Phone Pains

When I was just a child, the phone
Would ring to let you know
That somewhere else a someone sat
Awaiting your 'hello';
You'd pick up the phone, or leave it alone;
And that's how far you'd go.

And then there came the softening blow:
The answering machine,
That played (thanks to your greeting from
Attempt number eighteen)
Each message amassed, the first and the last,
And all those in between.

But Murphy's law had barely seen
The things that we'd bemoan;
We sigh and roll our eyes at each
Reverberating tone;
Our hunger for tools has made us such fools:
Won't leave ourselves alone.

A Sonnet To My Children

Of all the things that make for sunny skies,
And send upon my heart a summer breeze,
I love you child, the coolness of my eyes,
My anchor as I weather stormy seas.

For when I put my arms around you, dear,
And feel the softness of your warm embrace,
It shrouds me in a love that is sincere,
A love that goes beyond this time and place.

But when I gaze into your sparkling eyes,
And see myself in all my vanity,
I gradually come to realize
How superficial a love can be.

Afford me love, surpassing mine for you,
Well-founded in a greater love that's true.

Becoming Friends

Day One: I sow my softest smile,
And reap the harvest wilted frown.

Day Two: I flash that smile and see
Just why the fallen must stay down.

Day Three: my customary smile
Begets a mostly vacant stare.

Day Four: the stare is lessened in
The degree of its vacancy.

Day Five: sweet reciprocity,
As I detect the slightest nod.

Day Six: the nod has swelled to bow,
I marvel at this work of God.

Day Seven: I get greeted first,
We trade our names excitedly.

Day Eight: I sow my softest smile,
And reap the harvest 'bundantly.

Day Nine: we shake our hands to seal
Our warm relationship in style.

Day Ten: my dear friend receives
Me in his arms before he leaves.


And by the bye, know I ain't I,
I'm usually the other guy.

The Tracker

or Suraqa's Prize


A hundred camels; fair reward,
Thought Suraqa bin Malik, who
Had set his eyes upon that prize,
And knew precisely what to do;

Instructing thus his faithful slave,
He ordered her in secrecy
To go prepare his agile mare,
With the utmost rapidity.

Then Suraqa slipped out of town,
And with the greatest care was bound
For where the bounty hunter's mount
Sat patiently without a sound.

He started from the mouth of Thaur,
And let his heightened senses glean
From every trace in every space,
The path his quarry must have seen.

Into the desert, Suraqa
Picked up on every clue with care
And on he pressed without a rest
To overcome the fleeing pair.

Then as he came atop a dune,
His skill and patience bore him fruit;
For came in sight, to his delight,
The object of his long pursuit.

He gently spurred his trusted mare
To canter at a steady pace,
Then drew his bow, which he held low,
And nocked an arrow, just in case.

But when they came within his range,
The duo swiftly turned around
Which caught the bounty hunter's mount
By such surprise, Suraqa frowned.

He masterfully reined her in,
And forced her round to face the two,
Their noble faces full of grace:
A grace that graces very few.

He drew his breath and shouted out
A call to give in peacefully,
But not a word, not one uttered
By Taymi or by Hashimi.

Then Suraqa, his bowstring drawn,
Attempted to advance his mare,
When unseen hands let loose the sands,
And Suraqa was in despair;

For all his years of horsemanship,
He could not stay the fluid sand,
With little choice, he found his voice,
(And, though he did not understand)

Suraqa promised he would leave
If only he could be set free;
The Prophet prayed; the sand, it stayed,
Releasing him immediately.

But such is the allure of wealth,
That Suraqa forgot his plight,
And sought he then to try again
With all his strength, and all his might.

No sooner had he spurred the beast
Than did the sands return that stalked
The poor bounty hunter's mount,
Who raised his bow with arrow nocked;

And then his eyes went wide with fear,
For all of feeling left his hands,
The tracker's face lost every trace
Of color that a face demands.

And in an earnest, broken voice,
Did Suraqa renew his oath,
To turn away from them that day,
And grant safe passage to them both.

The Prophet raised his hands in prayer,
And that at once allayed the sands,
Which served to spare Suraqa's mare,
And brought back feeling in his hands.

Then did the Prophet give the news
To Suraqa that he would wear
From Khusro's gold, of wealth untold,
The royal bangles as his share.

And so the years went rolling by,
Until that day divinely willed,
When struck with awe, the tracker saw
That strangest prophecy fulfilled.

On Certain Knowledge

The new anti-depressant pill,
The iron-clad pretexts for war,
That caring education bill,
Those coupons that we line up for,

All make us feel secure until...

You drown your baby in the bath,
You lose your son to smart-bomb wrath,
You ace the test, but get no call,
Our GM diet kills us all.

Our home-grown double-yew-em-dee
Is knowledge without certainty;
And that is no knowledge at all.
Lets read the writing on the wall,

And taste the glory in the shame
Of trying out this simple cure:
As we defend the good we claim,
Could we just mention, "We're not sure"؟

Dissolving the "Leaves in the Wind" Page

I figure they're all leaves in the wind. I have posted those works here in all their disconnectedness, and I bid that page good-bye.

Furrows in your Brow
Humbling Fatherhood
About Me

About Me

The more I say, the less you hear;
The less I say, the more its clear,
That wishing for to know me more
Is not a fancy you hold dear.

Humbling Fatherhood

'Fit weren't for fatherhood

I'd never've understood

That all the hurt my Dad did blurt

Had come from something good

'Fit weren't for fatherhood

I'd never've understood

That every time he lost his mind

He'd done the best he could

'Fit weren't for fatherhood

I'd never've understood

That if I can be half the man

As he, then I'd be good.

Furrows In Your Brow

It ever pleases me to see
The furrows in your brow
That come about with every pout
Begotten by a row;
So let me plot and fabricate
An argument somehow,
That I may sigh, and gaze upon
The furrows in your brow.