A little bluebird came by sound
And why it was I did not know,
But after time, talk, looking around…
I thought I thought it through.
I did not know it, but this house
Was the sort with birds about.
So it goes,that this bird throws
This thinker for a think about.
I’ve been recently interested in writing children’s poetry, so a couple days ago I was unusually in the mood to writing something happy, and this happened.
One day I sat in a wooden frame
That I found in the attic,
And as I thought all stills the same,
I set out to frame some music.
And what trouble did it seem,
To make this fancy true,
That I didn’t think of a likely thing
And think of a window!
So I took a hammer and the frame
And thought of every sound
That never could be heard in dream,
But could be by a window found!
I dedicate this poem to siti (my grandmother) who spends long hours by a window reading the Quran, or watching us children play. I love her greater than life.
Sparrows are bells strung
In the unending celebration
Hidden in the wind.
And the wind recites
A thousand pages,
Of a thousand olive trees.
And the olive trees
Drink the sweat
Of my father.
And he holds me.
In his arms still…
As the arms of Palestine.
-Abid
So I wrote this very briefly and didnt think to revise it. It was a result of happiness and relief I felt so briefly in this valley of our struggling reality. Its free as verse gets, and I really like it, Id like to think of it as an entire moment of confession and submission to the honesty of joy. But you may think what kind of joy is this, this joy is hope. So, I hope you enjoy it 🙂
This is a picture of hope I took on the wall in the West Bank.
Where can I find the moment
Spared amongst my words,
That can echo through my chest
Never spoken, never heard?
Where can I seek that refuge,
Open as the rays of sun,
That my spirit may bear
What a prayer has done?
What tree shall spring from these lands
Like the eager waters of the sea
And yield its blossoms, as if hands,
Pleading heaven for its tears.
Shall it yield its branch to Earth
As truth listens to nature’s plead
And in our heart its secrets birth,
Though will we …have agreed?
A stranger has left my town
Leaving the skies tired and gray,
And pine bristles to softly sound
As the wind chased him away.
He left for us a chill that settled
Hushing all that wake to song,
And an emptiness that meddled
In the human breath for long.
Even so outside I took
A little afterward walk.
Beside the keeping brook
I listened to a little talk.
Where I’m sure I listened to
A story silence covered…
A gentle truth that few knew
In this stream of his lingered.
What is the purest scent?
When a warm breeze divorces
Itself from the spring canopy,
Upon it sails the parfum of a flower
That is the shape of my soul.
When a day was just like so
And made still of stubborn crow,
I had thoughts I couldnt lose,
So they say of summer blues.
I then set out to find a friend
Out where our pastures end
And I found him where he stayed
Neath the oak that even’n swayed.
Where our younger days would walk
There wed have time taken talk,
There our thoughts met our dreams,
There they fell, lost by no means.
Shall birds sing away the mornings?
Will the trees converse…the days?
Can the carols of oh so few
Crickets sooth the nightly disdains?
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Tell me not this band’s old musing,
For what good did it do…they,
Who listened lifetimes over, and
Left bodies to take the place of clay.
As you fall beyond the west,
Beyond the plains and ridges rest,
Take what of day was true,
And make gems of morning dew!
Let the young robin sing
To tell his slumber’s dream
Let his notes soar and string,
The melody of a morning stream!
ahorsealone 
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