Category: Uncategorized

Mother
Two hundred and seventy-seven days, I carried you,
Days were not easy—pain then, pain now.
Now at home, then in a clinic afar,
I never grew angry, only eager
to have you wrapped in my arms.
And when I did have you, I nurtured you like my god.
“Son, now before you show me the way out—think again.”

Father
“Two decades and two years,
Were you ever starving?
New clothes, new shoes, new cycle, new bike.
You smiled, and I relished,
Carried you on my shoulders, gave you all you asked.
You, I thought of when toiling under the sun.
“Son, now before you show me the way out—think again.”

Both
Two decades and two years,
Were we ever tired of you?
Always loving, always forgiving, always supporting.
One day of your sickness, and we were in hell.
“Son, now before you show us the way out—think again.”

-Aman Aslam

If sand is the embodiment of time
Then I’m…
Going to collect it all and become it’s keeper
That way, when I meet Mr Reaper
I can flip my hourglass around
To recapture the sound
Of every heartbeat that fluttered by
Of every moment my ribs caged butterflies
Of every time I uttered “I love you”
Of the moment you stuttered “I do”
Pictures may be worth a thousand words
But your voice, Firefly, deserves to be heard
For infinite lifetimes and more
I used to collect seashells that came across the seashore
To recapture this moment of meeting this girl from my dreams
But now that I met you in real life it seems
Like the shells are decorating the exuberant amount of sand
I’ve collected just to forever hold your hand

I gaze at you from afar, and my sight cannot reach you,
I speak to you in whispers, and my voice fades
like an echo in the vast silence.
I hold you tightly, and your sadness becomes mine,
I grasp your hand in the void,
trying to find you among the shadows.

I look at you from a distance, and little by little you fade away,
I shout your name, but you can no longer hear me,
I embrace you from afar, and my arms touch you only in dreams.
I admire you in silence,
without ceasing to name you in my thoughts.

I have called you Solitude,
I have looked deeply into your eyes,
and you have planted in my face
two extinguished stars

You are the sun,
brightness everlasting,
finding hope,
finding excuses to be happy.

You are the stars
with ambition for eternity,
able to combine your wits with passion
to form your own constellation.

You are my moon
somehow healing my confusion.
Now I see you clearly love,
it’s only you.

I would say “I love you”
but the implications of such
would drown out all pleasure
Soaking heart’s fragile contract and
muddying these spontaneous words
yet to be written

So here I stand
trapped in your gaze
as the blood rises higher
sloshing through my veins
But I will not be overcome
by my desire for you
This is not love,
merely a forethought of
promises that may be broken
and hate that may be kept

I say, as if these flimsy statements
could be my raft, floating
through the rapids of passion
saving me from the cold water below
But, as far on the shore as I may crawl
your tide will claim me eventually
and I shall become enraptured
in your baleful flow
whisked away to the vast
and deadly sea of intertwining lives

No matter how hard I wish
for a safe and passing path
there is no resisting this silent siren song
dripping from your skin
But until my ship crashes
upon your jagged rocks
I shall try with all my might
to resist the reasonless pull
of the words
“I love you”

When emerald eyes and diamond tears
Will lay to rest all of my fears
I will see your face with quirky looks
And joyful smiles full of hopes
We’ll remember your beautiful words
The way you withstood all the hurts
How like a wave
You were swept into the grave
But wait there my cherry blossom
The flowers are soon to bloom
The beach’s sunset set to swoon
A supernova of light and flowers
A picture perfect set of hours
So wait for me dear cherry blossom
In our time you sure did show ‘em

*An homage to Zin Zin Zin A Violin

I can safely say that even if we weren’t related:
his writing is untouchable, he still would be my favorite.

The trombone while in high school sparked a grand fondness for music.
I’d try my luck announcing (if I thought that I could do it).

Unsure about his children’s book (you don’t know til you try).
He wrote (and drew) since toddlerhood, not unlike William Steig.

It seemed to be his destiny (just one of many others).
But who’d’ve thought the idea took just three days to uncover?

Despite the odds, the book’s adored (through all the years and many more).
Those thirty years have quickly passed, and look at all he has amassed.

Composer’s revenge still holds up, of that you can be sure.
To think he had to be convinced (and by my mom, not yours).

Runner up for Caldecott, it seems he played to win.
A soldier on and off screen, join me to hail zin zin!

i stay inside and ruminate
in a four-walled room like it’s innate,
inert but roaming a mindscape
a mind at stake, but how to escape

the era kaleidoscoped into an atom,
too much to ever fathom,
but there’s no way around exploring this chasm
this hairline crack that contains it all
the birth, the rise, the peak and fall

so where is the bottom, the end of this mixtape?
it wasn’t mine to play, and I didn’t make it
loops over and around again, history replays it
self over masses, arrogance betrays it

leave or be left, kill or be killed
neither choice leaves room for the inevitable rebuild
just a cycle in pocket, saying here’s the beat don’t drop it
compelled by all the music noise, too loud to stop it

but then there is you, bright shiny new
sparkling penny off the old press
impressed to be with you
so this cycle, I’ll chop it

try to keep that change in pocket,
in locket, won’t drop it on rainy days while on the street walking
and the little minted coin will always tell it like it is
you are a small one in a hundred, that’s what the truth is
but change is just perspective; flip it & you win.

The cruelest thing
is a rose. It is sharp but it is beautiful,
so I hear,
and the animals make me hold it to
my breast. Label me,
standing here obedient
as vile. The skin beneath my collarbone
is broken, but even then,
I resemble the gorgeous women
in the paintings men render,
where tears are only beautiful. I am prettier
when my makeup is smeared down my cheeks,
when it is clear I need saving, and I agree.
I have two pointer fingers and a revolver
aimed at the beating in my chest.
There is no regret, not resting
in me, anyway. When I come alive,
they watch the revolver clatter
with disgust. I cannot tell if it is
me they are ashamed of
or themselves.
The animals startle.
I am not a cartoon princess. I am
their father’s America. I am
the End and the beginning of life,
one hand curled around the plush
of my stomach. I am a sight even when
tears blur my vision. I am the field soldiers fight on,
and die on, and are buried
under. The last thing I lose
is the rose. You can’t tell
I ever held it.

Pick me a flower
and I’ll give you my day.
We’d laugh and talk
of adventures we’d like to take;
around the world,
flying through clouds and dreams.

Buy me a bouquet
and I’ll give you my night.
Filled with romance and passion
lips do what hands do
under streetlights, and backseats,
stairwells and park benches.

Build me a garden
and I’ll give you my life.
Tied to one another, I’ll forever
ve yours–as your eyes are blue
and mine are brown.

Give me a seedling
to love and to hold.
Together we’ll cherish a love
never known until cries from
tiny blue lips.

Lay down one singular rose
on my tomb made of oak.
where we will say goodbye
till our hearts intertwine once
more in the clouds.