Sonnet IV

I am the warrior by word who brings peace to regions of the desolate, barren, and hopeless. Always, living on the doorsteps of death, I managed to survive, even as an infant, premature with all my dogmatic faith, I stood to tell the myth of how I survived.

Based upon the fear of a machismo earth, and to the inhabitants therein, fear kept hope alive in the dungeons of rebirthing a kindred spirit, a tiny mustard seed of faith, and a love for the language of the world, that is heard through tenderness.

Silver love brings to me a new word of praise within the fields of harvesting the depths of a love truest in the essence of each metaphor.

Denied from birth the freedom of speech, the freedom of verb and noun, the freedom of word, freedom.

A regimented life of pain-filled days, and nights from the sweat, blood, and tears of fiery dreams and words that kill, I survived. Oh, the depths of a pain-soaked life, where shall I travel, but the dusty roads of the pains of agony, and the ecstasy of a glory not bequeathed of man.

Vein upon vein, similes from a phantom guide, a teacher and her student, smile upon the same lotus flower that leads to the forest of a nirvana, comparative with an earthly Eden, and the Angel’s fiery sword of truth protects the gate with the Word of truth.

Time heals all wounds they say, liberation comes with each ripening word and verbal ray, as we pass through the evolutionary bridge of spiritual enlightenment in our perpetual state of grace.

The Weight of the Morning Dew Yields a Fertile Fruit Upon the Earth

“A bit of weakness in metaphor is enough for tomorrow for the berries to ripen on the fence, and for the sword to break beneath the dew.”

Upon reading Mahmoud Darwish & The Zohar – 1st Volume.

The crucible sword falls by the weight of the morning dew,

As the love of a rose draws near,

                The dance of the scarlet butterfly flutters to the music

                Of a suffering tomorrow with no end in sight, where

Every full moon has its name within the indigenous night

shadowed by the sleeping tree of life, where root and crown are inverted –

                A full hunter’s moon lay still beneath the skies

                of an October dawn, chilled by the breath of frost

Upon the lips of a stealthy warrior.

But where lay this unburdened rose?

                Asleep, until the colonization of societies shall reap

                A divine feminization of a fertile earth that becomes still,

Under the weight of the morning dew.

This poem was inspired by Mahmoud Darwish’s Sonnet VI in The Butterfly’s Burdon and the 1st volume of The Zohar regarding the New Jerusalem in Heaven and the Jerusalem on earth.

Thoughts Before Early Morning Coffee

Thoughts before early morning coffee

It’s 4:00 a.m. as I peer through my kitchen window

beckoning a smile from my beloved bonsais.

A blanket of snow covers the ground as I think back

to a memory re-call.

Trauma – I say, is a four – year old boy

devastated through the rupture of the hymen

of his undefiled little soul.

A privileged liberty owed to none.

Desecrated still. A disobedience to obedience.

His heart bleeds upon a scented floor of straw and hay

scattered throughout this deceptive soil.

This ground of wood that leave no tracks

nor an obliging voice of one who cares.

The ears of the caring lay quiet as stone.

The eyes of the knowing lay blind as bone.

Thoughts return to my sweet, sweet plants.

Will they survive, as I have, now in my sixty-fourth year?

Weather worn, but stronger still, bonsai and I –

 And yet, have I healed?

 Delving deeper and deeper

Into this query of soul,

Mysteries revealed through an epic old ode.

The deeper I sought, for rhyme and for prose –

Answers became as a mystical rose.

And, a co-laboring age is now upon me

Resting, peacefully, for our global community.

In a release of the machismo guides that once hunted me out –

Feminism, too, ran its course, in a dualistic hour, where I

Spent my time in prayer from the soul,

My last muse recollected, not in part, but

In Whole.

The Tiny Mustard Seed

So, where is home?

Home is where the dust cries

In a foreign land

Where we shall come to know the bitterness of exile.

And yet, where is this home?

It is inside the mustard seed

Where only the dying can see –

If we are to poeticize these inkwells

With an altruistic art,

We must become the pen

Upon this page of forceful doubts.

Only then shall we come to light this

Legendary candle

Of hope.