Angels of Bread

My friend Tara shared a powerful poem on her blog by a North American poet Martin Espada.

To read the poem in its entirety click here. My two favorite passages are:

this is the year
that shawled refugees deport judges
who stare at the floor
and their swollen feet
as files are stamped with their destination;

this is the year that the eyes
stinging from the poison that purifies toilets
awaken at last to the sight
of a rooster-loud hillside,
pilgrimage of immigrant birth;

This poem reminds me of the terribly real suffering of those in every society who are marginalized and oppressed. Whose very lives feed the machinery of other's success. Yet my soul sings at the heart rending beauty in these images of justice, of the triumph of weakness over power, of the victory of love over hate and domination. I still believe in such foolish ideas.

Daddy's Poem to Kieran

Daddy read this poem to Kieran during the baptism.

Kieran my son I love you

I love how you scamper to meet me at the door
After a long day at work.
I love your enthusiastic kisses
Even if I sometimes bribe you for them.

I love your relentless quest for 'nandy and cookies,
You have your daddies sweet tooth.
I am amazed at your love for animals,
Owls, Monkeys, Chickens, puppies, and Pigs.

I love your adventurous spirit,
As you woke up each morning in Singapore
Exclaiming go, go, as you pointed to the door,
Eager to see what the day had in store.

I love how when you are outside
Playing with the 'buppies
I hear your enthusiastic discovery
Poopies!

I am thrilled to my very core
When you ask Mommy and Daddy
To both snuggle you on the bed
Laying with a small arm resting on Daddy.

I love how you help Mommy cook,
Standing next to her on a chair,
Covered with flour as you help
Her crack the eggs

Your love for trucks and
Especially motorcycles makes me smile.
A rumbling Harley will leave you
Excitedly chattering for minutes.

I am amazed at how you exclaim “wowww,”
When faced with something new
How you tell me to be shh, quiet
When the puppies are sleeping.

I love how beautiful you are,
How people stop us in the street
To comment on how handsome you are

I laugh at how Mommy nursing you
On the other side,
Has led to constant requests for
Side, side, side.

I love your recent joy at being naked,
The laugh that is in your eyes
As you flee from the pursuing mommy
Exclaiming naaked!

I love that when you have something new in your hands
You have to figure out how it works
Before playing with it.

I have often been startled by how observant you are.
How you can watch me perform a complicated action with seeming disinterest,
And then replicate that action moments later.
How hiding anything from you is futile.

I love how you lay in bed at night,
And ask for Daddy's silly story about boop boop.
How you listen in silence to each word,
Occasionally miming the silly frog's actions.

I love how your eyes squeeze shut
When you know people are talking about you.
I love how you greet people so openly,
How you meet our entire plane during each flight to Singapore.

I love (mostly) how active you are,
Constantly moving, talking, climbing, discovering.
You enthusiast energy is infectious,
Often rousing Daddy and Mommy out of bed on a Saturday morning.

For all the things I have failed to mention above,
Let me just say Kieran,
I love you.

People Like Me - A poem by Melissa Hussain

My twin sister Melissa is quite an accomplished poet (as is her husband Azfar). Now and again I will share some of their works, as they speak deeply of justice, meaning, and a way of life that benefits all people, not just the powerful.


People like me

People like me
yearn for
the dewfresh sunrise
of another land,
its crystalline consummation
glowing from the retina
of illusion.

People like me
smile and point at
the quaint old woman
who hobbles through the crowd
in the authentic garb of her clan,
a threadbare shawl shadowing
eyes that have not forgotten where home is.

People like me
revel in
the London afterdance of midnight crowding
for a seat on the underground,
a chance to whisper and point
at the man asleep from exhaustion,
lunchpail clutched in his lap
trapped by the nightly repetition,
the rocking tube a harbinger of his monotony.

People like me
are sure that
septembergreen hills and sombre stars
across the blackwake sea
will hold for them a Jericho
of promise fruit
ripe and dripping with lifejuice,
none fallen or abandoned underneath the wet stones

The Crux

Here is a poem I wrote a few years ago, I thought I would share it. Its really almost a prayer for me. The ending may seem overly morose, but I don't see it that way.



the crux



Sitting in the crux

Of a life already had

And yet to be.



Ready to run,

Unable to walk.

Prepared for what?



Motionless

Our questions do not

Bring answers



Passion heats our soul

And music fills our hearts.

A reservoir of love desperate to flow.

Tugging at the shorelines

Of an aching heart.



Promises once so bright

Are now empty.

Hope that illumined our hearts has dwindled.

Apathy is death.

Poetry or Prose

Submit a poem or short piece of writing for everyone to enjoy!