To the Proud Parents of Sulayman

For every of his infant cry,
That brings to you a weary sigh:

May your ears be blessed with the music of the angels and the celestial sounds of the divine recitation.

For every moment of arrest:
(It is what Sulaymans do best)

May you roam the grounds of vast, verdant gardens, hand in hand, unrestrained.

For all the suffocating phews,
All brought about by his refuse:

May you smell the varied fragrances of Jannah and ever find yourself in the company of its fragrant dwellers.

For every wakeful night that's spent,
And each arousal inclement:

May you find restful repose without weariness on the warm grassy banks of babbling waters.

May Sulayman be your greatest reward forever, and ever.

On Cancer, Guns, and Hit 'n Runs

The chemo sessions wore him down,
He so despised the sterile smells,
The chatter, beeps, and flimsy gown,
And then those plain disgusting gels.

But no more thoughts of days gone by,
Of chances lost, of things begun,
And multitud'nous reasons why
Some of those things just won't get done.

No, none of that. He closed his eyes,
And saw with utmost clarity
The very light that clarifies
The meaning of reality.

Deceased, 12-20-88

She wore a smile of gratitude,

And softly blinked to see just how

Her crazy life had been renewed,

Was tumor-free for eight years now.

Her loving husband, bratty child,

A recent job promotion, and

Their town home fashionably styled,

All came together just as planned.

She left her car to cross the street,

When, BANG BANG BANG - no time to dive,

Her body hit the cold concrete,

And sprang the rest of her alive.

Deceased, 8-13-94

Returning from the library,
He tried to navigate his thoughts
From English and Geography
To complicated scatter plots.

He'd battled cancer as a child,
And thought that was his hardest time,
Until that college kid went wild,
And shot him in a tragic crime.

Disease and wounds had left him strong,
And strong he was in times of strife,
But then, that night, something went wrong:
A drunken driver took his life.

Deceased, 11-6-08.

I am amongst you even as
I breathe, and wince, and laugh, and cry;
I've been with you from evermore.
Deceased, mm-dd-yy.

Feather

Head…pain.

I pull into the parking lot,
And want to shake my head so bad,
But find that I cannot.

Head…pain…feather.

My immobility persists
While I attempt to process why
These words arrest me so.

Head…pain…feather…child.

And then I see inside my head
A scene projected by my heart,
A fascinating show:

A baby in my mother's arms
Is rocking slowly back and forth;
She smiles, she laughs, she imitates
His coos so very well.

And as he rocks and bobs his head,
She's taken by surprise just when
His forehead strikes her in the chest,
How hard, I cannot tell.

But she does seem to wince at that
With baby still held in her arms,
Laughing, then crying out in pain,
And then, laughing again.

I blink to end my reverie.
Feather still eludes me.