Hours of Feeling

 

Hours of Feeling By: Husam (Sam) Salman

That was so many lifetimes ago… How many breaks of day Have your eyes greeted mine Emotions remained unspoken Bleak thoughts of “us” in tomorrow Spilled form veins, listless on the floor Hemorrhaging any possible future Together Only a memory remained Of standing there, pillar-like, beside Me Caught glimpses of my fawning Like I had no game – a newborn To dating – Mouth and Heart Gushed openly I stand past the shores of old And wade into the rising tide of  New beginnings. My travel buddy - the hand-of-fate Endless, the ventures await.   To use in my New Babylon? Only time will tell.

Ballads and Ballerinas

Ballads and Ballerinas    By: Husam (Sam) Salman

Hum me a tune of long days ahead While the man by the lunch truck Is shooting dice and speaking Spanglish, Red Jordan’s seems to have snake-eyes I don’t know if that’s a good thing, but he takes money from his honcho’s hand Laughs and rolls again. More words fly into the lunch truck At jumbled speed – circuslike With hands in pockets wielding The bills solution A day’s long hours are cut By the sounds of devices and horns Spilling in from streets through Open warehouse door Notes of humming drift in Signifying the feelings of the time And the closing of another day.

Of My Life

Of My Life

By: Husam (Sam) Salman

 

In the backyard, next to the trash barrels, my dog

relaxed – stretched her paws out as though

she were leaping while lying down.

In her spectacular dream - that we call life,

she’d casually glance over to see if we were

staring.  The wag lets us know she saw us
seeing her.

 

It’s a casual autumn day, October

it’s been over 10 years since I’ve started

my journey.  My friend holds my hand 

reassuring me that tonight’s show will be

“Fabulous!”

 

My nerves ride like waves crashing

Mediterranean in size, ebbs with dim wishes,

the maelstrom, the end game, the worried trek

and the final blow. Runway.

 

Beyond the skyline

like cattle being herded

down the boulevards

we drive just as fast.

 

Outside, on my rug-covered patio,

Stefano smokes his “last” cigarette.

Inside, I dive head first into a cup of coffee,

deciphering the future with every drop.

 

 

Part of my mind wants to be a child

again; to go back to that moment in time,

so that I can throw my dog the ball

one more time, to have her eyes fix

on us once more and the wagging

pleasure that ensues, and comedic

reluctance to get up at all.

 

The other part is happy I’m growing up.