sweet dreams

the sound —
jingling bells of an ice cream truck —
was a ‘Children, start your engines’ Olympic trigger
for every kid in earshot

giggle-laced chatter broke mid-word —
“Joey got a new model-”

Shooooom!
Big eyes
mouths hangin’
bike rubber burnin’
minds breakin’ out in clever fever
‘Hmmm, beg Dad,
he’s in the middle of his nap…!’

sure ’nuff
growls and yawns

“Leave me alone will ya!”

“Awww, Dad….!
The truck’s almost…”

bedsprings creakin’
grunts and mumbles
half-sleep wrestlin’ with stubborn pockets, ’til
“Boy, all I got is a doll-”

snatch
thanks
& halfway downstairs
before last letters caught air

full tilt dash was frozen
screeching to nonchalance,
easing past kitchen radar fun trap
‘she’s on the phone!’

the screen door was a catapult
launching porch leaps shaming Wright brothers,
the block filled with flocks of sweet dream angels

as foot hisses over grass
thunder from above
“Boy, that’s a dollar!!
You betta bring me a Nutty Buddy…”

grins blinded with enamel sunshine
halos to siren howls of
“Ice cream! Ice cream!!”

Like always,
the truck kept rolling
extending the race
’til Jeff’s bike blew past
leanin’
legs churnin’
spokes hot rod thrumming balloons front & rear
but Sarah was faster
                     barefoot
                     laughing so hard she could scarcely breathe

Slam! Slam! Bdddr-bam!!
little hands and bodies hit the wish wagon
a primal rhythm on frozen drum

The only answer to “What’ll ya have?”
was wheezes and fussin’
                       shovin’,
&                    wild hands waving
faster than lips and tongues could speak
’til the closing bells
&       gradual migration walk
mixing skips and baby steps
fresh fudge faces
licking greedy
and    slow
at the same time

there were trades
and sharing —
slow eaters teasing
fast eaters conning
while some slurped wrists and fingers
tracking trickles
spawned by an August afternoon

“You betta get your butt home
b’fore your daddy’s cone melts!” Sarah shrieked, giggling

’Didn’t hear their razzin’ as I ran
lickin’ elbows while dodging dogs
&                                    a baby carriage
careful not to fall cuz…

Dad was on the porch
funnin’ with the hose
pretending to water the grass
“Gimme that!” he grinned
“..and rinse your face and arms
before the sheriff comes out…”

The screen door slammed
as he rounded the corner
“Where’s your father?
Did he tell you to water the grass?”

“Well, he gave me the hose…”

“Are you watering you, or the lawn!?
Hurry up, dinner’s ready…”

The screen door creaked again
and I had to ask
“What’s for dessert…?”

“You are a pitiful child….
Peach cobbler, okay?
Cobbler, and…”

“..and…?”

“..and ice cream, so come on…”

the door slammed
the hose fell
and before my foot hit the first step
Dad scooped me up in one arm
       winked
&    whispered

“Heaven done smiled on both of us!”

 

by

jamal
ali

© 20 september 2002

 

 

 

 

the tribe

4 atiyah

I weave threads of glistening midnight
into a robe of dreams
tied off by a sash of northern lights
my hair is silvered with moondust
my beard a tropical mountain rainforest
embroidering my new moon face
I am black as intergalactic space
&    celestial as any star

my tribe is human —
in hues of every shade of night
           om dusk to dawn
           noble and strong

our history is immeasurably long —
we have a number for millions of years
our expressions are evocative
yet simple
balancing and blending our hearts and minds —
we aspire to the divine

our women are leaders
                     warriors
&                  nurturers too
but then, so are our men
we each are whole
we each know our role
&        live lives of harmony

we are not easily recognized
by those who read exteriors
when we choose to be revealed
                      to have our presence sensed as real
it is by forces felt, but unseen
      by spirits stirring in between
we transcend dimensions

demiurge
titans of old
wisdom walking the world…

for those who fear what they don’t understand
we are the gleam of legend
but, for now, I am seen as an ordinary man
or less, if that is what’s needed

by time and wind and war
the tribe now is scattered
many have lost the vision
                forgotten turtle island
&             abandoned the wisdom of our ways

but the coming days are the hardest yet
and when you put pressure on the black
glistening diamonds is what you get
when their memories come rushing back
&     their eyes are cleared of the haze
all the tribe will gather…

..and legends will live again

 
by

jamal
ali

© 19 july 1995

too long…

his itch roared years
one hundred seventy-nine
hours

sun exaggerated desire
like tales you wish you could tell —
sight of her, the perfect scratch

it had been too long
her hunger counted minutes like calories
her sweet ache a cavity
& cravings like this don’t have no number

eyes
lips fingering
      grasping amethyst-ruby chest treasures,
juiced & juicing
eager tenor of grunt-driven desire
her rhumba of renegade need
ignited frenzied amorous capoeira
tumbling linen trampolines

