BALLETO. From his apartment he peered into Bishop Ballet School. There she was. Just warming up. He liked the way she stretched her feet. He had been profiling her for two months now. Could be a great dancer, he thought as he lowered the high powered binoculars. The tiny skirt hanging from her waist. He remembered as a kid listening to his idol James Brown, imitating the soul walk in his room. His wrist watch buzzed and he jotted down what she was wearing.
What was happening now?
It seemed as though the young girl was staring out of the window. At him. He quickly ducked and continued watching her from a knelt position. Tears were running down her cheeks. Her blue eyes looking helpless. No one makes her cry. The teacher was shouting at her a bit too roughly.
Don’t worry, tonight we will dance.
He laughed at the sight of a young boy dancing amongst the girls. Where he was from, boys sold drugs and ran from the cops. He turned away from the window, playing a video in the recorder. James Brown appeared on the screen. It was a Teach Yourself How to Dance video and it was his favourite. He spent hours as a kid practising, practising and practising more dance moves. Do the soul train!
Back to the girl, maybe he could teach her a few moves tonight. He had been planning this night for months and finally it was going to happen. The lower part of his body tingled. It had been years since the last time he had abducted a young girl.
Ballet…ballet…ballet
I saw in her eyes love and fear,
But her soul was yearning for respect
She let the men speak to her as if she was the value of a penny
The so called males that brain washed her with the notion that they were superior
I wish they gave her an oscar for being so naive
Never have I seen such beauty with such low self-esteem
I took her hand and told her,
Dear sister Respect Yourself!
Waking down the street
Past the Masjid
I'm rushing to school
To not go in
Does not seem odd at all
Sad to say,
I'm so busy
Finishing my exams
Pursuing a degree
Talking to girls
To not read the Quran
Does not seem odd at all
Sad to say,
I'm so busy
Looking at my beautifal wife
Parents are so proud
Watching my family grow
Looking at my son laughing
So pure so clean
Yet he knows nothing about the Deen
Was i so busy?
Sad to say,
It was a BIG EXCUSE!
It was dawn by the time we made it to the red sea coast. The desert road was a long and painful journey. The reality that there were only a couple of hundred people lifted up my hopes.
Couple of hundred
I know that seems like a big number, but normally thousands was common. We all wanted and searched for the same thing, the same ticket to be smuggled to the West. A gamble for a better life as my uncle once put it.
The sounds of birds filled Bossaso Port. Smugglers were the authority around here, dressed in their army uniform. The fact that there was no government opened up avenues for them to sell drugs and fire arms. I personally did not care what they dealt in, as long as I was on one of them small fishing boats, I was happy.
50 dollars
I remember 50 dollars per person was what the smuggler shouted. Reasonable amount I thought in comparison to how much my uncle told me he spent on shopping at Wal Mart: which was 40 dollars. It’s a bargain. My uncle, he left Somalia just before the civil war, and took residence in the United States. The next step of my journey took us across the sea to Yemen.
Now, I take back what I said about it being a bargain. Just the day before my journey, a boat carrying a family had fondled. It would be a good time to replace the mere word bargain to tragedy. The family was rescued out in the sea by a US vessel and they thanked America for being so close to their seas. While in another part of Somalia, a group of sea pirates were dreading the truth that US ships were just off their coast.
Despite the risks, desperate people are willing to pay smugglers to help them escape violence and poverty. Let’s end this cruel trade of people smuggling.
Smiles erupted on Hilary Dunlop’s face as she stood holding the last tape of her favourite band The Supremes. Dozens of people had adorned on the small 80’s store.
A roomy speaker crooned the trendy hit “Where Did Our Love Go”
“Baby don’t leave me oh baby don’t leave me…”
Hilary Dunlop approached her ginger, slim, well dressed friend Kate Langley and pulled her to the side in amusement.
A trickle of laughter “Check it out. Look at what I found. You can record yourself”
As Kate watched, Hilary pressed the record button on the voice recorder, swinging sideways as she sang along with the speaker, her voice warm.
“I’ve got this burning burning yearning feeling inside me oh deep inside me and it hurts so bad”
Turning around singing recklessly, she lowered the microphone from her mouth.
“What is it Hilary, your water break?” Kate asked. And then with a more clear voice she asked again “Your water break?”
Hilary walked over to the record shelf, “Huck” she called out.
Huck had clean cut blonde hair and was dressed in his college football jacket. As Huck turned around, he put down the tape he was holding. The large bump on Hilary’s stomach had caught him off guard.
“Hilary…I didn’t know you would be here” he said as a short blonde girl cradled his arm.
Hilary’s eyes focused on the girl by his arm side.
“Get in the car” he told the girl while handing her the car keys.
“She’s pretty,”
“You’ve been gone for a long time”
“Did you tell your parents about the baby yet?” she asked as tears ran down her cheeks.
