regret sometimes whispers
in a soft oiled voice, that meanders
through the mind, finding the raw
places of  guilt

those fires  that become embers
by time and studied ignorance
and blows soft worded memories
giving oxygen to cinders, that light
the night like cane fires, all smoke
and  the madly rushing things
that race before the fire
scream their  torror and fear and hate
as they blindly follow the exodus
into the light, into the short grass,
tarmac pavement, open grave
that is waiting....there they either
stop transfixed or continue pellmell
onwards...the fire roars behind them
they have no place but out
there is no control, there is no
measure thought or reticence
there is action, and smoke and grime

and a sweet smell, that is sickening
yet like candy, and campfires

I hate it when I  hear the slickoiled
voice of regret in my head...
for I know the conflagration follows

the magic of poetry.
is that it makes everything
beautiful.
it fills your lungs
like air.
it turns your soul
into a sky full of stars.
your heart
a field of wildflowers.
you.
into a poem.

Memories of you
Collect
Like raindrops on
A downward *****

I know that
Soon enough

I will drown.

"you cannot do wrong to do right"
(a universal known truth)
which puts all terrorists arguments
in their rightful place.

I gave the old man my knife
he cut the bread
we shared it through
the kingdom far

he was Sunni
I a Shiite
our children ate together

Muhammad
sat at the table
the date 632 AD
our difference
I said at the time
Hoseph , such a small qualm

he sat glaring in indifference
as if
I was a different religion
an invading sect

to this day our children grow up in hate
share never the bread or
the wisdom

but hate

and is it what Muhammad said ?

Hate **** desecrate my sacred memory?

Time has told, unfortunate.

Kiss me asleep
with your obsidian lips.

Protect my ears
from the cacophony nights would bring.

Fill the void
between heartbeats that skip.

Take me into the lull,
and into the siren song that you sing.