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

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