Soldier Come Home

 

Talk back to a poem-Red wolf Poems

After John Michael Flynn                                                 

Soldier Come Home by (Hala) Al-Logaha Hand

 

It is an ace of spades

Cankerous heart

A fire escape into believer’s bewilderment

Dance and drink into the danger zone

Seized by the collar I divide into incessant wonder

Poverty claims crimes of the mind

Yearning currents deliver the mastermind of core belligerence

Help me pump the gas back to the horse’s stables

Economize sharing

Dreamer is necessary-walking the plank of desire

Eat at an Automat-write like the wind

Of friend of the unwanted

Hill sounds ring in my ear and I long for passionate kisses

What kind of prick would leave us lonely?

Vets for the war of love and peace

You shot me a big bellied glance and I shook my head all the way down home

Blocked ambition keeps me coming back for more

Won’t the river sail my sales and give me peace of mind?

Cherubic leer keeps changing places with the Thor of yesterday

However, never fear for it is dwarfed honor that will save the day and bring the soldiers the love of self so cherished by the unabandoned

Come home young and old-for the sands call your name-relive sanctity and believe in final deliverance

 

Poem Soul take Two

Poem soul by (Hala) Al-Logaha Hand

The irises of soul remain

To speak loudly they say I am crazy

Do they not see that I am burning?

The pages are not yet set into stone for me, they whither against tempered sea shells with an incised moon raging against the machine

I hit the wall

I was insulted for I am a proud woman

I am not a charity case

Would not your blood boil if you sacrificed everything mind, body and spirit just to be loved?

To then be spit out like an unwanted piece of garbage

Who is crazy but the happy feather?

The drifter who always smiles

The trash man searching for a hidden treasure who always helps an old lady crosses the street

Who is the crazy man who bangs metal cans on rooftops at midnight?

Laughs and sings that ‘The man’ will brought to justice

What does ones eye see, except the sandman coming home for a free meal in exchange for a smile that lights the world?

It is beauty in its simplest form

Raining form in fact

Am I not free to be raging against the machine?

Nine inch nails perspective, ha!

How can I push down all that grows inside me?

My body is barely a strong enough vessel to hold me

I explode then I laugh from deep within the confines of my heart, I keep no grudges, I always forgive and forget

Will not sense and sensibility still apply to me?

Cannot I be sane even when it all rains down on me?

Poem Baby

Poem Baby

I am water works raining on a cloud

I feel my limbs weak with jealousy

The baby in my arms feels love even though she isn’t mine

She strikes a chord within my tender proclamation

I feel her loveliness

I walk the blank plank with bastard joy

Today is a day for longing

For going forth into the wild

For seeing a child’s soft skin remind me of an earlier moment when caresses meant time didn’t have to stop

When all is lost to the wind

When striking clocks reminds of rancor and deeply seated angst

To me my wind chimes alarm thunder

The light breeze brings closeness to a game of chance

A place where the night double crosses itself

Where white dwarf stars remain cold and distant

Diamonds in the sky

Where do we go in the shivering drink of wine of the soul?

Dancing like a whirling dervish

I cry dry tears

Joy ever expanding

Spinning

Spinning

Spinning

Calling out to God

Hear me creator

Grandeur unites

My limbs fall down as I unite body with spirit

I step outside sanity

Will not the adorned wizard let sorcery drink felt pens?

Ink of despised menace

I dream

When I wake it is not reality that I find but a sense of searching

I fall as my eyes remain stapled shut

Will not the tempered individual divide?

What can provide further suspense but a pondering belief that all is good in the world?

Some say God does not exist

But I say look at my womb and how hormones fuel my fires and you will have all the proof that you need

That a creator divines insolence and a devil drives money to the root of all evil

We are all one in the end

Division isn’t permanent

I say it once and for all; I will always believe that all will be well in the end and for that my friend I say good day and good riddance to negative slamming against the wall

For we shall overcome….

 

Poem Soul

Cooking Time

Lilacs sauté time like a two timing dinosaur boiling his soul

The giraffe scoops up pity and begins to bake a video of non-sensical marinades

Then the plug whips up serenity

While frying seeds for wonder makes muscles cut into integrity

Blowing open windows to make mincemeat of sacred cows and shock dreams that don’t suffocate whims

It builds cuts that stir dominions and leaves horses to heat up a room full of human observers

Passion cows remain

Cats purr

Theory dangles the passion into dangerous dissecting bones

Delivering stones to fly against tea totaling

People are always sipping apple juice to divide castigating against moral ground

Till 8 I weep

I define chopping woods with broken fingers

Tae Kwon Do destruction

To blunder is to go bleeping mad

To whisper mincemeat and sweet potato pie

To blast open envelopes of simple ants that build fantastic palaces of strong indication

A tincture for all the world to see

For nature is to boil eggs into a shaken mind  

 

Cooking Time

Cooking Time

Lilacs sauté time like a two timing dinosaur boiling his soul

The giraffe scoops up pity and begins to bake a video of non-sensical marinades

Then the plug whips up serenity

While frying seeds for wonder makes muscles cut into integrity

Blowing open windows to make mincemeat of sacred cows and shock dreams that don’t suffocate whims

It builds cuts that stir dominions and leaves horses to heat up a room full of human observers

Passion cows remain

Cats purr

Theory dangles the passion into dangerous dissecting bones

Delivering stones to fly against tea totaling

People are always sipping apple juice to divide castigating against moral ground

Till 8 I weep

I define chopping woods with broken fingers

Tae Kwon Do destruction

To blunder is to go bleeping mad

To whisper mincemeat and sweet potato pie

To blast open envelopes of simple ants that build fantastic palaces of strong indication

A tincture for all the world to see

For nature is to boil eggs into a shaken mind  

 

Hot Peppers and Fried Crimson Tomatoes

Hot peppers and fried crimson tomatoes-a little story on food by (Hala) by Al-Logaha Hand

 

In a ceramic tagine frying pan, I take the luscious wet crimson tomatoes and I add fresh lime green hot peppers with laden lukewarm water and I fry. I fry the spirit of me. The aroma is torched by my tie dye dress reeking with Paco Rabbane Million Dollar Lady perfume in this heat and I drift. The aroma is a drifter. I open a window and the scented angel of frying hot peppers and deeply sifted tomatoes permeates my bedroom. My tongue hangs loose and laps up the utterances of understanding. Again, I fry in this African thunder magnitude. My eyes are spread with pitch black kohl, blackened; they divine the future while pondering the pumping of veggies into dinner. My frying pan evaporates dripping hot steam and the flame of the moment prospers. I find gold in these earth bound foods. I sit down to eat at a precious etched wooden table, lingering with a vase filled with fire and ice roses that center my heart. My mouth lingers in its own juices. The sweltering of the hot fried peppers burns my tongue and my blood is ignited into making friends with power tools. I dream up another drifter. Sifted, we remember. Momentous share-cropper ignores. Won’t those tomatoes all dust with lust steal my soul for the devil? No, instead it replaces lust with enlightenment and the power of the sun fills up my anxious belly. I won’t need a hug today. I have fulfilled what it means to be a real woman and my thick thighs realize the ancient dichotomy of surreal rust. Thin is a state of mind, a temporary realization, if not only part of the story. These veggies give me life. I am burning in a house of cards; the tarot reads that luck is just around the corner. Drenched incognito, the replacement soul arrives. Here we go futuristic robot-let the tongue and belly filled with seething African dominance never die and live to tell what it means to exist in a phenomena known as a surrealist dream. Whispering: Moving: Living on Fire.

 

 

Marshaling the Cat dance

 

Marshaling the Cat dance by (Hala) Al-Logaha Hand

Cat brings in a poisonous snake

Yet snake doesn’t penetrate

It stalks like a predatorily giant

Whimpering to the public it cries

Standing on all 4 paws

Embarking on a journey of oneness

The mouse almost always escapes its tempered ways

She is a carnivorous morph

Cat purrs at the courageous strokes of a little princess

Licking her hair she sweats butterflies

Blue

Red

Yellow

Brown

They go to town

Caterpillar is asleep on her seething skin

Metamorphosis

Trans-form-nation

Blame-mation

Striking

Slowly tongue kissing

Cat gets hit on the head with a blatant idea and dies one of its nine lives

It makes gentle love to itself

She drinks warm water and her tongue licks squeaky clean her open wounds from another catfight

It is a spiritual bath on a mountain of striking realism

Magical forest consumes this giant fur ball

We all carry on fighting our beloved

Even cat skin isn’t immune to degradation

Blasted torment

Won’t it stalk a stranger instead?

Geriatric manipulation

So much angst from years of weathering the heights of others’ pissy ways

Cat purrs/drips/sweat laps itself into a shiny coat

Caress her like a tantric lover and she will be eternally yours

Bite her and she will leave monsters in the sheets

Walk the plank and be forever warned

She purrs as she is about to strike her unaware prey

If you’re a mouse-get lost in wonderland

For dinner time changes us all except if your Alice or her cat

Let us not be squandered into the backseat of a tyrant’s car

But butter a fly and gently walk into the naked streets- a purple haired mistress of the night-marrying Siamese and marching as a marshal of integration-a new world order at the height of man-as her pets are perpetually aware that this is not the end but the beginning of strange sounds that go bump in the night