What Cruel God

What cruel god gave man a heart that he
May feel all there is to feel and then
A snap, a break, a yearning to be free
An ending now, with paper set to pen

Your pain is shared now, though you couldn't speak
A January morn, snow deep, wind cold
A gathered crowd and ne'er a wetter cheek
Our breaths were deep, our grief was uncontrolled

With tears unchecked that fell to mud the mound
We recognized our time was but a lease
But in that time, we found our common ground
While you searched evermore for earthly peace

And though we wish your life was not conceded
We recognize you found the rest you needed.

Anchor

I could be your anchor but I'm holding someone else
You think you know me through and through but I don't know myself
And the image that you hold of me
Is only through the lens of what I see

Inspired By Neda

"Neda, please," I begged her, but she would have none of it.
"I'm going out there."
"Please, Neda, the Baseej are out there too! They are looking for an excuse-"
"So we should let them? We should sit back while they shoot our brothers and sisters for peaceful assembly? No." Her eyes glinted dangerously. "We are Iran, and we must show them."
"Show who, show them what?"
"We will show the President. We will show the Supreme Leader. We will show them we cannot be ignored. We are not a small number of dissidents- we are a movement, a wave that cannot be stopped until it crashes upon the rocks."
I frowned. "Getting yourself killed won't mean anything."

Little did I know, it would mean everything.

Neda did go out that day, and the Baseej were out there. Neda wasn't even with the protestors, just watching. But one of the bastards got their shot... and she was in the crosshairs, Allah knows why. By now you have seen the video of my Neda, eyes glassy and without her firery glint, the contents of her veins pumped into the street. Her eyes rolling, lips red with her own lifeblood, oblivious to Rasheed's calls.

"Stay with me, Neda!"

In a way, Neda did stay with us. Her sweet red lips parted for breath the final time that day, lying in that street surrounded by her frightened friends. But she lives on, a rally for those she hoped to encourage by her presence. They cry, marching through the streets of Tehran in defiance, "Remember Neda!"

How could I forget?

Small Town Desires

The narrow alleys
your feet find familiar
worn pavement to brick down below
And the crumbling curbs
that wash to the gutter
in the shadow of the lamp post

And the red on white
and the whitewash on red brick
and brick on the wood beams and stone
While the white houses
with barely-kempt lawns
and wide porches stand all alone

but I need a numbered street
I need a tower
To watch yellow beetles race
at any hour
And a sweet old lady
whose temper turns sour
when we're up 'til 4 AM dancing
when we're up 'til 4 AM dancing

The Past

We are defined by our past. Driven by it. Our successes spur us on, while our failings serve as lessons. Our past is part of who we are, no matter the degree to which we embrace or run from it. Those who would run from their past are fools, for as it is part of us it will always be with us. We cannot remove it; we are irreparably linked to it as we are it. There are times when it may seem a world away, forgotten and lost, but it is always there. And until we come to terms with it, accept it as part of us, we will be forever running from that which we cannot escape.