My Words

Understanding the World through words

Tag: community of poets

Morning stretch-poem

I turned over this morning
to readjust.
Woke myself up.
My wife is getting ready in the bathroom.
I stretch and yawn.
Good morning babe.
“Good morning,” comes the response.
“I’m heading out,” she says.
Come here and give me a kiss.
I’m still in a morning daze.
She leans over and gives me a kiss
I grab her
playfully fondle her.
She leaves.
I turn around, close my eyes
and go back to sleep.


Photography captures the moment,
the click click of the shutter.
Behind the veil–
It’s a drama between two actors:

1. Framing our visual experience.
2. The complexity of seizing that elusive light.

What you love-poem

If you’re not doing
what you love—
stop, breath,
and reassess.
It’s never too late.
No one pays you enough
to lose your dreams.
Employers don’t care if
you’re a poet,
or painter.
If you don’t care enough
to pursue your dreams,
what your giftings are?
No one will.


We are always trying
to hide our imperfections
but those are the things
that make us unique.
Our idiosyncrasies,
our ugly faults,
make us human.
And let’s face it,
in the end,
that’s who we are.

7 Point 62×39-poem

If love were bullets,
I’d be an AK.
You can throw it
in the mud and
it will still shoot.
The 7 point 62×39
shreds shit apart.
If love doesn’t kill
it leaves you maimed.


There’s a unique dance one
has with new books.
It’s always the same
you read a few pages
Perhaps the story isn’t gripping.
I’ll give it a few more turns.
If the book is good
I dive in.
If not, I put it down
and move to the next—
Can I cut in?
and continue to dance.

Written That Way-poem

The best movies
are written
that way.

Postmodern Bias—philosophy

Postmodern dilemma—
Everything that’s written
is biased.

When Nietzsche
declared God is dead,
so went objectivity.

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!