"wadi" poems
Seetaro mai akela chaand si thi wo
Foolon ka mehekta guldan si thi wo
Thi nadi jaisi aviral,chanchal
mere dil ka haal si thi wo
Ghani dhoop mai chav si thi wo
Kisi geet ki addaon si thi wo
Thi hava si mehekti, komal
Mere dil ka bhav si thi wo
Beech majhdhaar mai nav si thi wo
Khusian ka pura gaon si thi wo
Thi koyal si meethi,nishchal
Mere man ka abhiman si thi wo
Paido par wo patto waali hari bhari koi daal si thi wo
Holi ke rango mai sabse saadi ek akeli gulaal si thi wo
Thi wadi kasmiri koi
Mere geeton ka sur aur taal si thi wo
Mandir mai wo shankhnaad si,pooja ka prasad si thi wo
Baarish mai mitti ki khushboo,badal ka dharti se sanvaad si thi wo
Thi meri wo beti pyari,usse hi ghar 'harshit' tha
Mere ghar mai sooraj si,Mere ghar ki shaan si thi wo
Thi ab wo jo nahi rahi,aakhir khata kya thi ki usne
mana hi to kia tha na beta shaadi se,
Par dosti ka haath bhi to badhaya tha
Teri Bezatti toh nahi thi ki usne
Fir kyun tune usko har ghar badnaam kia
Dushman na kare,dost hokar tune aisa kaam kia
Chali gayi ab chhod ke mujhko,wo akele jeevan ki saanjh mai
Meri khushiyan,meri duniya,meri pyari jaan si thi wo
Meri pyari jaan si thi wo
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 7:46 AM UTC
The magnificent desert landscape
An exploration of ancient history
Your might lighted years ago
Rocky stones,red sands and cliffs
I strayed in your moon-like nature
The wind blew and I lost a breath
Squeezed in the deepest cave
Sipped and splashed the whisky
Mused by the silence you offered
The sandstone eroded and I gasped
The whole being lifted and freed
A Jordan beauty, my pleasant saviour
I forgot of my very own existence
An experience, the reflective moment
As the stars dipped on my sight
You sparked like a longed for knight
The feral me stranded on the desert depths
Stepping the elevated rocks to seek freedom
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 5:26 PM UTC
The Chinook and Monsoons have no effect.
Bring rain or snow, sleet or hail.
The Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn
Can shift or stay.
The wadi and oasis can pool or dry.
Fogs can roll, jet streams can carry their worst;
Hurricanes and tornadoes can wreck havoc.
This is my Kouri, my Oued, myTog.
All the animals are welcome to eat and drink.
There's plenty.
Migration is unnecessary.
The watering holes are wet or arid.
The desert can bloom or hide.
The skylights can shine or dim;
Moons can be full, new or in between.
This is my Nahal, and my Nala,
This is my Dry Season.
As expected,
Feast is followed by famine;
Plenty by scarcity.
Inhale, exhale.
I shoot a shot of Jamie,
Having watched it pour,
That dram of gold
Eclipsing all that shines.
That one diluvial ounce:
Then my cave calls.
This is my Akhet.
My Wet Season.
I enter sapien-like
And grow hair.
The animals scatter.
The cave fills with bones and bottles.
I eventually emerge
With the changing of the season,
With the return of reason,
And see;
Then hope
My dim familiar shadow
From the dry season
Will lengthen.
All I need is water.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
With all the skill
of a
seasoned cartographer
he mapped
out her gentle contours
his fingers
gently tracing
both hill and valley
the soft rolling
plains
and pausing to drink
from her wadi
water both salty and sweet
his fingers
charted the grasslands
and the softly scented caves beyond
each inch carefully
inked with both tongue
and wetted wanton
kisses
the whole landscape
laid
out before him
to be enjoyed
at his own leisure
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
I touch words:
I touched Azure
and saw clear blue sky and sunflowers and cows chewing on some chaff.
I touched Gentle
and saw my kitten's paws curled while he's asleep and fresh straight- out- the- dryer laundry and a long embrace.
I touched Heart
and saw its measured yet persisting beat.
I touched Wadi
and I saw me and my loved one walking our dog wearing sandals and the ugliest of hats.
I touched Horizon
and saw the sun kissing the soil.
I touched Bell
and saw a Sunday mass in my hometown church.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
In a deep and narrow gorge
the wadi winds its tortuous course
in a cliff face pocked with caves
monks ensconced in steep enclaves
Elijah was fed by ravens
praised the Lord, beheld the heavens
Down a steep and winding path
What good is being a polymath?
