Swept Up

Summon me to the sky
Oh Wind

Caress me - let me fly

Away

Let me attach myself

to your power

and blow through your cities

and over your oceans

and upon your mountains

and then...

like sudden stillness

let me float back into

tranquility

Jerk

Captured

Stifled by your emotion
stunned into silence

Again

I wait for the tears to flow
But instead I receive an
angry slam in my face

The door crushes my finger
and you laugh

Aloud

Sometimes I wish you would
just keep drinking
until the bottle swallows you whole

Kindred Souls

Worlds apart

You and I

Breathing the same pious air

Smelling the same scent of earth

Noting the beautiful words

that spill effortlessly upon our souls each morning

We read the blogs

and block out the news

Scanning for the remnants of simplicity that

Weave their way into our lives

Poetry steals the sadness from our hearts

Prose leaves us aching for more

The power of words form

Crosswords and sonnets

Novelas and essays

Books upon books

Shelves upon shelves

You and I,

Although worlds apart

Seek the same goal

Knowledge

and

Freedom

Words of wisdom

to give us peace

in this chaotic place

A Moment

A moment of solitude
stroked my heart tonight
wishful and dreamy
simple and pure

Peace captured my soul
for brief second in time
I was One with the world

with you
with everything

we became NOW


and then ...

I fell back asleep

Chaos Sweeps Me Aside

I know it's been forever - - - I can't seem to think of any new words - or perhaps my soul is too busy to write down what my heart feels. BUSY. That's the excuse that everyone uses when they forget to set aside times for themselves. Really, I am though...

So - Here goes one on the fly:

Busy as a bee in a bumbling hive
my life buzzes by

But I try -
and I try -

to set aside some time
to breathe

the busier I become
the easier it is to
move away from boring

and toward my bustling
schedule that needs to accomodate
me -

a beautiful
life
that's too busy
building
blocks
around time

to really be free

too busy for even a bee

De ja vous

Creeping through the curtains of trust,
my soul and its memory collide -

For upon my hollow heart of tin,
she weeps a sonnet in shallow breaths
and smiles as the teardrops scatter .

A pale light explodes underneath her skin,
gaunt and haunting she fades into dust
and I am left sifting through the ashes
of fine remembrance once again -

A Lovely Place

Like a gentle breeze of nostalgia
you flutter through my dreams

calling memories of late night summers
and five course meals

the scent of your house lingers; roses and sugar
fresh tea and cold cream

as I stir awake,
I am reminded that selfless love remains
a spring draft in a heavenly dream

and I am left with a promise
to love as purely as you

The Convert

The smell of Pakistan crawled inside his nose and he felt the need to vomit. Memories of neo talibs came rushing to his mind, and it was all he could do to suppress the pictures that once wrought his psychotic state. Outside was bleak and gray – the mountains appeared smeared with dirt: brown and colorless. Since the war, Abdul Khalil no longer saw the majestic Sulemans as beautiful, instead he viewed them with contempt and anger.

As he stepped outside of the Chai Café, he remembered he had forgotten his passport on his dresser. Panicking, Abdul raced back to the hotel, afraid that the clerk might steal it, or perhaps sell it to make a few rupees. As he approached the front desk, he saw a suspicious character, a definite extremist, jumping into a taxi. Abdul began sweating, certain that if his passport was gone, he would have no way to get out of this wretched country, and might be forced to succumb to memories everyday of his life until he escaped.

When he reached his hotel room, Abdul noticed the door was ajar, and a servant was inside cleaning. He pushed past the servant and over to his dresser, which was wiped clean, no remnant remaining. Screaming angrily in Urdu at the servant, he demanded to know what had happened to his passport. The servant was a Pahtan, and had no idea what the crazed man was talking about and stuttered a reply in Pashto only to be given an irate look of desperation from the man.

Abdul began shaking, frightened of the possible consequences if it couldn’t be located. He ran down the hallway towards the stairs when he heard some muted voices in English coming from the lobby. He could only make out a few words from a man with a British accent.

“Have you seen this man?”

“What time …. check out?”

“Shukria, Allah hafiz”

Abdul didn’t know what to do. Could they have been talking about him? Should he be seen? What if they had his passport? All these questions ran through his mind as he paced the hallway.

To Be Continued….

Witness

Death scribes itself a poem
underneath my skin,
wraps it spirit of darkness
creeping from within.

Around my neck it swirls
feigning jealousy,
for breathing pious air
blind hypocrisy.