’til
union
the spot
head and eyes roll back
                                 willingly
in bliss of sandbox innocence

lips nibbled
remember involuntary spasms
conjured by tender tantric triggers
slow-dancing restraint to surrender

in summer darkness,
vapors rise
from nightfall flesh
&    mouths working long after words have failed

slumber’s tide melts them like sand dunes
outlined in honeyed moisture
distilled by their delight

by

jamal
ali

© 8 april 2003

soul music

my heart is a well
                a storehouse of memories
                an archive of the wanderings of my timeless soul
                a universe of existence
                               of lives and events

                a symphony of emotions
                                 of sorrow
                                 of joy

my heart is a flute
and I breathe music
songs of longing for what was
and                             is yet to be

the longing
the search
and unfinished, the sorrow
yet ever certain of its final joy

the drive within me blazes
dim now
bright then
a surging will which knows no end

my heart is a flute
my breath music
and this wandering soul sings the opera in his eyes

raising
rising
from sub to superconscious
from ages of slumber
             too many to number
awakening finally to a wholeness of Being
recognizing within
the completeness I’ve been seeking

my heart is a saxophone
and I breathe melodies
a musical melting of joy into sorrow
a lyrical jazz for traveling the spheres

in my library of livesI have known great beauty
and colossal rage
                  pain
                  shame
                  birth
                  death
                  joy and ecstasy which knew no bounds

these are memories
             not fantasies
but flesh and bone and throat-tightening thrill
full of sound and color and images keen
from pulse-racing moments
to the calm and serene

my heart is a drum
and I am walking rhythms
steps in the cycle of an evolving soul

the free flight of the eagle
a dolphin’s glee
the stride of the lion —
all are part of me
the struggling emergence of the butterfly
I know all too well
I am living it in the moment
as I emerge from my shell
wolfsong, coyote howl
the deadly silence of the serpent’s prowl
the thunder heard from buffalo and elk
I know these
I have been these
and so love them as myself

like the wise elephant
my breath is music
all memory
every part of me
is an instrument
for this wandering spirit
all is orchestra —
each heart a rhythm
and every soul a song

my heart is a flute
and I breathe music
and along the path of this wandering soul
the songs are finally joyous
and my Being whole

by

jamal
ali

©  20 march 1994

bush-league bandits

pimp, instead of pope,
in New Vatican, DC,
the village idiot & his seven dwarves
                                joint chiefs cruise situation rec center,
chalk custom cue sticks in nuclear blue

on an HD TV used as pool table,
they shoot billiards with eyeballs —
                                                   no sockets,
                                                   not pockets empty
&                                                                threadbare,
playing for trophies —
                flocks of minds
&             cultural coins,
swapping reason for spare change

the digital felt is a shifting mirage
                        a soft veneer cloaking hard core —
                                                                        no cushions
                                                                        no english,
but spin doctors prescribing sound bites
&                                   geek speak,
                       splitting tongues
                       knotting ears —
                                              clever like a fox
                                              dressed as pooh bear,
                                              hanging by corner pockets
                                              hiding 8 balls
                                              eager to share their honey
in five gram vials

Dubya held an easter egg hunt for WMD
in the sands instead of the Bushes,
searching everywhere for his rabbit,
to make daddy proud

in crack back flashes,
or crack flashbacks —
in misremembered dream,
campus cop with flashlight
became voice of God
anointing his dementia

schooled to con & cut
but not connect,
prepared to reap harvests of wild oats
                        sown in besotted skull pots
                               in tiered fear-fertilized gardens —
grain already fermented to froth
        served in silvered media cups
                 for the yale & heartless

supremely courted, then dubbed,
Shrub is more menace than apprentice,
fiddlin’ with what he cannot comprehend,
puzzled by Dr. Seuss military instructions,
while goaded by Condeskeeza
                   with tweezered hand jobs Viagra cannot save,
and we are called to exalt our president knave,
                         to believe he’s brave,
                            accept he can lead
instead of just desert

 
so we are left
in millennium’s dark dawn
with a leader the sighted see as pawn,
                   who, blind in both eyes
                          would yet claim to be king
                   who cannot rule by thumb
with it locked in sphinctered prison
while running the new Capitol Hill production
as Lord of the Flies

by

jamal
ali

© 12 march 2004

B stands for Truth

crack pipe calliope
a blown glass chamber quartet
for White House family reunion
a Bush-bin Laden joint venture
trained navy SEALs in waiter’s camo
                              serving Texas tea in cups of china white —
reasons to wake glib ghosts
              shake skeletons like shékéré
while hillbilly hangin’
’round the country store
at the Pentagon
    the Fed
    the outhouse on Pennsylvania avenue
where we find the highest crime —
America’s most unwanted —
our genius commander-in-thief

