Creek Crossing

Above the gentle rumble of 114’s motor
There’s the low holla-and-walla of
Internationals making deals and promises.

Sandy squares of Creek-side villas bob by
Shaded by grand yachts
Of the super rich.

Our 1-Dirham dinghy chugs
Slopping to moorings
Crowded with all of those faces of Earth.

Too loud and close
A colossal dhow blazes
Beaming phone-lights and faces…

In it’s wake our disembarkation
Is a hoppy affair
Scuffed sandals and ruffled kandura’s

Jamila

Dust
Grits her yawn
Her wind ruffled pool
Slaps
Fried blue concrete
This Arabian sea-side
Tires her dry eyes while
Tall shadows, bleached parasols
Blur through her
Squinted tears
Blazing her long hot days
Through mocktails
Banal tales
Airport novels
While the palm dials
Time to her
Dubai brightened
Sun

Blinsolp

Delusions of grandeur
I’m the colour blind prince
In black and white printouts
I’ve no cells to re-bleed

Watching you go
Into skies, brightly lit
There’s no tears to remind us
of what you could free

As screeching flocks fly-by
Grating and raw
Would hush if I just
If I just
If I just

Country poem / Shtrum Tikh

Strum tick
Strum tick
All sing along
Strum tick
It’s my country song
Late in fat moon
Shiny night
Strum tick
Lights a stream of bright

Strum tick
Strum tick
Soulful pace
Strum tick
Here’s a heart warmed place
Rich in history
Sweet in sound
Strum tick
Swell with hearts sweet pound

Strum tick
You’re my hearts hot fire
Strum tick
Music drawn by wire
Here in this sweet tune
So sure
Leaves the beat
For love to pour

2511

I’m out on my own
with my dancing –
romancing!
All soulish and lonesome;
all jumpy
and live.
In front?
Maybe once – but now
mostly behind!

It’s a frightening
awakening,
unabashed assault,
on my brain
every day
and it’s sending me old!

The Last Word

These fucking fuckers
Fucking up our lives
For their personal stake
In our political state
Sucking our lives dry
Leading fates awry
Leaving fears to dry

And this comment’ry
That comedy
Which tries to make it seem alright
Is now as bad
And ignorant
As the fuckers so merrily fucking us
So shame on me
for plugging in
For staying tuned and trying
How sorely fucked the feeling is
As wit washes over this fucking
It’s us,
it’s you,
it’s me
That’s really surely fucking up
I hardly ever knew the game
Yet know that I’m now
Royally f**ked

 

301

Just before he sleeps abed
He sings the tunes played in his head
These minute rhymes and dainty songs
Are his to sing, to hum alone

As noises all about are blocked
The sounds heard here are safely locked
Within the passages of his mind
And so they stay: Regressed in time.

clouds 2007