Death comes to take me over
warrantless approach
arresting my poor body
stealing from my soul.

In Retrospect

Death startled my emotions,
spun them in the air
flipped my body upside down
forcing out despair.

I begged and pleaded “SAVE ME,”
cried with all my might,
while chanting prayers of mercy
" grant my life tonight"

Awakened from the nightmare,
the memory stirs a breath
I sigh with strange relief;
“I escaped my death.”

DREAMS DECAY

I had a dream last night and it has creeped into my mind - stealing my happy thoughts.

A Short Synopsis Follows:

When I opened the front door, I knew something was terribly wrong. The stench of putrid decay crawled up my nostrils, and the television was spurting out names of the recent soldiers killed in Iraq. The kitchen was full of smelly garbage: cans strewn about the apartment, rotten dishes stacked randomly throughout. A pot with burnt broccoli was covered with mold, and I felt the acid in my throat as I rushed to the garbage can to heave my worries away.

I walked slowly down the hall following the horrible smell - the smell I feared... As I rounded the corner into his room, I could hear only the buzz of the fish tank. My heart raced as I searched the room with my eyes half-closed, afraid of what I was about to see. I fell to my knees when I saw him – head rolled sideways and eyes open, staring vacantly ahead, a stream of saliva oozing from his mouth. The glass he had been holding had dumped into his lap, and a dried puddle of Vodka had formed a path between his legs, which were slightly open.

THANK God this was only a dream.....

Devil’s Game

I wrote this a few years ago when I was in Afghanistan with the Army. It was my favorite piece while I was there and just thought it would be appropriate for what we are facing now. The war gets pretty tiresome....

Fear stretches itself beyond the limits of truth
While the sounds of war rage,
Breaking the battle ground softly
The fire burns deeply

Soldiers die
Women hide
Children cry

Each country’s flag flies its pain
Collecting dust
Collecting rain

Salute anger with pride
Destroy innocence with lies

Beauty remains hidden
Underneath hell’s surface
Honor lends truth to struggling soldiers
Who fight to remain loyal

God listens patiently
As we pray for strength
The Devil fights to win
One more soldier down,
Checkmate in Bagram

The Gift of Ignorance

This is a flash fiction piece I wrote a couple of months ago - I couldn't come up with a poem today :-(.....

Joni was on the hospital bed screaming, as the contractions ripped through her pelvis and abdomen. The pain was intolerable and moved inside her body every two minutes, like rolling waves. It was too late for the doctor to give her an epidural and just as she was ready to pass out from pain; her vagina felt a sharp stabbing ache, forcing itself open. Sweat started pouring down her face, and she could taste its salty beads on her lips. She gasped for air as the throbbing continued, and tried not to think of the only other time she felt this kind of agony.

Over the next ten minutes, the pain continued to escalate, and Joni couldn’t seem to get enough air. She gripped the side of her damp bed, digging her nails into the mattress. The doctor’s voice was mumbled, and all she could make out was the word “push.” She forced herself to press downward every time the wave came, and could feel the baby slide outward as she was torn open below. The last thing Joni heard was a high-pitched cry, and the room went dark.

When the nurse came in twenty minutes later to wake Joni with news that she had a beautiful baby boy, Joni knew there must have been a mistake. There was no way she had wasted nine and a half months to give birth to a child with a penis.

“That baby’s not mine,” Joni insisted, still groggy from labor.

The nurse looked down at the delicate blue bundle she was holding. “Well of course he’s yours, Ms. Kontroy, I helped with the delivery.”

“No! I’m sure you’ve made a mistake, I had a little girl - Cheyenne – with perfect little hands and tiny feet; I heard her cry,” Joni urged, and turned her head to give a vacant stare out the hospital window.

The nurse had seen this before; women who wanted a girl so desperately that they went insane upon discovering they had been mistaken their whole pregnancy. She wasn’t about to let this woman deny the child any longer and walked over confidently, bending towards her with the sleeping baby.

Joni inhaled the sweet earthy scent of her newborn, and slowly turned towards the nurse. Glycerin tears flowed down her cheeks as she looked down at the child outstretched before her. She didn’t anticipate what would happen next: her heart flip-flopped as her soul interpreted what her eyes beheld. He was the most precious infant she had ever seen. His cheeks were plump and rosy, and his dark lashes rested shut against his tawny colored skin. Although the nurse had not placed a daughter in her arms, she realized at that moment that this child was going to change her life forever.