My Words

Understanding the World through words

Month: April, 2016

Pet Peeve-Poem

Writing is cathartic
at times,
The worst feeling
is staring at a blank page
with nothing coming to mind.

My pet peeve is
grammar mistakes,
seeing them after I
submitted the poem.

If there’s anything that makes me
want to pull my hair out,
it’s that!

At Last-Poem

When you find a good book
you savor the words.
Lingering words,
that crawl from your eyes
to your soul.
When you’re done
you put it down
(at last)
finally spoke to you!

Inspired Words-Poem

I was in a terrible state of mind today searching
for the first
few paragraphs of inspired words I’d wrote yesterday.
pouring over my
sticky notes, emails, and unpublished blog drafts. I couldn’t find them.
I figure I’d better start writing them again. I felt
but I persevered and forced myself to: forget about it.
In my mind I knew they weren’t
as good as the
ones. I shrugged my shoulder and said, oh well, and left it at that.
Whaddya know,
when I opened
up my phone notes—
There they were!
I compared the two drafts
the lost ones are what I needed. (I knew it all along)
Nothing can substitute one’s
inspired words.

On Learning-Philosophy

Learning is predicated on discovery
if we can foster the latter
then there’ll be
a natural love for the former.

What Happened?-Poem

What happened to the glory of Islam;
to the scholars and poets of your
Golden Age?

Avecina your children despise you.
Ibn Zaydun your offspring mock you.

Darkness has fallen and
intolerable hatred grips the nations
in a desperate stranglehold.

Your mighty intellect and
ease of words have been
dashed to pieces.

What’s left?

Only ignorance
intolerance, and
a distant memory
of your glorious past.

Bloody and stillborn,
Your handmaidens
wail in the streets
pulling out their hair in

Swayed by violence—
you dance to the beat
of bullets and bombs.

Sorrowed by the
graves you’ve produced.
None of your children say:

Our architecture was the splendor of the West
Our ingenuity and physicians cured the masses
Our poets inspired European’s best
We were the gate to the Renaissance—

In the name of Allah, the merciful
this shame needs to end!

Terza Rima-Poem


Poets don’t go to
heaven or hell
they stay in purgatory
in the twilight
of Earth’s domain.
To bring living poets to madness–
reciting sublime lines in their sleep;
then forgetting them when they wake up.
Or while driving their cars on errands and never
remembering that beautiful saying
that pops-up.
Dante wrote about
it in terza rima:
How poet’s when they die are gathered
into the bosom of the poet’s den;
each bringing their expertise—
how beautiful it was to be alive!

The World Doesn’t Know-Poem

The world doesn’t know that
Jihadi nonsense—
terrorism and radicalism
evolves first
from poetic structure
Arabic line and rhyme.

That it’s not just a war of
AK’s and suicide bombs

but of enjambments and couplets
brings rivers of tears
with the shedding of blood.

Like busy little bees—
Islamic poets incite
their fellows to:
Take up arms—

“Death to the infidel”
“Kill the Jews”

Murderous proclamations
Explosively punctuated
by yelling
Allahu Akbar!

The devil knows the
pen is mightier than the sword.

Poetic fatwa’s
encourages the
slaughter of innocence

Madness and darkness descends
With a misguided poet’s
bloodied pen.

Before It’s Too Late-Poem

Tell your loved ones
everyday that you
love them.
Make sure you
say these things
while they’re alive.

Bring them flowers,
write them notes,
never feel ashamed
of random acts of love.

The grave will steal
opportunities and
it will be too late!

The dearly departed
will never need what we can
do for ours while
they’re still breathing
here on Earth.

Sneak a Peek-Poem

Right after my divorce
in my apartment
I had a crush
on one of the beautiful tenants.

I worked during the day
a teacher in the county jail

came home and anticipated
her arrival around five.

She was a site to see–
Voluptuous, young, sexy.
When she moved it was magical.

Her plump hips swayed.
It was sick–
I sneaked little peeks
as she’d pass by.

My head would spin with desire.

Problem was,
she had a live in boyfriend.
So, I had no chance.

All I had were
these little fantasies.

One day, I went swimming
and she came swimming too.

She smiled towards me as she
slowly walked in.

She knew my little secret–
She knew she was my fantasy.
She loved to show off.

The flirtation was purposeful.

She loved the attention
and to torture me.

She told me that
she knew I watched her–

as she happily
bounced up and down.

all I could do
was smile and grin.


There are poems for just about everything–
From the most rudimentary and banal
to the highest sacred love.

Poems that last years to read are epic,
our literary history started at Gilgamesh.

Some tell stories,
some are surreal, some
are translated and given another chance—
opportunity for others to experience and enjoy.

It is said that societies who champion poetry are sophisticated—
reaching the highest level of language use.

I enjoy the lover’s poem that took a lifetime to write,
upon his death bed
the last lines recited—
sealed heartfelt affections
for unrequited love.