in the desert of our lives

in the desert of our lives
    the apparent void of juice and passion
exists a niche
        a haven
sheltering the sacred spring,
             the unfettered effervescence of our percolating hearts,
and there arises a sense
that the void,
      the sense of isolation
is not wholesale
but the unintended result of our own amorous efflorescence —
                                     a sensuous conflagration
                                     heartfires flaring in romantic rendezvous
                                     souls come full circle
                                                                in a cycle of self…

..and the enduring selflessness
which is the essence of family
and      the anchor of generations
becomes a beacon
in a wilderness of values
across the cultural wasteland

the rising presence
                         of whole over self
                         of service as exaltation
rekindles joyful waters
&         clear visions of a greater we

amidst the desert of our lives —
forty times forty, and the trek has just begun…
through the dry and soulless canyons
hearts, the water-bearers,
          through their meeting
                    their merging
          are urging us to emulate their example —
the children of Obatala arise again,
                               pointing with their hearts
                               embracing truth recognized
                                                     hiding in our eyes —
afraid of what we see within…

the mind is dry
                abstract
without heart
the heart lush
and       undirected without her bed
                          without a head
                                              shaping
                                              directing one another…

from the dust of dreams
our hearts produce the fertile mud of our imagination
nurturing Ori’s seeds

we are our own spiritual harvest —
         the first fruits
         life in the desert
         remnants of a forest of hearts
         ancestors to the new forest
                         the coming harvest —
                         the rising living dreams of those sacrificed
                         the new unknowing of their course,
a people thick with promise
their direction threadbare
and              wind-driven
a crop in need of cultivation
that their hearts may rise,
                             bear wise fruit
expanding the forest family
linking our lives to the land,
a land we may someday remember
as the desert of our lives…..

 

by

jamal
ali

© 31 aug 1999

sacrifice & surrender

shreds of paper skip the pavement
slow wind mourns a melody
lyrics of sacrifice and surrender
now etched in memory

I stumble through your garden
magnolias hold no mystery
your petals are stiff and empty
of the scent I once could see

I feel folk songs moan,
whimper blues harmonica
wheezing fragments of what-if’s
over tequila-salted wounds

makes you wanna wonder
’bout prisons of used-to-be
&    strait-jacket suits
of wanna-be dreams

I barely sniffed the cork
of champagne desires —
effervescing wishes
melting shadows lost to breath

I hear a folk song chorus
chanting hallelujah
anguish goin’ church
in convulsions of regret

tambourine just a-tremblin’
my tangled tongue is speakin’
pleadin’ for wishes
I know will never come

’flicted tremors wrack my body
and tears no longer flow
grief’s blindness broke my hand
on walls of my frustration

I just wanna testify
wails runnin’ ricochet
along freight cars of abandon
’til I lost the will to fight

whistle moans harmonica
guitar is just a-stringin’
I don’t wanna feel
but the pain is just too strong

makes you wanna dance to glory
’had my hand upon the rapture
all she did was shrug
and her smoke slipped through my fingers

harmonica, cry now if you wanna
guitar, sing if you’ve a notion
the storm inside my chest
is pulling me out to sea

beyond the surf which brings tomorrow
&       waves of destiny,
my heart will sail me safely
until horizon is lost to mind

my eyes linger in the dimming
watching sun retreat from night
drifting slowly down
into whirlpool of despair

words catch on teeth of anger
tongue knots in strangled fear
my future crumbles, abandoned
in cold mists of used-to-be

her words walked right out the window
                       across the hill
                       out of my eyes,
extracting comfort by the roots
’til I was silenced by her choice

long, long
the refrain will always echo
strong, strong
the love I had to leave behind
wrong, wrong
the reasons given for the ending
and I will wander wondering,
how it all came undone

by
jamal
ali

© 7 march 2003

Love is an Act of Strength

caring is courageous
love is an act of strength
only the endurance of commitment
can determine its length

your heart is a muscle
and so benefits from exercise
when left dormant upon the shelf
something inside slowly dies

yet, random reception of overtures
begets deception
        misadventures
and   their attendant pain

among emotional barbarians —
          those of savage disposition
at large, or one to one
their caustic nature is but a part
of these rapacious vandals of the heart

though, if love you would share
if, in fact, you need to care
you must bare your soul —
                                      courageously
facing the foibles of feeble minds
or                        those that think with their behinds
and thereby, you persevere
for love is an act of strength

emotions take not kindly to the cage
what you suppress
becomes difficult to express
as habits become frozen with age

but, by accepting our emotional energy
its nature, cycle and flow
we may harness
and      apply its strength —

