poetry
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God’s against him Roast little baby Don’t you cry He could see dream forms Poison not receding Empty from the laughter inside Graying, aging Old skin and lethargic eyes A thin dog came to him It carried the melody Melody of evil A curious effect on his skin Why is this other poor man So…
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How’s it going? He told the child. I’m going to work, the child replied. The child spoke Almost appearing In a counter melody Do ever steady the boat Looking speculatively Drifting in or complete reality …We catch a breath and moan a little.
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I moaned and sat up suddenly Her eyes wide and her Nostrils flaring for a blood test Sweat formed on her upper lip Where I could see It would be the same deep cleft A consideration to massacre Where streams collected at the tip Lay over this desert country Ahead the stone mountains Looking cool…
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High under a frowning peak, a little spring of thistles sprung out of the rupture of stone. They were fed by the wind, and now and then they thrived completely just like poetry. Poetry is like gasping a little at the size and beauty of life. And when I went out to hold its hand,…
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At last, I handed my worries back to God.And I placed my faith, love, and hope deep within me.Faith, always the foundation of prosperity.Hope, standing still, watching, ready to help when it could,Or to comfort when it could not.And Love, strong enough to conquer the incurable: even hate.For all hatred is, at its root, self-hate.…
Hadi Atallah 