National Poetry Month

The Country
by Billy Collins

I wondered about you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice

might get into them and start a fire.
But your face was absolutely straight
when you twisted the lid down on the round tin
where the matches, you said, are always stowed.

Who could sleep that night?
Who could whisk away the thought
of the one unlikely mouse
padding along a cold water pipe

behind the floral wallpaper
gripping a single wooden match
between the needles of his teeth?
Who could not see him rounding a corner,

the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,
the sudden flare, and the creature
for one bright, shining moment
suddenly thrust ahead of his time -

now a fire-starter, now a torchbearer
in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid
illuminating some ancient night.
Who could fail to notice,

lit up in the blazing insulation,
the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces
of his fellow mice, onetime inhabitants
of what once was your house in the country?

National Poetry Month

Facing It
by Yusef Komunyakaa
My black face fades, hiding inside the black granite. I said I wouldn't, dammit: No tears. I'm stone. I'm flesh. My clouded reflection eyes me like a bird of prey, the profile of night slanted against morning. I turn this way--the stone lets me go. I turn that way--I'm inside the Vietnam Veterans Memorial again, depending on the light to make a difference. I go down the 58,022 names, half-expecting to find my own in letters like smoke. I touch the name Andrew Johnson; I see the booby trap's white flash. Names shimmer on a woman's blouse but when she walks away the names stay on the wall. Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's wings cutting across my stare. The sky. A plane in the sky. A white vet's image floats closer to me, then his pale eyes look through mine. I'm a window. He's lost his right arm inside the stone. In the black mirror a woman's trying to erase names: No, she's brushing a boy's hair.

sometimes I mumble

Sometimes I mumble to myself
a simple mumbling
concise and beautiful
full of wisdom

I am not the only one who does this
Bigger than me, many have done this
and still do
But it is different for me.
One, can’t question
the others have no choice
But I, I can sing songs
I can talk on the phone
But I choose to mumble

So let the lookers look
and let the scoffers scoff
I do it out of love
The Truest Love

-Written by me

No Hoes

No Hoes
Originally uploaded by seekerofallah

This is a picture that was taken by a dear friend of mine. It is supposed to say "NO SHOES ON CARPET," but it is funnier this way.

If only I knew what it said...

I'm not sure exactly what is being said in these, but it sounds so beautiful. Thanks to MM for these since he plays it on a continous loop.

PART I

PART II

P.S. I'm on flickr now thanks to the birthday present my parents gave me.

Reflections on the past...

This was written by me towards the end of October in 2003. In March 2004 I embraced Islam.

What keeps a man from believing in god?Stubbornness, pride, fear?I am unsure why I don't but I have nothing in my gut that tells me there is one. Often, I wish I did believe. I feel somewhat empty without it and it would give me something to hope for, an afterlife. Right now, I do not know what happens when I die and for all I know, I simply rot away.

Sophy Burnham said something that really sticks with me and allows me to be patient in my search for a higher power, "To believe in God or in a guiding force because someone tells you to is the height of stupidity. We are given senses to receive our information within. With our own eyes we see, and with our own skin we feel. With our intelligence, it is intended that we understand. But each person must puzzle it out for himself or herself."

Although I'm sure that this will take me a long time, and I may never even find what I search for, I am willing to wait since I'm positive the result will be worth it.