A Poem I wrote For a 3 day Old Baby

I Visited the little princess ( a baby girl) and her amazing mother this evening, as soon as i got back, i had to type down some of what i saw. The mother is a first time mother, and the way she held, cherished, talked, laughed and cried with her baby was beyond words.. I had to write this down and dedicate it to My beautiful Friend, the mother, and her bundle of Joy.. Little Arwa. This was a poem from the spurr of the momment, i was captivated by the emotions that overwhelmed me. its not edited, not refined.. Its just a Poem of Pure Emotions, felt at that very momment seeing them together for the very first time :) So excuse any inconsistences in any infrastructure of the Poem.

God bless them both!

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My Bundle of Joy,
Your little hands,
Hold my world
And because of you
I touch the end corners
Of the perimeter
That Bound
Mortal Happiness

When Life was breathed into you
A new life was breathed into me
And when you opened your eyes for the first time to the world,
My eyes also opened to a different world
A whole different world
Simply Because,
You are in it.

My love
I hold you now
In the embrace of my arms
So tiny
So fragile
Don’t you know,
Little one
That it is you who holds me
In the embrace of you
The beautiful Body, and soul of you
The very tiny heart of you
Quietly thumping against my chest

A reminder of a life
So precious
So Generous

You are my gift
My blessing

In you I find my self
The best person I can be
In you I find my self
My perfection

You are
My perfection

My joy
My life

I love you
Simply
For breathing
The same air that I breathe

I know then
That I share the same air
With an Angel

God's Angel
An Angel
I can call
My own

Hope, for a poet.

Like thick clouds, overwhelmed.
Pregnant with rain,
Cold, heavy and unforgiving
They Plow the earth,
And reveal her secrets-
Extract it from the depth of her womb,
And they breathe, wail, and die.


Baptized sinners,
Flee from the glaze of the sun.
They are Kings of golden courts,
And the blood smeared on their hands, becomes wine.
And everybody,
Loves deep, red wine
In golden chalices.

Entombed, the living- in houses made by the dead
The Mocking bird is killed,
The ravens flock the empty gray hills,
They feast tonight on the flesh of those condemned of insurgence,
Insurgence to live,
Not to bow.

Speak to me of heroes
Speak to me of the dead
Where are they now?

. . . .

What you just read, is the result of staring at a blank windows page, not really thinking, and just..allowing myself to go tip-tap on the keypads.

I read it again, it has meaning. but it doesnt make any sense to me now. My head is a turmoil of frustrated thoughts..

It has meaning. I know it does, and it is grand. My writings, contrary to my imperfect human self, is grand.

Whats so scary.. Is that sometimes, i feel, as writers/poets, we are a tool. Just a tool. What comes from us can be the birth of somthing so.. grand. that we dont understand it at first, but reading it again, the words it self tells us a story.

We are tools.

And i am both scared,
And humbled.

Shout-outs to the UAE poets out there, You.. are beautiful. and i miss you all.

Lofecake, My dear- a special shout out to you! I miss you so freakin much its causing me physical pain lol!( notice the passionista of an arian :P)