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The Cedar Is Me

I look upon the four hundred year old Cedar tree
That has survived such chaos, death,  decimation
Of great forests of pine trees by invaders who ‘free’
It of its natural resources, life, and vegetation.
Encased in the trunk of the ancient tree, the world
Is small, burning hot under the summer sun, flashing
Its heat and brilliance to help everything grow into a postcard
That’s photoshopped into being breathtaking
In its organized life, only disturbed by humans barking
Out order for dissolving the inner and outer beauty of its solitude.

Slipping out of the of the cedar tree, I take my human form
And gaze astounded on my reflection: wrinkled skin,
Darkened splotches, and great disillusionment
Darkens the depth of my eyes as I lay bare upon the bank.
The scenes of war and decimation I witnessed
Have been imprinted on my soul, waiting for any deed
That will alleviate my despair that humanity is a dying breed
That needs new blood, ingenuity,  and values
To help it defeat famine, war, racism, and religious discriminations.

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Premonition of Doom

A premonition of doom hovers,
The sky turns Grey and everything stutters,
Vision is obstructed as pellets flutters
And hit the window panes like bullets.

The hits keep coming for minutes
On end, while those inside hides,
And others scramble for their lives.

A premonition of doom descends
As bullet spray holes in cements,
As explosions scatter shrapnel shards,
As wounds bleed and blood vessels explodes.

Run, run, as the premonition plays hide and seek,
As you are uncertain a boom and scream are bleak
Sounds that drown out everything that’s not a freak.

A premonition of doom slithers
Down your spine and hinders
Any action as you’re paralyzed by feelings
Of someone walking over your grave and steals …

Takes away your premonition of good
Leaving only the pessimist whose sole food
Is your terror that feeds his vanity that won’t brood.

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Ode to Indigenous Victims

Couldn’t type! Besides with writing it out, I can edit when it’s complete! All those victims of abuse of Indigenous genres: raise your voices together! Only then will they make any change happen!

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Mama, Mother

Mom, mother, teacher, friend,

Marvelous in her love to spend

Making everything her kids loved.

Overly concerned with the successes

Of those that are hers,

Often, she sacrifices all at her expenses.

The fear she feels evaporates

Then, turns to a laugh at their cackles,

Yet, twists into tears at their hurts.

Her love is tender, at times harsh,

Her knowing it’s better we hear her lash

Her anger, rather than an outsider becoming brash.

Entirely too much depends on her love,

Every day that passes without it is a dark cave

Encompassing our fright in the depth of cognizance.

Radiate, roving remembrance really

Revolving around her compassionately

Rightful heart, whose endless in its empathy.

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Book Day

Beauty of books leave nothing to imagerY

Only creating worlds in academiA

Overflowing with all that can be imagineD:

Kings, queens, courtiers, all in a booK.

Devils and monsters dancing in affetuosO

Anger and depression dumped in aerophotO

Yet, we vent them in books that only boB.

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Poetry

Poet, poem, poetry
Organize the images in the writer,
Every word is a symbol that will let
The poet achieve the portrait that will be
Remembered in all its glory of their bravado
Yearning to be heard with great pomp.

(Double acrostic poem)

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March …. Alive

March is the cruelest month,

It teeters between ice and fall in cloth.

A wintry storm blows snow all day long,

The next, the sun peaks its head warm with a song.

The chirps, tweets, and warbles of the floks

Stuns with its humming personality that blocks

The rising warmth from becoming too hot.

The northern cardinal brightens our shores

All year long, while Blue Jay may scores

His flight onto our lands for a while and snores.

Enjoy the beauty of the cruelest month,

It’s variety, vascillatory nature, and the birth

Of life that it entails is vital to be conserved.

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Ideal Woman

Mother, daughter, sister, wife, friend,
All are one and the same in muslim women.
We hear what we need,
We mishear what we deem reprehensible!

We learn early the need for compromise, understanding,
And flexibility which are requirements of survival
In a world where the ‘I’ is more important than fighting
For togetherness, unity, and equality. Rather,
It’s replaced by the needs of the individual!

They surpass and prevail over the duties of the whole,
Whether that be the couple, nuclear and extended
Family which help fortify and solidify the need,
More, the essential requirements of values, ethics,  and religiously
Equitable interactions that eliminate racism and all that’s dicrimatory.

We have to seem ‘perfect’ in both appearance and morality.
We have to be learned, open minded, not fearfully
Aware that we can be imperfect,  human, and loving.
Not being the epitome of everything only highlights your humanity.

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Life’s Wuzzle

Winter’s darkened clouds

Hover, lost in starless skies,

As leaden, pewter, ebony ravens

Coalesce in a wonder of worlds.

As the nights are long,

Your thoughts are flung

Into dusky abysses of dung.

As the sleepless nights dance

Into your nightmarish dreams and glance

At the blackish sea where they take a stance;

The sleepless nights fizzle

Making insomnia a rare puzzle

For those trying to live life without a muzzle,

Straining to contain life’s wuzzel.

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Expensive December

Happy Holidays everyone!