Wadi Qelt a holy place
I feel God's serene embrace
past are now my life's transgressions
I embrace my sins as lessons.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 7:26 PM UTC
Night Coming On
Sun going down spindled our shadows
to Giacometti bronze,
three old friends on a standing
six mile walk, streetlights sputtering
indignation at a dismal election
more final referendum
on the Enlightenment itself,
casting us in unflattering light,
angry white men, for all you knew,
wreathed in the sour mist
of seething resentment,
bas relief of your shadowed face
a dry wadi of worry
framed with care within
the folds of your hijab.
Desperation, oncoming night,
courage in the face of our disgraceful
descent into darkness,
God only knows what drove you
to ignore the little voice
in your head, steer to the curb to ask
directions to the community college.
You can’t miss it, finning my hand
down Washington
in a puny act of supplication,
past holiday lights and shoppers,
past this bar where we sit
huddled over beer,
watching in disbelief,
news of night coming on.
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 8:55 AM UTC
mistakes were made,
and things were said,
and none of us knew how to love life properly.
we used to say that we're unhappy
and that we tried and tried and tried
but lied.
that we did our best to change our state of misery,
to become better people for the people in our homes,
but we know now that wasn't true.
I never grabbed your arm while sinking in my dreams,
I never screamed while I was awake, but only in my sleep,
I was in pain my entire life. I never knew how to handle pain.
I never called it out. I carried it with me. the pain was sharp.
I wasn't. my edges got torn. there were fingerprints all over my face and body. my house was left empty. clean. not a soul inside. not a tear. I always dreamt of drowning. the sea was dreaming of dying inside me, being hyper ventilated. being choked with air and dryness.
you never told me that I was draining all the joy from your life
you never brought wine, nor cookies, nor take-away.
the only thing you carried around in a doggie bag, after a dinner out at the restaurant, was you soul. or, what was left of it after
both of us fed from it.
you never cried in your sleep, but only while you were awake,
you tried to warn me you were thunder, but I never got to hear the end of your words.
you never left,
you never came,
you were always in my heart.
we didn't make each other unhappier,
but we didn't manage to do it the other way, either.
we were never sorry. we never got to regret the ride.
we were in this together. all in. all ice.
we are the ones that cannot be forgiven,
we are the east and the west,
the Nile and the Amazon, each on his own continent,
together on our own Earth,
none of us in danger of ever becoming wadi,
we were music.
beautiful classical music that sounds great on its own
but is awful if you play it all at once..
if you push through the speakers with Bach,
add up Vivaldi, then Brahms, then Debussy, then throw in a little bit of Grieg, then Enescu, then salt things up with Puccini and, to spice things up, add just a pinch of Kennedy.
what happens to people like us?
the same thing that happens when people like us. we get lost.
in a room full of people, we become invisible
- like air.
the only thing that proves that we still exist
is all the dust
that travels through us.
we never liked them parties,
we never really wanted to be there,
yet we kept coming back, hoping
to get it right this time.
wishing to be a little more wiser this time around,
wearing our best clothes and
the lowest self-esteem.
we are just so ******* happy to be alive.
sorry. what I meant to say was
"we are just so ******* less unhappy to be alive!"
things were made,
and mistakes were said,
and none of us knew how to live love properly.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 12:40 PM UTC
I'm saddened by my mirrored face,
Smiling like a Sogdian on his rock,
When every grain-glass touched
Conceals belded thoughts.
Still I don't dare
To settle on that canopic fold.
At night's blessed brim,
Sing a good song for me,
And place this wood-husk lute on the wadi....
Come spring I'll be just as cold.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 8:28 PM UTC
Lost, Night Coming On
Sun going down on a six mile walk
honed our shadows to Giacometti bronze,
three old friends, a bit of spring yet in their step,
streetlights sputtering indignation at a dismal election
more referendum on the Enlightenment itself,
casting us, perhaps, in unflattering light,
a triptych of angry white men wreathed
in the sour mist of resentment for all you knew,
bas relief of your shadowed face
a dry wadi of worry framed with care within
the folds of your headscarf. Desperation,
oncoming night, courage in the face of our
disgraceful descent into darkness,
God only knows what drove you
to ignore the little voice in your head,
pull the car to the curb and ask
the way to the local community college
just a few blocks south on Washington, past
the first light, parking garage on your left,
you can’t miss it, finning my hand
down the street, past the bar
where soon we would huddle over beer,
watching in disbelief, news of night
coming on.
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 11:37 AM UTC