My Words

Understanding the World through words

Month: April, 2014

Opening Mood | The Preface Of A Book

Show me a prologue,
Or a
Preface to a book—

And I’ll tell you
if it’s
worth a second look.

A good read
a meticulous introduction—

One that sets
An engaging

Like the giving of
Hors d’oeuvre’s
Before a festive meal
Opens up
One’s palette—

So must the

Give the
Content an


Let it be like
Sensual negligée

That a desiring
On his
His loving wife—


Before me,

I can’t wait

To devour

Setting the



Passion filled

Ba’ath Party Mustaches | Fall Of Baghdad 1st Mar Div

Dedicated to the boys of 1st Marine Division,
who participated in the fall of Bagdad
spring of 2003
Ba’ath Party mustaches
Collected like one collects
innocuous coffee mugs.

We’ll get you one by one.

We invaded your country
on the pretense
That your facial hair offends.

O Babel your time has come—
The wrath of God is upon you and
Your renaissance will be justly

The cards are now on the table,

There’s no where to run.

You thought you had one
More ace up your sleeve,

But you ran out of
lamb and Kurds
to serve.

No longer will you enjoy your
extravagant palaces with
Ornate gilded mirrors,

The Devil Dogs have been released.

And your elaborate whiskers have

The symbol of a
predetermined blood bath;

The end of a murderous
love affair.

Piety And Sublimity | Searching For Meaning

Piety and sublimity
Intertwined along well
Worn rocky roads.

Strength discernible
Only through avant-garde

Artificial warmth that
Radiates through
wood paneled floors;

While roses are handed
Out through
Outstretched arms,

Connected to the heart,
Flowers, limbs and love.

One beating heart
Where solitude,
the essence
Of contemplation,

Is a wilderness fraught with
judgments, perspectives and

The longing to be human,
to reach understanding
in a world

Full of emptiness,
A world full of discoveries,
A world full of losses.

Jazz | Life’s Rhythms

Slowly my wife comes
Down the stairs
In her animal
print robe.

It’s early and
The kids are still
Fast asleep.

I’m sitting in my Cathedral

at the breakfast nook—reading.

I get up to greet her with
An embrace;

I smell her neck and hair
It’s the aroma of

and moon-kissed

Her verdant soulful eyes

I kiss her gently and
Whisper—Good morning
My love.

We sit together
on tall wooden
coffee’s brewing


Dave Brubeck is on the air.

Morning jazz session
barely audible
but still a moving

The crisp morning air,
It works it’s way into
My soul.

Nothing is said,

We just listen
To the syncopating
rhythms and
vibrant happy sounds.

My wife quietly
asks me
Why is jazz
So unpredictable?

Why does the beat
Change so drastically?

I respond:

The allure of Jazz
Is its spontaneity—

Musicians play
Off each other’s vibe.

It closely
Resembles life:

The changes,
The interactions,
The ups and downs,
In the end it is


As I enter the Cathedral;

I know the silence
and stillness
that only
mornings bring.

I bring my books,
my bible,

My poetry, and
My mathematical lessons.

I play
My favorite jazz station.

Enough volume
so that
only I
could hear

The variations,
The rhythms, and
The switching

Enough volume
so that
Only I

The birds sing

in tune
With the wind.

Hollowed Grounds

I take my shoes off
the public library;

It’s like walking
on hallowed grounds.

Moses had
the burning bush.

I have
home town

Both have fires:

Though in defense
of the latter,

Ignorance is

Roman Holiday vrs Utility Bills

I try to make my wife happy
Even though the economy
Doesn’t seem to fully let me.

I hold her, touch her and
Tell her I deeply care.

I love you my dearest one
If it wasn’t for money,
We’d be the happiest pair.

We’d be like:

Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers
Dancing to great fanfare
Twirling so elegantly, with
Slight smiles and looking
Deep into each other’s eyes.

Or like Aubrey Hepburn and
Gregory Peck
Scooting around holding each other
Tightly, on our great Roman holiday.

Movie stars of that magnitude,
Never worry about the day to day
Necessities, mortgage or electric bills.

They just insouciantly reach into their billfolds and produce a crisp twenty dollar bill.

Like magic, there’s
No need to pay for gas
Or a perfect meal at a sunny
Sidewalk café.

To live so vicariously,
So nonchalantly,
So effortlessly,

While I’m
disquietly trying
to figure out

How I’m
Going to pay my next
Utility bill?

New Flowers

You said to me, “that the past is all I have.”

I responded:
Memories are like fragrances
We never forget.

I look forward
To smelling new flowers
I haven’t smelled yet.

There are beautiful gardens I haven’t strolled through.

A wise man said,
“Life has more to offer than you’ll ever know.”

Beauty And Dismay | The Dance Of Life

One morning I woke up
My father was no
longer with Me.

I could no longer hold
his hand or hear
his voice in the
land of the living.

The realization hit me,
death had
become plausible, a
tangible reality.

Questions about immortality—
The idea of eternity,
I couldn’t shake
Off anymore.

Would I see my father again?

What does eternity mean?

Was heaven made for men?

Can a subtle change
in thought, in that
Eternal place
make a difference
in ones life?

One day in eternity
matters not
When it has no end
or no consequences!

That’s why:

We live in fear of death,
Because death is a
constant hourglass.

We live in fear of death,
Because every subtle decision
We make has a result.

We live in fear of death,
Because it reminds us of the
Plan we won’t be able to realize.

It is only through the
understanding of
death and only death,
that we comprehend

The dance between
Beauty and dismay.

Write About Politics

Write about politics she said.

Everything I write about is

Political in some way or another.

I’m influenced by my environment;

By the working class that once was

A Middle class neighborhood.

Every time I write about

politics it sounds preachy

And pedagogical.

Do I really have to restate how the mishandled economy is ruining everyone’s life?

How my business friends are barely making it.

Somehow, I find it crass to speak of these obvious things—

You want politics, pick up a newspaper, it’s filled with political tragedy.

Poetry should be reserved for the beautiful things in life,

The things worth living for:

The morning sunshine that sneaks through the blinds into my room.

The love I see in my children’s almond eyes.

The smell of garlic on
My sticky fingers.

The yearning sensation I experience when touching my


And that proud feeling I get when
A sentence comes together.