My Words

Understanding the World through words

Observations Through A Stained Glass


If I were to write a book of poems— I’d call it,

“Observations Through A Stained Glass.”

Those who know, would understand its about my Andalusian past.

At What Time Do You Become A Poet?


At what time do you become a poet? This is a question I’ve been pondering?

Can you call yourself a poet, just because you can write some fancy lines?

Or is that a title bestowed upon someone, when his poetry is finally published in a respectable journal?

Who finally says,”that person, he’s a poet” and others follow suit and agree?

I’m perplexed by this question? I know clearly its not a full time occupation.

One can’t just be a poet without a real job.

I’ve read of famous poets who were school teachers, bankers, furniture makers and even politicians!

It’s not like it used to be in al-Andalus. Where there were patrons supporting one’s poetic life.

Where you were paid to write beautiful muwaššaḥs, Arabic lyrical elegies about wine, beauty and love.

Those days are over. Our society demands that we make a living, and frowns upon artistic endeavors.

The usual quip is stated, “he writes poetry but during the day, he has a real job.” Or “that’s just a hobby”

Ive even read books that qualifies the act of writing poetry as a profession that doesn’t pay, so don’t get any bright ideas.

Oh my, poetry is so elusive, how do I contribute a verse? And, to call oneself a poet is presumptuous, unless others of stature agree.

Though I come from a lenient position, as long as you write poetry, you are one.

I don’t want to cause riffs with the establishment, who am I to give out poetic titles, willy nilly?

I guess I’ll just keep on writing poetry, regardless of what others say.

And, leave the bestowing of titles to those more qualified.

Scotch And Ice


I want to write something witty and

Contribute to the plethora of ideas.

That sea filled with endless thought.

However, here I am now scratching my head.

Lost in my own lack of words.

Trying to dig deep and noticing,

That my head is starting to hurt.

Sidetracked by my mental anguish,

Right when my faculties are starting to feel overextended,

I turn to Scotch and ice, my trusted elixir for help!

Suddenly, I don’t feel the burden of creating

Something out of nothing. I can sit here and

Admire my own observations,

As if they were the utterance of a great writer,

It’s either that or my pillow instead.

Inspired by George Burns who quipped:

“I love to sing and I love to drink scotch, most people would rather hear me drink scotch.”