I’m tired of criticizin’
I have found fault
where fault exists,
where graft and waste
rot administrative wheels
like puncture holes of gangrene.
I have listened to talking power heads
repeat-repeat their rhetoric
on a scratched CD of promises,
seen the blood and fire of history
scream from the mouths of dying
protesters and communities.
All this I have witnessed.
All this has waned my will to critique.
For what good is it to rage a reality on replay?
To say all is lost, this nation is doomed,
we have gone from rainbows to dark-clouded gloom.
I have let my speech and thoughts be flogged
with whips of negativity for too long
and like an amateur graffiti artist,
I have tagged ‘‘failed state’’ on this land
without spotting the mural of hope
struggling to breathe beneath.
Between an end and beginning
I’m sure he lies there resting
coiled tight within the rock.
It is Saturday, when one week dies
another comes to life.
I’m sure he lies there thinking
recounting Friday’s traumatic trial.
It is a reflective time of grace,
mercy and a time of sacrifice.
I’m sure he lies there listening
as authorities rejoice his brutal failure.
Outside the law stands firm
expecting no miracles.
I’m sure he lies there waiting,
anticipating Sunday’s redemptive sunrise.
We, who appear to the world,
are blind shadows
in a faded world,
wind whose form is only known
by its whistle against the disturbed air.
One instant our true character is clear,
we assume some new shape,
some simulated character
we try to convince everyone to know.
We who deceive the world
too deceive ourselves —
to think the mask we exhibit to the public eye
can’t be torn away —
or at the very least —
Become a two-way mirror
to see our true selves
hidden deep within.
Short poem 10.
For the Iraqi Kurdish village of Kulajo
I remember you.
You were my mother, father,
sister, brother, uncle, aunt.
Though our last names never met,
we were sewn like thread at the seams
by the weddings, harvests, births and burials
our households shared.
And while planes and tanks spat fire on our heads,
while guns made us wandering souls,
the bond of our communal blood helped us to endure.
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