“I got accepted into Yale. I can’t get married”
“But you said you would do the right thing. You promised”
Huck’s voice was more expressive “We’re 17, Hilary. We’re kids”
“Yeah and I am going to have one. You have to tell them” she said.
“I can’t…If they knew about this they would kill me”
Hilary took his hand and placed it over her stomach. “Feel this. Can you believe that? She’s giggling”
“Stop” Huck said while looking around not wanting to bring attention to himself. His eyes also filling with tears.
“What am I going to do?” Hilary asked.
Hands in pockets, Huck took a more direct posture, said “Just give the baby up. I don’t want to be a father!”
The tale goes that a mysterious man would every night cross the Ethiopian border into a neighbouring town in Somalia. Armed with a knife, he would murder the little boys of the village. My father added more logs to the burning fire and stared absently into the flame as it created shadows on his face.
“I will never forget that day I saw him, how he walked coolly into the night.” My father said, his eyes not moving an inch, still focused on the fire.
I had never seen so much disbelief on my fathers face. It was as if telling the tale he was somehow summoning the mysterious man.
“What did he look like?” I asked, moving closer to the fire. Warming my hands. My father closed his eyes then twitched as he opened them. Desperately trying to remember.
“He was wearing a long black trench coat, and his knife was dripping with blood as he walked.”
Listening to the words, I realised that I had never seen anyone in my village wearing a trench coat. Even though my father was sixteen years of age the last time that he had seen the man. I somewhat felt drawn to ask. “How would I recognise him, father?”
I studied my father’s white loose-fitted clothing as he smiled and handed me some popcorn that he was warming on the fire. “Do not worry, son. You will recognise him. I remember his eyes were red as the blood.” Handing me some more popcorn he continued. “A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine told me that the man had been caught by the Ethiopian border control.”
Thank god.
I was pleased to hear that and by my father’s yawning, I knew that it was time to set up the hut. I gathered up the sticks and covered it with cows’ skin. I looked back and noticed that my father was already asleep. He awoke from his quick sleep, shuddering as I patted him. “Is the hut ready?” he asked.
No, no. This can’t be.
I feel back as I stared into his eyes. “Father, your eyes are red!”
I CAN’T BELIVE IT. Mrs Catherine Dervish stropped into the living room. “Take a look at the window, darling.” She shrugged to her husband, Mr Elliot Dervish. Mr Elliot Dervish was a gloomy man and spent much of his time sitting on his arm chair watching old soaps. He followed his wife’s out stretched hand which pointed at the front window. Oh no!
He was accustomed to his wife’s wild outbursts; after all they had been married for sixty years. But the last week she was spending a lot of time staring out of the front window. She swore that she had seen weird people outside their home, just standing there like zombies. As she carried on, Mr Dervish put up the volume trying to ignore her.
“Are you listening to me?”
He nodded, then continued watching his show. She’s starting to look like a zombie, he thought. Her lips were much paler now, and her eyes were wider. “Will it make you happy if I look out of the window?”
She smiled and waited for him to do what he had asked. As he walked to the window, Mr Elliot Dervish tried to remember the conversation he had had with his local doctor. “What can I do?” he had asked his doctor.
“I’m sorry there is nothing you can do, she is going through a late spell of depression. It’s common for woman of your wife’s age.”
Now as he opened the curtain, he gasped in shock. The whole town was standing outside of his home. A crowd was forming and the towns MP, Mr Johansen Rockets was right in the front with them. What the hell is going on here!
He turned to tell his wife, when he noticed she was sitting on his arm chair, which frustrated him even more. “I’m sorry for doubting you,” he said coldly. Sorry was not one of his favourite words, in fact he had only said it three times during their entire marriage.
“What should we do?”
“I don’t know. But one thing is for sure, I’m going to tell them to leave.”
She was surprised her husband was taking control. The only thing he could control was the television remote. She rooted wifely applauses for him as he bullishly walked out of the room like a wild bull. He took a last glance at his wife and mouthed I’ll be back. Then laughed, shaking his head. God, he knew he was funny. He asked the towns MP what he was doing outside his home, but he never spoke. The whole crowd stood silent and after a few seconds, he found himself being hoisted up by the crowd. What are you doing to me?
Then the chanting started. “He can taste your fear!”
He ran so graciously, swerving past the opposition. Constantly keeping an eye on what was happening behind him, not wanting to be marked. Then the crucial pass, just him and the goalkeeper now. This is it. But he dives.
“What did he do that for? Why didn’t he just shoot?” Philip Green shouted at the giant flat screen television showing the FA Cup final. He glanced to his left, pulling out a cigarette. The pub was packed tonight. “Have you got a lighter?”
The man to his left looked to be in his late sixties, wore a grey blazer embroidered with a badge that read Grumpy Old Man, and the remains of his ginger hair seemed to be piercing out of his head. As the old man reached into his pocket, he seemed to be hurt. “Here. I can’t move this arm, you see.”
My lucky day. This made what Philip had to do easier. “Thanks, what happened to your arm?”
