wick companies nj
Baghdad poet
On this day
in warm July
a beautiful Iraqi
poet died,
her face once shone,
her eyes once shined
as she wrote down poems
in Iraqi rhymes,
the poets, artists
of Baghdad’s avenues
once painted pictures
in gentle brown hues,
the children would stop
to watch them paint and draw
their piercing eyes
wide in awe,
the Iraqi poet
lived well and long
and died in peace
to a wonderful song,
while Iraqi children
sang happily along.
of Nazik al-Malaika, Iraq
Moroccan dreams
last stop-
one-way ticket’s journey,
train stretching
south,
Tangier, Casablanca,
tunnel of
Marrakech’s oasis’,
its open dry mouth,
sand dunes rising in the horizon,
sun-bleached colors
filling winding streets,
summer’s burning orange glow,
shadows seem to show us,
pointing the way
another hazy moment sublime,
in the back labyrinth of alleyways
leading you ever deeper-
to openings into the past,
beyond technologies tired blistered feet,
beyond the light, rapidly fading;
mint of vibrant green
and milky white teeth,
refreshment to soothe the parched throats
of a tired school teacher’s daylong bouts,
his tired shouts
of science and math
of history’s anciently guarded path,
hoping someday to travel-
beyond Morocco’s walls
and stroll through the streets
that lay over the sea,
where his dreams someday
promise to be-
that day,
he’d then be
truly free;
the bare broken tile floor
peeling white paint,
bedsprings creaking,
the light on the ceiling,
stares ominously simple,
the door slightly ajar,
the window barred;
the creaking bed
barely holds your sunburnt head,
instead you are led-
to a man selling hashish,
for less than what you could buy
a round loaf of bread,
a boy leads you to a store
to buy your favorite gift,
practice his English,
extort a tip;
the drum beats softly
to the straining melodic fluctuating voice
of ageless Muslim tales;
a pipe emits
the sweet and sour pungent odor
of the drug that inspires hope
in the lives
that have nearly failed,
as stories of an ancient kingdom
beat to drumbeats of ceramic blue,
and of children in the night,
of heroes and wicked sultans,
palaces and, courageous, noble fights
in strained poetic French-
and clipped sing-song Arabic,
are sung to the gentle drumbeat-
of lanterns glowing and burning,
flickering wicks
almost extinguished
by the tales of the myths;
the crowd winds through the alleys
sun touches the camel’s lifted back,
who stands still on the horizon,
distant and strained,
as the wind blows rays behind
the rocky mountain cracks far away,
the conductor tries his best
to keep the train upon its tracks,
a thousand tired people wait at the station,
sighing from the long day’s journey
the sun sapping their energy,
like an evaporated puddle
of yesterday’s rain
Moroccan minarets and prayers
loud through the speakers,
every day they methodically play,
a hundred million children-
their lives
like dust blowing on the scales,
who will paint the picture that will
polish from the desert rust,
and shine on the lives of the children
in Morocco’s blowing desert dust;
beautiful children
with golden weathered skin
lay on the dusty shelf,
in the books in the school
of a thousand youths,
oblivious to wisdom’s wealth,
in city rooms
where we grow
in America’s schools;
of all of the places,
at the end of earth’s trails,
to find a way there,
and leave a mark on the souls,
of those seeking the truth,
and bask in the beauty
of youth.
Marrakech, Morocco
Flying kites in Pakistan
Under the starts at night,
under the stars so bright,
barely a cloud to be seen,
moon rich and bright,
under the stars at night;
Up on the roof at night,
lit up by the Pakistani moonlight;
not afraid,
despite the danger
in the Lahore streets
the danger of the police,
safe and out of sight;
under the stars at night
city of Karachi,
so much to be seen,
kites flying in the wind;
up on the roof at nightlong
string flying like dove in my hand
string in his,
looking up towards the wind;
neighbors to the right,
string fluttering like a captured butterfly,
string in his-
two roofs in the night;
clever little kites-
flying in controlled somersaults,
up and down they dart-
like two works of flying art;
under the stars at night-
strings sharp as a knife,
danger to the left danger to the right-
flying our kites,
under the stars at night;
Flying my kite at night-
safe and out of sight,
wind blowing just right,
two kites darting in and out;
letting go a quiet shout-
hours and hours go drift by,
under the starry nighttime sky-
like two sailing ships
skimming across the moonlit sea
under the stars and under the night-
safely out of sight,
on the roof,
flying my kite,
wind blowing just right-
-just right,
Pakistani night.
East Side High School, Newark, NJ
