Eros 4: Confessions

Confessions

Beloved,

do not vault yourself from me.

Please, give me a code that unlocks

all your pains, secrets, agonies.

I am a student, so educate me

until I can recite each fact

in your life story.

The stage is yours,

so narrate your inner tragedies.

Stand with me, off-load those honest

memories that left mine-fields in your heart:

What Daddy did and didn’t do;

what Mommy said and didn’t say;

how the first time wasn’t by choice;

how dark urges clouded all sense of purpose.

Share your issues and I’ll share mine.

Let us plant new orchards

in the desert of our past lives.

 

Eros 3: Red Matter

Red Matter

Beloved,
where would we stand
In a mystic, cosmic sense?
‘Cause I know The Almighty
altered the universal order
To rotate your life around mine.
Fine, the interstellar gyrations
that levitate our hearts in synch
didn’t move so smoothly.
There had to be space-splitting
combustions of core wounds
before our orbits could align again.
Only then could our bodies sing
a spontaneous duet in the stars,
charting endless chords of celestial
lineages across the dimensions.

Eros 2: Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day

Beloved,
What use would
valentines do
to aid my feelings
for you?
If crimson hues
paint shades
across the soul
then mine is sky blue
not from melancholy
when I’m apart from you
but from the thought
of our union
lifting us to unbound realms
beyond man’s lofty reach
So teach me how to speak
those words I deeply lock away
Beyond cards, roses, chocolate hearts
just stay, listen, forgive my mistakes
help me grow wings to join you
as our love departs this cage
of human age

Eros 1: I Do Not Fantasize

My first poetry series of 2015! Throughout the month of February I will be posting poems that deal with the theme of love and human affection. Enjoy!

I Do Not Fantasize
Beloved.
I do not fantasize my hands against your buoyant, airy skin. I do not fantasize the copious taste
of your mouth. Nor do I see us lost in consummate embrace, fighting for air as we drown
in our affection. Not yet. Not while a chasm of pride and inhibitions divides me from you.

Not while your graceful ways guide me out to sea where tidal waves of unconscious pains
aim to cast our souls adrift. Not till I have you, and you me, in blessed matrimony; completely,
deeply offering ourselves to Whatever May Come. Only then will your alluring form arrest me,
because you’re not a phantasmic form, but an enamored being that feels, that exists, that be.

Commune

Short poem 10.

Commune

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.

 

P.S. I would like to make an appeal to all followers and readers of this blog to please consider getting involved in the fundraising effort I’m doing to help pay for my college tuition. I am trying to raise $15 000. Any donation would be greatly appreciated. Just follow the link below. God bless!

http://www.gofundme.com/Paying-for-varsity

 

Third-culture stream

Short poem 9.

 Third-culture stream

The cushion sits there.

Sun-washed, torn, flake-dry

stuffing moldy from the rain.

Like me —

strapped on a ride down a third-culture stream

observing, like that cushion at the yard,

the world’s idiosyncrasies,

while not yet realizing

how much they’ve affected me.

Drum beats

Short poem 8

Drum beats

When I beat the drum of hate

I feel its vibrations tear fissures

in the mould of my soul.

But when I beat the drum of love

I hear its song soar up and outward

liberating the ears of beholders

liberating my own humanity.

In tandem

Short poem 7.

In tandem

I move

You move

in tandem with the beat

that keeps sweat flowing, blood coursing

on the technicolor floor

In physical synchronicity

we move

back-burning our lives on the stove of Friday nights.

 

 

Passage

Short poem 6.

Passage

I carry dust in my hands
of ancestors handcuffed and shipped
across the Middle seas
And like Adam I wait to plant my seed
in that fertile dust
to be the author of tales untold
in the dank depths of the cargo hold.

Against convention

Short poem 5 (revised).

Against convention

I have heard those old school hip-hop songs –

long gone –

that rapped of civil resistance to the system,

made profanity a metaphor for civil rage.

That are – long gone.

Evolved into misguided flows and rhymes

of sex, drugs, greed and misogyny.

Blind, to a broken, burning world

in need of verse attune to reality.