“A stroke, two years ago.” He looked around the pub. “So, I see you’re watching Manchester united in a Chelsea pub,”
Philip laughed, exposing the Manchester united jersey under his striped shirt. “What do you think gave it away?”
Philip green had been planning this occasion for three months. Acting like a friendly stranger was part of his plan. He actually knew more about this old man, named Michael Ferdinand than anyone else in the pub. He knew from his so called research that Ferdinand was born in Dublin, his wife had died five years ago, and subsequently because of her departure his own health had deteriorated. He didn’t want to kill this old man, but this was his job, and the pay was good.
Some rich Russian man wanted this man dead, and he was the man to do it. The pub was too crowded for him to make a move; he needed to think of a next move. Stage two as he liked to call it, when someone touched his shoulder. It was Ferdinand. “What’s wrong, mate? You seem to be thinking a lot.” The old man said, sliding him a pint of beer. “It’s on me.”
He definitely felt bad now. The old man seemed to be a good guy, someone that he could befriend. Even brought him a drink. For that, he would spare him the torture. He smiled as the old man burped, then watched as he jotted down something with his good arm. What was he doing now?
“Are you jotting down your number for the waitress?” Philip smirked. He continued watching till the old man stopped writing on the napkin.
“I want you to read this out load,”
“Sure.”
Taking the napkin from the dangling hands of the old man, he stared at the child like handwriting, and read out load. “I know who you are and that you were paid to kill me. Do not make any sudden moves. We will leave together through the front entrance. My driver is waiting for us outside. If you do not comply, I have my pistol pointed at your chest.”
What? This couldn’t be happening.
He stood up, trying to laugh it off. After all what could an old man with one good arm do? “Is this a joke?”
Swoosh, Swoosh.
What was this feeling?
He suddenly felt his body go cold, his eyes almost sleepy. Then the trickles of blood, oozing from below his right breast.
This is how it must feel like to die.
Because I’m surrounded by misery
I shove my fears,
So they can’t get next to me
I keep running for peace,
But these occupiers want war
Won’t someone wash away their plague?
Feelings of emptiness,
Blocking deserted streets
Almost blind,
Not wanting to see destruction
Searching for a way out
My one lifeline, my passport taking me abroad
Won’t someone wash away their plague?
If you were blindfolded you couldn’t comprehend
How would you feel?
If occupying tanks came around your bend
*FREE GAZA*
This was like an experiment, I wrote the first thing that came to mind in response to the items. I find it interesting that normally, its our first thoughts that we judge something or someone by.
Changes?
A part of life
Violence?
Justified in the search of peace
Police?
Usually disobey the law
United Nations?
A pointless meeting
Pain?
When the Ummah hurts
Poetry?
Expressing the beauty of life
Parents?
The reason I am here
My people is all about peace
Preach violence,
And we will turn on you
Live amongst us
Do wrong,
And we will clasp you
Hold you for your actions,
And observe you for your words
Because like I said…
My people is all about peace
My love for you words can’t express
When the lanes kept me
Instead of a overdue speech
You taught something new
How can I repay you?
This is barely a thank you
Just a drop of my gratitude
You deserve a river
Flowing across my heart
The ripple creating a smile,
On your gentle face
It’s a privilege to be your son
After writing alot of poems, it was about time that i dedicated one to a special person, my mother. Peace
I am a screen and shaped like a box. I have no heart.
Whoever switches me on, I hook immediately
I continue influencing, unnerved by preconception
I can be truthful, at the same time deceitful
Regularly I await the arrival of my spawn
It is silver, with buttons. Without it I would not be whole
Like infrared it connects to my heart. And makes me flicker
Now I am music. A child dances to my pleasant sounds
Fulfilling a set of movements. A new dance
Sliding backwards, notoriously resembling a moon walk.
I observe her, and mirror her joy
A change in transmission and deathly howls
I realise music is important to her, I instantly play a new song
In me she has invested considerable time, and in me a detrimental force,
Rises like the sun each time I am switched on,
Hooking viewers like an addiction.
Before I wrote this poem, I wanted to do something different and unusual. So, I chose to write about an object that we spend huge amounts of time in front of, the television. Of course, the television, in moderation, can be a good thing, but I wanted to present a different side to the argument, and I felt that the best way to do that was to write from the point of view of the television with a conscious. Writing from that POV makes the poem that bit more light hearted.
I shall return. I shall return
My country calls for me
On paved roads, I shall walk
To a golden, renovated capital I shall land,
Hosting embassies representing other foreign nations
I shall return to the villages,
And realise one of my dreams
The milk of the camel dripping from my mouth
The surrounding sound of the call to prayer,
Flooding my ear drums with ambient joy.
To the citizens back home, dear auspicious residents,
That live amongst anxiety, however retaining simplicity
For we face the same worry in the west.
I shall return. I shall return
To prolong my pain, that with each day
My country calls for me.
