Deliberative Contemplation

Emma Florence Harrison ( 1877–1955)

Pride is her sin

Bless the revolutionary road

The youthful dreams churning within

Haunted by ghostish whispers

In a fictional world of her own creation

Had she mastered the bliss of humbleness

Conquest of wisdom would have been her daily ritual

A free spirit she is

Pushed the freedom button, lit crimson ambition onto her records

Diven into the jaw of the monstrous sea

Sailed away on a lonely journey towards one of the coldest wests

What easted east and wested west

One man lied to geography and so history followed

Music is her wine

Dancing in the flames of endless joy and pain of choices, and the in-betweens

Oh, how painful are the in-betweens

Misguided in the realm of endless doubt

Between right and wrong lies an eternal drought of faith

Bound by fate …. an untiable bond

A fateful obligation to utter submission to …. fate

Who can escape their fate

Fate or destiny or God, can we differentiate, before the end draws near,

Can we negotiate what would our fate become, before clean slates are definitely erased

A mountain of deeds hides underneath her troubled conscience

Good or bad, even when intentions are resolute, actions deviate

The good, the bad and the ugly reside in every particle of human race

Are choices predetermined or free-willed, our thoughts tirelessly race

Pride is a sin among many others

The old man said: “unsheathe your sword in the face of temptation”

“Against your heart, ignite a revolution”

“Remember, repentance remains the man’s sole road to salvation”

Whether atonement for wrongdoing is a predetermination or choice

Forgetfulness stays a curse and a solace

There’s an insatiable curiosity about the purpose of man’s existence

As men fall for their causes – soon she’d fall too

Perfectionism is a myth when death hour strikes too soon


Symphonic Sin

Stripping amid the chaos in the journey leading to reason

No questioning where grace had fallen

Grace or faith – beware multiple thoughts induce confusion

Stars in the skies shall erase the glooms of illusions

My heart’s unrest temporarily sedated

Bidden welcome by my beloved music

Reminds me of Him albeit the ancient promise of delusions

A believer could not wander around with faith so delusive

Fragmented between devotion and music

Could music really steal away devotion?

Devotion is parentless in a poor assessment

You are either a devoted believer in worshipping God or His music

I am a worshipper of God – music lies among my rituals

Would I be a hypocrite to give in to the enchantment of his creation?

I am a creature in love with another creature

Together we prostrate sublimely to our Creator

A Sufi combines no love of any creature with the Most Gracious

Music is one way to mercy which He offers ardently spacious

My heart is a wonderland in a human box

You’d see midgets and giants racing or in harmony

Constantly rides a carousel of emotions and careless whispers

Don’t chuckle at my strife – yours next I see coming from a short distance

Violin stick plays upon my heart thousand melodies of pain

You may hear them from a distance shedding mayhems

Don’t be fooled by my grizzly chanting

Humming is what plays in the background

Affirming failure or perhaps handing a tourniquet to the bleeding poet  

Humming sounds like drumming of warfare waits to breakout

Alien troops marching to the land long peace-deprived

No … No … No

Cast out those monstrous fears – soon to eat your conscience alive

Dance along with the wolves in the pitch darkness of your nights

Clutch at a straw when the waves of the crazy ocean reach their highs

Float in space with your music until your soul lands peacefully in the Most Gracious’s skies

May K.

P.S. preferably read while listening to this tune


If I had the liberty to choose prior to my creation – I would be water – the liquid, the term, the definition, the force and the feebleness.

I would be abundant and scarce – steep and deep –  rain, hail and overwhelm, contain – never contained, rush and sweep – shallow and deceptive – enliven and kill – freeze – melt and boil.

Only time controls me – temperature never withhold me.

I would run in the fields racing against the wind – challenging the heat of the sun to hurry immerse the lands before it dry up and ruin the tired man’s harvest.

I would drown the traitor and float the believer.

There will be times I am pure and times I stink. There will be times I am smooth as silk and times my roars frighten the king of the jungle.

There will be times I’ll be greater than any other creation on earth, even the giants of mountains I bear them in my boundless belly and eat them, slowly.

Man knows its only a matter of time.

I’ll be the intruder, the earth’s indispensible partner.

I’ll be the world’s hooker quench whoever pays fat and better.

I will fail to live up to my end of the bargain, I dry, I disappear – they shed their blood over me and I keep vanishing,  as much as I will flood far beyond man’s capacity.

I rush – keep rushing to where those thinking creatures can’t trace me or detain me or drink me or bottle me or pollute me.

I am free and shall remain that. The only reason I can’t satisfy them is I’m bloodless, soulless.

I am only water…


Painting Her

I lied to her – I will never stop. Her ceaseless rejuvenating power of forgiveness entices my evilness to take over me and her virtuousness.

