Tag: sonnet

Things

There are those that search for a great, big home
Filled with bookcases, shelves, and cabinets
Where they can catalogue every tome,
Memento, and knickknack they went to get.
They will huddle down in a tattered chair
Gazing out upon their great collection,
Bragging about how no cupboard is bare,
And about the choice of each selection.
As night creeps on, they will look at their things,
And wonder what stories they have to tell.
Is there importance in toys, clothes, and rings?
Why be entranced by the powerless spell?
To obtain a life that will really please
The best things to collect are memories.

Wasta

This institution is about learning,
So kindly leave your wasta at the door.
Please quit pretending that you are a king;
You cannot know what you didn’t before.
Being able to say that you know who
Does not demonstrate what you do not know.
I would rather see that your learning grew
Than hearing about your people in tow.
What you can do should take priority
Rather than your latest self-centered need.
Can you show to me your ability,
And put in check you pedigree’s greed.
The world does not need a nanny culture,
Maintaining people’s life of indenture.

Wasta – a practice in Arab society where people use their personal relationships to gain favor.

The Neighborhood’s Haunt

A little further down the cobblestones
Is a place where the tourists fear to roam.
Here you will find the city’s older bones
Where the people who live here will call home.
You will not here the foreign languages
Come out of the unassuming front,
But the community that it bridges
Is one that is found on a homeward hunt.
Here, they will find the wine flowing freely
As they unwind from a rough day of work.
The company, they enjoy greedily,
While waiting outside, the visitors lurk.
This restaurant has been claimed by the hood,
Keeping its old spirit just as it should.

St. Patrick’s Day in Italy

Will there be complaints if my drink is red,
Instead of being traditional green?
It is not what the ceremony bled,
But it is the drink of my current scene.
There is still a fair amount I will imbibe,
So I can find the proper state of mind.
I do not want to hear your diatribe
Of how the island is not so refined,
But I find myself a lot further south,
And they still celebrate this holiday.
Something different goes into their mouth,
Toasting the saint in their own special way.
The bottle of red wine will do the trick
On the Venetian’s day of St. Patrick.

The Interloper

The town is hidden by the dark of night
As I traverse the empty city streets.
I get a glimpse underneath the road lights
Of how missing puzzle pieces complete
All of the picture which I cannot see.
There are stories being told in the haze,
And I’m just paying the admission fee
For my story is told during the days.
I am nothing but an interloper,
Trying to look deeper in the shadows
For an invitation that will never
Come. But still my curiosity grows.
How do I become a part of that tribe
When they will not allow me to imbibe?

Oasis

Traveling down a long and winding road,
Closely tucked away around a cliff face,
The life we have lived is forced to be slowed
In this hidden accommodating place.
A long time ago a wanderer found
This unexpected shady oasis
Where water was bubbling from the ground,
Forming a swimming hole of relaxing bliss.
Here, I can wash away the desert sand,
Leaving my problems on the mountain top.
My life, I will once again take command
Because I have taken the time to stop.
Here, the earth can swallow me in its hug,
Ignoring responsibility’s tug.

The Sea of Death

As I traverse along the Sea of Death,
Watching the salt water consume the land,
I roll down the window to take a breath,
And ride the wind with the play of my hand.

The ticking clock does not dictate my day,
And there’s no rush to where I’m not going.
I know the sea wishes for me to stay,
But the wheels on the road keep on flowing.

I do hear your tempting voice luring me
To spend the afternoon floating on you,
But there are places I still want to see,
And I will come back after I am through.

You are a part of all our destiny,
Until then I will live a life that’s free.

The Wadi

The rocky path will not always be true,
But it will still lead you to the same place.
Out of the mountains, a wadi once grew,
And hid a paradise in the cliff face.
There is a stream that turned the valley green,
With time, eroding away the hard stone,
Leaving behind swimming holes so serene
That humankind could not leave them alone.
They will travel from every corner
To find some fun in this famous canyon.
What ails them, they think they will find a cure
After a week long holiday is done.
Don’t tell them that the wadi will forget
Every person it helped get wet.

Holiday

It is about the sand under your feet
As the in coming waves wash it away.
It is about the ultimate retreat
You wish to find on a vacation stay.
It is about time I spent with my love
Without having to worry about work.
It is about no new rules from above
Coming from an administrative jerk.
It is about time off that I deserve
Because the amount of your workload.
It is about the resting of the nerve
Due to the fact of the stress that is sowed.
It is about a moment within reach
Where we can spend the day walking the beach.

The New Culture

You all look like ants, crawling down below
When I am able to stand from the height.
I can see how far that this city grew
As it takes, from nature, another bite.
Over the desert, the road stretches forth
To the places where the Bedouins camped;
You may look to the south, east, west, and north
To witness how that culture has been stamped.
It can now be found within the museums,
Or the picture books given to children.
Humankind is subjected to its whims
To ignore the places where it has been.
I stand atop its crowning achievement,
A tower, to God’s grace, will not be bent.