constructively for ascendance and exaltation
or destructively for vengeance and degradation

sharing is not selflessness
nor opening without extension
sharing is an active endeavor
              self-motivated
requiring no lever, ever
and anon

giving is more than opening the door
or                         revealing what lies within
true giving requires an extension of self
without exchange for something else —
the dropping of defenses
the opening of the senses
is a most vulnerable condition

commitment’s honor and loving trust
as opposed to random wanton lust —
the courage to care
the strength to love
these are the things I’m speaking of

the efforts are great
the trials severe
yet, if we are to persevere
Love must be an act of strength

by

jamal
ali

© 1984

Zenobia — Dance of Wind

starts at the end
ends with a sigh
ever the child —
wondrous & free
dancer extraordinaré
physical symphony
with allure as accidental aura
you
a dark vanilla mystery
even to your father…
but mother’s prize
a living memory of magic
once caught betwixt her thighs…..

fluid and soft as tropical rain
&                             the sweat your dance inspires
Zenobia, little wonder
many small men risked all to possess you
                                                   dreaming of owning the wind —
they saw you as a mare to ride through the night
ill-equipped to grasp the fantasy
less so for the real
bodies bankrupt in their zeal

to hoofbeat drums
they marched you through the night
— swept across the sea in pirate’s flight
trembling,
now afraid to touch,
the winsome prize once coveted so much
having forgotten
one must be equal to your dream…

paternal pride & anguish
spurred me to your side
I had never seen you,
but once I smelled your fragrant silks
clutched tenderly in my fist
I never doubted I would know you
in a cave on a moonless night
— I had no need of sight

across sand or sea or sea of sand
the aura of my mission heralded my arrival
preceded by tales of battles won
opposition as veils melting in the sun
or                                withering in the night
incarnate Will was I
                             am I
bound to end your plight

when I entered their camp,
I caught your scent — so nice
above the grit of sand
                   clamor of dung
                   riot of curry, ferment & spice

the delicate chime of your ankle bells
&                                                bangled gold-filled ears
were thunderous whispers above the cacophony
and the sweat-stench of their fears
I simply followed the sound of passionate swoons
&                               the rippling wave of terror
expanding in a wake before me

found
my eyes told you you were free to go
& your gratitude melted into love

our romance blossomed during our journey
growing from flower to sacred bush
a girl, you were stolen from your family
but a woman returned now for them to see

once within your father’s sight
                       the light of his smiling eyes
your whimsical pattern of departure returned

dismissing claims of home
&                                    longing hearts,
you mounted my steed behind me
choosing my path to take
we vanished into night
cries of your name lost in our rushing wake

by

jamal
ali

© 4 november 1992

emergence

he screamed truth at the walls
                                         raging
a Joshua of trumpet throat
cutting
carving
sculpting cold stone
into forms fluid
              curving
&           triumphant
bulging the box
with his sphere of power
                        influence

dwindling
to fierce whispers
sparking
igniting the dark
echoing the light
within his enforced night
beneath the dungeon
of his captor’s imagination

he
another dark sun
unbowed
unclouded
and now, by self-doubt
unshrouded

once fearful of peering into his own eyes
      made comfortable with the lies
but wisdom survives,
and in his solitude
from attitude
he forged resilience,
acknowledging flaws
& built upon experience

harnessing pressures crushing his soul
he compressed his black
and became diamond whole

his moon did not share his crypt
she faced her deadly destiny
pounded with predictions of her doom
and of those from her womb

yes, she cried
but a righteous rage built up inside,
and soon her captors found her fortified,
for even in darkness
           without books,
she learned from her dreams
     listened to ancestors’ whispers
     awakened comatose memories
of warriors and builders
                                 undefeated
                                 reborn within

his heart became a fist
he ceased his screaming
harnessing his surging passions
                    frustrations

the constant inundation —
                                      of brain beatings
                                         mind manglings
&                                      rapes of his sodomized heart
slowly shrank into unconscious white noise
                         surf feebly splashing his promontory will

he stared into the night
his gaze turned within
his rage focused,
he felt the ritual begin
his words of truth
                 outrage
                 rebellion
transformed
echoing chants of power
                    immune to ice
                    calling the knowing
his fight was not without
or                    without price
but within
      inside his skin

he embraced the night
    did not miss the light,
knowing the sun was not lost,
just resting beyond the horizon
and, like him, soon to rise

her heart felt his fire
her soul his embrace
bound by blood
             will
&          spirit
they knew distance could not divide them
              incantations of doom could not defeat them
only they could conquer themselves

lost in labyrinths of lies and deceit
drugged on powders white
&            powers vain
the once mighty had been broken again

finally,
his will breached the box
her heart reached through the wall
in union
they stood
              free
              bathed in midday sunlight
                        in the depths of midnight
              steeled in their knowing
              unabashed in their glowing
                                                   an embrace at once deeply Black
&                                                a brilliant beacon in the night

by

jamal
ali

© 23 january 2002

end the war

inspired by vicara

mostly, when my heart speaks
joy flows
happiness glows
& the heights of my ecstacy tend to show

even when addressing instances of hurt,
                              phases of pain and sorrow
I tend to shift towards resolution
avoiding pointed discussion