Now I am alone, but married to that woman long enough that I despise her and myself for being the idiot of the year, even the idiot of my time, yet to be crowned.

I met her on the street; her inability to comprehend my language never discouraged my twisted intentions to finally decide to be with the wrong woman for the third time.

It is hard to believe I cut all the miles from uncle Sam’s to the Pharaonic desert rose to fall in love with a woman and end up with another; things that divide us are more than what unite us. I still married her. It only took one night after marriage to realize all I needed was sex, when only a one night stand could have saved me from falling into a brand new fiasco.

The night’s over and all I could think of is the woman I still ache for. Looking at my wife’s face reminds me of another stupid move I made drove me away from happiness. I see her in my wife though. I kiss her and make love to her constantly. She doesn’t know but I do…she doesn’t feel but I do. And that’s enough to do.

She thinks revenge was my attempt. I let her believe so she doesn’t scorn my animality. I am too fragile and desperate for something, it’s the only thing I cannot paint nor foresee, like fate.

I look back on the days when I could call myself “happy” and as much as my heart is filled with remorse, I enjoy hunting her all over again. She’s my breath of fresh air, as well as my prey, my slave, my power, my passion, my muse, my portrait, and my only lover. I love her, endlessly and I couldn’t be more hateful.

I hate her defiance, her strength, her overwhelming love for me. She walks out of the room, I am defenseless. I stand infront of her, when our eyes meet I am electrofired. Her passion blazing eyes fray my will to resist her. Shockingly, her pride belittles me and all I see is a little boy looking up to his mother… fails to reach her resolute shoulders.

It is not fair to be the butcher and the slaughtered at once. History doesn’t forgive nor will the future, and my present atopped with the curse of sinning. I am sinful, alas, joyous. What do I need it for? I had her right in my hand…guess a clench of my fist is all it should take.

She fits well in my arms. She feels safe in my embrace, the very one that betrayed her, like my brush fails to paint her. Yes, I want to paint her. How ironic! A woman of her kind can’t flourish in my painting. Her challenging dignity impossible to conceive beneath my lines… too coarse for my brush to obey.

I want to be inside her, around her, God I want to be her. I look at her and envy God’s creation for she embodies perfection; my kind of whore and saint, at once.

She has the gift of timing, never too loose- never too tight. She likes to dance between the lines, my type of dancer. Yet moves too fast for my pace, supernaturally, I cannot catch her. Maybe after all she’s not earthly.

I think I’m drowning in the realm of her forgiveness, and more of my self. The memory of fighting which I’m lacking has no reason to retrieve. I enjoy being the clown, play the two faces of a character, mocked by some and feared by others.

I’m her Satan of that I’m aware, yet the answer to her unfulfilled prayers. She carries me in her heart and keeps dripping bitterness. It’s the remnants of all hope I savaged in her.

This wound won’t heal – do we want it to heal? I know she can’t and I don’t want it to be healed. If I’m her cut – she’s my cactus. Mistakenly grew a flower in a desert soil and all I have is cactus. Fed by thoughts full of her, my solace, midst the heat of the perfect loneliness I’ve come to banish myself into, and my thriving wish to finish her.


Blood on My Poetry Notebook

I sit alone talking to myself in private
In my own little chamber of secrets
These walls can never breach the oath
They’d once vowed to keep it
Seized my pen and my notebook
Yet could not dare taint the whiteness
A small cascade of thoughts dug deep into my head
Magnified within the craving desire for revenge
As my pen rouses from its quiescence
Strives to spell v-e-n-g-e-a-n-c-e
Heard the invader’s footsteps ascending my tired stairs
Looked up with ultimate confidence
These bones can never deny the moron’s gutlessness
There stood his shadow, building up in my presence
His false holiness banished the demons before the angels
I stood alone exorcizing the prince of the darkness
Claims to be human
God know … No earthly fire could burn his torrid core
Spoke to me words that human speak
Words like home, love and surrender
For whom and with whom … I stood bewildered
Mesmerized by his intricate wicked fantasy or reality
My Lord… his words were poisoned arrows pierced into my body
This unendurable punishment for the not-proven-guilty
Even a monster would have sucked my blood
Wouldn’t let it hopelessly running
Thousand prayers never saved the innocent
Only crowned the devil’s ruthlessness
Hear voices telling me that I should have some faith
I should believe
I’m dear to God … I’m here to believe
I swear I believe and believe and believe
In the one and only one above me
One day … so soon … it seems coming
Your fate is doomed to a daunting ending
Every breath of pride from you I shall retrieve
Go pound the doors of forgiveness
Promise me!
You’ll be freed from all the guilt against humanity plus me
I shall wait here in the chamber of secrets scorning your animosity
Dry my dear bloody poetry notebook
Listen to the crows’ cry over your dead memory