the first politician
who by words
&        acts alone
elevated the incomparable Dan Quayle
to maximum Mensa status —
Geo. Washington Bush
who tried chopping down a cherry tree
with his favorite red guitar
named “Rosebud”

this boy be our first puppet president —
they still use CIA hand towels
for White House toilet paper
while greed bleeds across the land
switching stripes of red for green,
Wall Street frantically converting
Enron shreds into economic tampons —
band-aids on a hemorrhage

and dancing at the end of the string,
bobble-head Shrub puppets
stoned on DOD Viagra
struttin’ multiple missile erections
anxious to get his jack on

daddy got puppy on a short leash
teleprompter skull implants
scrambled by microwave ovens
&                cell phones
triggering time-delayed toothless sound-bites
gummed beyond recognition

his Cabinet is a corporate nest,
each chick straining for dangling dollars —
droppings from Baldy’s inflamed anal cysts

Uncle Sam’s middle finger fractured
now John and Jane Public
are catching special op’s splinters —
Keystone cops conducting Chinese fire drills
                    stoking the flaming Bush
                    bringing Billy Graham bullet
&                                                  bible benedictions,
with biscuits and gravy

“got flags?”

New Rome has it’s 21st century Nero
flailing air guitar
to news conference questions
and petitions for simple common sense,
trumpeting his plan —
harvesting old growth forests for lumber
                                        to save them from forest fire
playing 3 card marly
with fraud
       ignorance
&    oil

“we don’t need no stinkin’ violins!”

Pinnochio’s nose is now so long
it’s nearly mid-colonic,
puppet strings are fuses
                         burning back,
                         singing Gepetto’s fingers
                         igniting insights denied,
explosively unblocking throats
choked by dried cakes of patriotic vomit
unleashing a nation of rainbows
in red, white & blue confetti
collected in body bags
to be shipped to Arlington

the next word you hear
will not be
“war”

by

jamal
ali

© 16 october 2002

“gone ain’t gone”

moisture clung in shrouds
lingering after storm crested hill
the house was hers now
yet dread laced this dream come to truth

she walked empty halls
&                      rooms
crowded with furniture of generations,
rich with memory stew,
fragrance unblocking sorrow’s inward gaze —
mama’s mushroom-wild rice dressing meant real thanksgiving
’soon as nose crossed doorstep
scent of summer berry cobbler
with homemade ice cream
’bring rain from roof of your mouth
now streaking cheeks like house eye windows
grieving in chorus

abruptly shaking fists and head,
angry at sorrow stirred sweet by fond recall,
she ran shoeless
                      through accordion-slamming screen door
                      past porch swing
                      straight to mama’s garden

trembling hands yanked sweater to her knees
drenched in gathered mist of splattered tears
she peered up at mama’s new grave
’longside daddy, ’top of the hill
and it drew her up, straight
bluster of ancestor breath frettin’ locks untied

tilled soil embraced her feet,
and she rolled her ankles
’til she felt herself sinking
                         earth accepting
                         mama’s years of unhurried devotion
rising to meet wriggling toes, searching

rhythm whispers rose in her chest “..gone ain’t gone…”
sacrament she clutched with both arms
standing
still growing in mama’s garden

 

by

jamal
ali

© 9 january 2003

Diamonds in the Night

diamonds in the night
our brilliance has no meaning
our beauty is only seeming
our inner fire
our hearts’ desire
both lie out of sight

diamonds in the night
half buried in the earth
seen as mimics of the light
by those ignorant of our worth

their heels, unconscious and blind
grind us like simple stones
with our radiance concealed
without our unity congealed
we are broken and crushed like individual bones

as diamonds in the night
we inhabit the darkness of their perception
how conveniently they seem to forget
darkness is the source of light’s inception
it is the darkness that receives
                              absorbs
                              accepts
light reflects light
and thus dimly perceives
the softness of the light
filtering through the leaves…..
they are lost in search of a forest
blindly ignoring the trees

our roots merge with the ground
like veins of stone
Mother Earth’s bones…

these too were mined
in dark and light
as they sought to find
diamonds in the night…..

the faintest glimmer of hope
or                             star
excites in us a glow
a vagrant flame begets the same
and serves only to show
that the Light of Mindor any other kind
is maximized at best
not by reflection
or       refraction
but by putting to the test
our creative Will —
a strength instilled
as substantial, not as whim
and awake all our kindred spirits
as ancient as the wind
that we may rise
to be seen in Pharaoh’s eyes
as worthy of the throne
so we may know our legacy
and our ancestral home
to shine as gold
instead of cold and broken lifeless stones

 

 

 

by

jamal
ali

© august 1984

Found: treasured letters…

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