But I don’t hear that type of balance
in the poetry my sisters sing

This is no criticism
’cause to each their own thing
Perhaps they’re just more honest
and my way is less than true,
’cause if you breathe,
we’ve both done
&            been done by the deed
and know hurt & pain
hit each gender the same

So, like the sister said,
I was gonna write a nice sweet poem,
but truth busted my face,
              chased me all around my place
there was nowhere to hide,
not even inside
no peace, no how, no way

So if we are to face the truth,
                    be the truth
then we must know,
when we act out of fear
                          ignorance
or                       pain,
we just create more of the same
it’s not just no win,
it’s both lose,
and if you’re seeking blame
don’t ask whose,
it’s yours
it’s mine
it’s both or neither, every time

I’ve been hurt
and       demeaned in many ways,
ways I never thought possible
I hung in, and now understand
why abused spouses remain despite the pain,
praying for sun in the pouring rain

But each of us has a line,
                          a point we should never cross,
that place where rules go out the window
              beyond mercy
&           compassion
’til rage is the only color you can see

Reduced below our humanity,
the animal rises
     war erupts,
and lovers become the enemy

Folks will say they have no temper,
             say they’ve never been that mad,
and even they know they’re lying
Some will ask if you ever loved that much,
and that too is sad

How do you stop it?
Where does it end?
With me, with you
by choosing not to begin
Because you feel is no excuse
to be out of control

Manipulation of any sort
is not an Olympic
or          domestic sport
It’s competition for control,
which is the hidden underlying goal
If one wins, we both lose,
no matter the tactics or premise you use

It is so easy to forget
this is a three-way fight —
it’s between you, me, and we
If we,
if us loses,
   us dies,
then it’s just you
&    it’s just me
faking love and harmony

 

by

jamal
ali

© 15 march 1994

Feeling the Spirit

moonlight streamed in
past ragged cloud curtains dressing the window
baby roses sighed
on a setting for dinner
                     romance

candles burned low, flickering
with hazy phrases, in smoky silhouettes
they breathed feelings into each other’s hearts
shirt and skirt fell
lost to rose petal words now covering the floor

at each step
boards creaked
slow grinding sound

it was humid prickly, August itching hot
gentle lightning linked their fingertips
                     love
                                                    — a scent of rain

they were a thunderstorm crammed in an attic
             anticipation crackling
             the chemistry of latent flame

she leaned against the bedpost
              beside the window
              wrapped in shadow
              profiled against the moon

her hip glistened
wet chocolate painting her moist from breast to thigh
silver light hugged her curves
bending to break the law
adding to her glow — aura of spiritfire

at each breath
sweaty chest hairs twinkled
a dew-frosted forest on dark mountains

slowly
he dragged his hand across his chest
    touched fingers to his open mouth

a corona shimmered about his shoulders
cloaking his firm form in divine whisper
love was a radiance
            about him, between them
tongues of passions’ flames flaring —
              a consuming tenderness

their auras merged
embracing them as they ascended to the bed
in shadow they weaved
they danced in the light
lip-reading epic kisses
faces melting into one

— the forecast was for rain

with each sway
bedsprings sang slow string serenades
their quick breath airy percussion —
                         a moist sensuous mist, gathering
his clenched back muscles glistened
etched into shoulders of quivering stone
theirs was a spirited romance
of rigid tongues and gritting teeth
   bodies in trembling frenzy

her back arched
she clutched him
mouth moving in passionate mime
her heart searching his face

beyond their eyes
they saw harbors in the night
tasted seas of raw magic —
they were heartships riding their hot breath wind

to his lockjawed scream
she whispered in his ear
“Your fire burns sweet
                       so hot,
                       so strong
you trigger my typhoon…
..my Goddess…I am a storm…”
she gasped, breath rushing through clenched teeth
“I feel your God
and I know He,
I know you love me…”

her head fell back
to the vocal thunder of love’s seizures
and the splash of rain upon their flesh

