes
To hide corruption on the rise
While noblemen with scented whips
Peddle lies from fattened lips
Voices raised in honest fear
Are drowned before they reach an ear
Just watch the screen, rapt, unblinking
Television does your thinking
Accept the credit, pay the debt
Take the chance and make the bet
Tow the line and wear the tie
Heckle the honest, praise the spy
Apathy has your gullet gripped
And leather fingers, sugar dipped
Have slipped on over zealous triggers
Suppressing freedom, defending figures
Chemical fed and bred to serve
Dry of tongue and numb of nerve
Right and wrong have merged together
And apathy, our chosen tether
The beast is neutered, caged and tame
The sinews of defiance, lame
Wash down pills with poison water
Disregard the silent slaughter
Slumbering as lions of old
While politicians growing bold
On plundered gains and stolen lives
Until their reckoning arrives
For once again the lions stir
And shackles fall from ancient fur
Beware the people, stay the whip
The masque of apathy must slip
Rise up, lions, sleep has passed
With every lie and bullet cast
A revolution overdue
We are still many, they are few
**
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC
Can this be the time once more
Of utter giving up of our control
The simple folliwing of commercial madness
Our desire for the day when food and wine
Have to be gathered about us like the defences of yore
Headlong we run from mid-summer until
We are exhausted in body, spirit or credit
The desperate worry of what to buy whom
Or when to order the especially fattened bird for your table
The ridiculous overspending on presents
When time could be the finest present you could give
Yule tide is a special period for Druids and all pagans alike,
The wonder of simplicity of reflection of our past year
The elements of sleep as mother earth regenerates herself
Resting often under the warmth of a blanket of snow
Gathering of families and loved ones
Blessings of the solstice as the wheel of the year turns
Once more into the light as the sun begins it's journey
Returning to the northern hemisphere
Our birds and native animals preparing for the winter
Storing their food, digging deep as they look for vitals
Likewise the land is resting,
The soil teems with dormant life, every insect and worm
Every root, form and bulb
Slowing right down as the degrees fall to freezing
The frosty and rime ridden mornings giving the flora
A lift of white dusting and sparkling light reflecting
The weak, beautiful winter sun
Heaves itself onto the low glancing position
Just making it to the tree tops before retiring once more to sleep
Leaving glorious swathes of orange and red
Painting the sky as it falls and rises.
Yule tide comes as all seasons, times and periods
But once a year in our short lives
The earthy sounds, the images and emotion
The smell of the newly fallen snow and woodsmoke
The foraging birds and squirrels
The warbling and tuneful song of the blackbird
And the tut tut of Mr Robin resplendent in his
Bright red waistcoat bobbing around in the crisp frost
Our lifetime of Yules is a wonder to enjoy,
I know as I look from my window where my heart is
As the distant tree bare in it's winter shroud speaks
To me as a friend and anchor within this beautiful planet.
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 5:22 AM UTC
We rode to Ta’if on a flying carpet
— a Toyota with a missing hubcap
sweeping through fattened clouds
which clung to the hilltops like grazing bison
arriving on the otherworldly plateau that wore
the death shroud of an old hermit’s mystery
which our Prophet reached in sandals as ******
as the deck of a Nantucket whaling ship
Arabian Himalayas. He climbed like a yak
and the Lord strengthened his steps
Our taxi driver — as lost as the cheque in the mail —
poked at his satnav and called his mates
The Almighty’s beloved followed the angel and
never lost his way. He strained with pain
Our driver’s mirrored eyes intruded while we
held hands on the back seat and yawned
The Lord smiled down upon his aching friend
and eased the pain in cramping calves
A sagging mosque now hunches where the ignorant
had cast away the chance of a lifetime
Oh think if they had taken him in — Medina
would sit as a happy king on a mountain throne
I immortalised my love in a photo in that mosque
praying as a saint where our hero had struggled
I adore my captured shaikha and the memory
of when we followed in the footsteps of our Prophet
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC