Your whistle gives sound, but only that.
Do I not make you want to carve a reed flute and play a chord?
Summer nights aren’t easy.
I can manage a park bench by sitting in its center,
but swan boats can never be for one
Peace & Blessings,
Karima O.
poetry
Tired with eyes wide open
It is very late, or very early, whichever does not matter. I drank coffee late because I could, I don’t always care for what’s logical. Although I’m awake and very tired, I accept the fatigue and take from it what I can. In the quiet hours, I toss and turn with ideas. On nights like this, such ideas don’t slip into the darkness of my shut eyelids.
This is a poem I wrote 5 minutes ago. Usually I’d wait to see if what I write can stand the test of time, but right now, I don’t really care. It’s 3am and inhibition doesn’t really work like it would at day. Days are for holding back because we fear how things may be perceived. The night is for not caring because things simply are as they should be & even if our eyes are wide open, chances are we’re too tired for questioning.
I cannot steer your ship,
but I will send my message through the fish
And if before reaching you the fish is eaten,
I will look up and raise my oath for the eagle
And say someone shoots this bird,
then I’ll tell the herdsmen to spread what
they’ve heard
About my concern
about how I yearn
...for the one I have not met
but whose affections I hope to earn
When you get my message,
do not send one back,
just come to the coast
...so that you may see
If what I offer is what you need
Peace & blessings,
Karima O.
Doqon
Do not exaggerate.
Will the entire carpet unravel from a loose thread?
No, unless you pull it for days.
Which you won’t, for you’ve got obligations and a need for rest.
Carry on. The chatter is meek.
Why are you still standing there?
Can you not see beyond the folly?
Has the inferno’s keeper made your ground sticky?
In the distance, beyond the hills, are more hills.
You will not see the hills beyond the hills because
you do not like to travel, gossipers never do.
They are not used to traveling because they never bother with seeking to find the truth.
Peace & Blessings,
Karima
Accent
The Colorado School of Medicine has published this piece in Volume 13 of the Human Touch Journal. If you are interested in this poem and others like it, you may read more in my new chapbook “Socdaal”. The link for purchase is under the poem. I hope you enjoy it.
***
Accent
You may ask me to repeat myself,
but must you furrow your brow?
I split my tongue to speak to you.
If you care to know, I’ll show you how.
Watch.
Down the middle of this pink sponge, there are peacemakers.
They don’t have to work hard when the listener knows of laxoox and ghee,
but when it’s you,
this pink sponge expands and shoves against my teeth.
The sponge splits you see?
The left is sharp with its grammarian formalities,
and as for the right, well it retreats to familiarity,
to laxoox and ghee.
The two are not yet used to each other,
so they tangle and delay delivery.
Watch.
The peacemakers will declare unity.
They will march down the middle
and pull from both the left and right forcefully
They will then sew the two so tight, you will not see the red that trickles,
but I will taste it, the iron, the trial, I will taste it.
When speaking to people like you I always do.
So, spare the furrowed brow just because you’re confused
I’ll repeat myself,
but don’t you forget,
I must split my tongue just to speak to you.
https://www.blurb.com/b/10067634-socdaal
Dirir
When a new age calls,
let yesterday be the kerosene
for your lamp, today
No longer must the wind carry you,
you’ve proven to know your way
I never could trust what I could not see
but I borrowed heaven’s eyes
and found relief
I saw rain clouds in the congregation
and I saw one that stood out
You did not invoke fear with a show of lightning
or boast of your worth with thunder
you were in the sky and grounded,
praiseworthy yet shy in your wonders
Through heaven’s eyes,
I watched the nomads honor your return
With every rainy season, you were generous…
but the dry season always followed
I wandered after you, hoping to observe
how you spent your time alone preparing for tomorrow
But they cut my time short, heaven’s eyes were due…
so I gave them back and lost sight of you
When a new age calls,
bury hope in the lobes of your heart
and carve your confusion into stone…
toss them to the sea
and let the waves stir
With your maker’s will,
clarity will come to shore
Peace & blessings,
Karima O.
Protect Yourself
Like the wood anemone that grows in bounty,
she widens her spirit with a rolling pin & throws it out the kitchen window.
Letting it roam vast oceans and municipal roads,
deciding for itself whom to love and where feels like home.
After days of unassisted travel, her spirit boomerangs back
& splats against the kitchen window.
She smiles, knowing that her spirit feels most honored behind the ribs in her chest,
not imprisoned, but guarded against the ills of the world’s unrest.
Peace & Blessings,
Karima Osman
V
how beautiful are the birds that soar in a V through the cotton candy sky?
how forbearing is the leaf that holds to its branch irrespective of the wind that wants it damned in flight?
what good are tears that don’t bring resolve or relief to the desiccated parts of the heart?
Stop expecting from them what they haven’t learned to give.
Don’t nurture another’s potential when you can manifest the validation you crave from within.
Peace & Blessings,
Karima Osman
The Pangs of Love
When the steed of my heart aches in weariness,
slit its throat with the sword of your tongue.
Move me with your wisdom, I can handle it despite that I am young.
Allow my blood-soaked sins to trickle into the river of purification.
Then bring your lips to the incision you made, and with your affection, make the pulsing pangs of this world dissipate.
You’re never too far for me to feel,
but if the cries of my steed prevent me from hearing,
call to the wind and convince her of all the goodness a union like ours could bring.
& if we are deserving, she will whisper your message to me.
Peace & Blessings,
Karima Osman
👁
In the desert of my soul, I know there is truth.
It may be hard to find, hidden in the sand dunes.
But if the wind that carries my faith is strong,
then the weighted grains of desires will fall,
leaving uncovered, the light that I’ve searched for all my life.
Now that I have it, my ankles shrink slim and free
from the chains of why’s and what is or isn’t meant to be
the clarity is blinding
…Now that I have it, how should I handle this?
*sigh*
I hold back on writing to you because enough people give you praise.
What weight would my words hold? What difference would the ink of my love make?
I hold back on writing to you because I want from you the devotion I’m too tired to give.
At a command, a branch will not offer a fig. One must pull and work for it.
So, won’t you work for this?
I’ve already reasoned with your shortcomings.
New curtains have been hung, and the Turkish cupboard has been dusted.
For you, I am ready.
I would dream of you but the moon is a woman and she won’t let me.
I have learned not to rest in a home built from strings of words.
Periods prove no point, exclamations marks don’t excite me, and
a grammarian’s suitcase does not have enough commas
to embrace me when your promises fall short.
I hold back on writing to you, because your heart isn’t ready to listen.
The Ink of the heavens now rests, so when our timing is rightfully positioned, make an offering to me with conviction.
Peace and Blessings,
Karima Osman
(Y’all this shit right here is mad corny, don’t know what got into me)
Nomadic Intuition 