by

jamal
ali

© 1987

women speaking truth…

when women talk
they know they speak the truth
women say men don’t feel
                                    not really
& if you’re lucky enough
to find such rare male fruit
you better squeeze those apples —
              get all the juice
before the dream fades —
then make applesauce with the rest

all men feel

the myth is
lust is the fuel
ambition the engine
driving our dreams

all men feel
but the world teaches us
in repeated painful lessons
to keep the secret
to feel, but not show
to hunger, but not be hungry
to love without caring
to care without sharing

stray from this straight & narrow
& you invite your doom
                                  to be less than
                                  to be used
                                  to end up castrated & confused
crushing your dreams

even women wise & wanting
who may seek this mythical breed
often respond with mule mentality
once in the presence of the steed

caution, suspicion, bitter disbelief
their acid bath of test & trial,
                     a test to destruction,
determining authenticity
a living autopsy
                       “let’s see what makes him tick…”

trusting heart over mind
nearly every time
except when faced with her dream,
unable to accept things are as they seem
trusting her eyes over ears
distrusting belief instead of her fears…

“..but maybe…”

the heart cannot show what it contains
when inspected under glass
the heart is a muscle
whose strength isn’t measured in gyms,
whose size cannot be seen

for a man,
his heart must be the softest diamond
&                     a cloud made of stone

in the maze of contradictions,
in a sea of ache & ecstacy
simple drowning would be a gift

all men feel
their passion held in check

wise women,
when you speak,
discover new truths
cultivate rare fruits
that they may multiply
to sweeten others’ lives

by

jamal
ali

© 1991

Toe/Foot: toes 2 the feet

i dreamed about your toes last night
                              tootsie roll toes
                              cocoa beans with toenails
                              precursors to African soles
                              presto pedal digitation —
black magic

woman
when you put your foot in it
in N’awlins
they speak of mojo an’ such…

but this ain’t ’bout Jo
or                        his toes

see, this is about a little woman i know —
                       a kola nut candy treat
she has feet like musical instruments —
a subtle brush
or firm caress
kneading arches
rolling the ball of her foot…

..and the sounds i get —
the breathless music —
     sighs and moans
     cries and groans
     a capella artistry the Muses never dreamed
     bipedal ecstacy like you’ve never seen…

to fondle
to taste
to nibble her sweet fudge feet
the savoring of her precious chocolate foot fingers
this is her fervent plea
add honey, champagne, soft sherbet, whipped cream —
any or all would answer the call of her feasting fantasy

…words were the way into her heart
but the route to her libido
runs by way of her toes…..

i knew feet were a form of transportation
but it seems my experience was far too pedestrian
to explain such sensation
              such passion
i suppose
from the talented tender blending of fingers, oil & toes…

her rapture is gospel —
                   head shakin’
                   tambourine quakin’
                   slammin’ her hand on the bed

you’d have thought she was somewhere in church
                                     testifying true,
but she was writhing in the sheets
instead of bouncing on the pew

rubbing her feet,
i know now how Aladdin must have felt
when he first saw his genie appear
from a few casual strokes of his hand

and, my beloved is no less compliant
                         lying limp
sheathed in a fine film of passionate perspiration
&             the sheen of afterglow

any question
every suggestion
is met with swift mumbling consent —

  “..yeah..uh-hunh…mmmm, right…sure…anything…”

lips & cheek in unconscious twitch —
endless echoes in musical body language
like the way the big gong vibrates
long after the sound is gone…

i approached her barely breathing form
her cloth moist and warm in my hand
i chuckled to myself,
as i began my tender task,
at the song starting on the stereo —
Michael Franks’ tune “Popsicle Toes”
which is just what she would have asked…

  “..yeah..uh-hunh…mmmm, right…sure…anything…”

by

jamal
ali

© 19 november 1992

Ulterior Romance

he saw
he loved
she saw possibilities
           flaws, naturally
but those could be fixed
                        tidied up

clothed in his emotional combat fatigues,
the pursuit began
assaults on fortress walls of demure denial
promising picnics filled with anticipation
wish sandwiches spread with maybe’s
alluring invitations evaporating into the future

without his combat fatigues,
he was defenseless in his underwear
          comic
          sympathetic
          moldable
          a horse who needed no saddle
                    who turned on request without a bridle

with reins in hand
she had the horsepower to build a nest,
                                           the nest of her dreams
she walked ahead
dangling carrots
directing the force of her former fear

complacency,
adding spurs to her tongue,
doubled the load of tasks each day —
building their world in her image

when at last he balked,
                 spurs flashed
                 reins were snatched
                 carrots withdrawn

he snarled
    grew fangs
& was damned for not fulfilling the masquerade

she having forgotten
lions don’t wear saddles

by

jamal
ali

© 1989