These days, my weeks and months are seemingly being strung together by a series of semicolons that have taken me to many here and there — mainly occupational work that may not be taxed in this part of the world, but nevertheless, taxes the health; some travels; moving house, or more like shifting furniture than an entire house; welcoming a new, lovely granddaughter; getting past a surveillance audit for the ISO-9001:2015 certification; bonding with more grandkids and the parents who conjured them; while always, always keeping a wary eye on what’s on and over the horizon near and far…. — but rarely near my blog.
I owe many apologies to our community of bloggers for neglecting this spot with nary a warning nor an explanation. But of course you know that this is bound to happen with someone who prides himself as a part-time writer.
So with this post, I bid you welcome and goodbye once more, and leave you with several links to related readings about the semicolon; hopefully, these are enough materials that you can come back to for further reading, until my next post sooner than later. Enjoy the weekend!
my world cannot sleep with the tinnitus of silence, my 3 am soaked in the rousing scent of lemon drops and apple cider vinegar that dress up the onion and watercress salad for the suhūr meal waiting in the kitchen, while my wife naps peacefully for a few more minutes perhaps again murmuring in her dreams, her conversation with a washing machine that launders like the sea we have not visited since the start of this ramadan.
we do not mind what we cannot see the drones stealing in the night the silence of the tinnitus, the intercept of ballistic missiles crashing onto sidewalks and cartops, we cannot see, except when wannabe paparazzi decide to splash the images on social media and the morning news.
oh, to bless the meek, to inherit the earth, to drown our hearts in the raging sea. to teach a man how to beg and he will learn how to smile. to teach a man how to fish and he will learn how to kill. and the bottom of our cup remains fathomless as can be.
“…We are being whipped up into fear of Muslims. And when we are afraid…. we’re operating out of just that reptilian part of our brain…. When we are afraid we don’t have access to our higher functionings, our whole self, the power of the knowledge in our hearts, our whole being, resigned to a small place of living. ….People are afraid of what they don’t understand, so my hope today is to share with you a little bit about what I love about Islam, in order to invite you to a place of more understanding and less fear….”
mashed up from pixabay.com images of www_slon_pics and geralt:here, here and here
come brother and feel this pulse
rhyming with the flowing red.
its presence is evidence
that i have a heart like yours.
reach closer now and feel me breathe:
this chest heaves
with the warmth of the sunshine
in the morning chill,
it rages in the sultry air of
the noonday heat,
it freezes with the swelling
of the midnight breeze,
its essence is with the sameness
we inhale and exhale.
a collage of the Christchurch community’s memorial for the 15 Mar. 2019 Al-Noor Mosque shooting victims, images lifted from various internet photos and videos
the world is shrinking as we shake
from all the swelling and the aches
the hours are shorter, distances near
for all the borders we hold dear,
and as the world shrinks and squeezes us in
its membranes wrapped over our skins
we grasp for the haka of souls and spirits
to break through the sheaths, to let us breathe.
the cars stop at red, a momentary block,
as the gaunt but big-boned man — with sun-baked face and arms, hair and beard dangling wiry, crinkled like loose threads of his faded-violet duffel bag slung on a towering shoulder, dressed in tattered flowing brown robe that had long lost its sleeves —
crosses our part of the street on to the middle island
to teeter beneath the traffic light that worries about
the man dancing round its weather-beaten pole.
the man’s fierce eyes tell me
not to open my side windows,
as he, a soul from the middle island, shaded
by the red-eye traffic lamp,
raises his hands high to the sky
looking up directly to the morning sun,
alternately shaking his pointy fingers of doom
to shoot down the cosmic glare,
or opening up his fists into a graven cup,
to beseech the sun and his many moons
to come rest in his palms.