Six poems from the Egyptian-American thinker/poet, and author of seven well-received books of poetry and prose, who was nominated for Pushcart Prize three times

In the night, the feathery fists came raining down

He ducked and staggered as they landed, again and again,

On his head, neck and across his shaking back

There was no avoiding this relentless retribution

Could it be, these were the familiar hands of his angels

The same strong ones that, throughout his wrong life,

Carried him through innumerable hardships

Cushioning him from nearly crushing falls

The blows continued to hammer down and he ceased 

Trying to avoid what he knew to be his due

Accrued through dismissed warnings and failed promises

He could begin to hear the beating of wings, now

Recognizing, with slow wonder, these fans were also his own

They flapped, like weak devotions, in the dark to shield him

Accompanied by intermittent flashes of a soft blue light

Illuminating the proud army of his divine tormentors.

You’re welcome to a small helping 

of care, a portion of our concern 

Ache, if you like, but don’t cry 

on our shoulder, for overlong 

Please, help yourself and move on

or you may find yourself, abruptly 

at the outskirts of compassion 

by the fence, where barbed wire begins

There is a sign that you can’t miss:

Keep out, it reads, in blood red

“Private territory, trespassers 

will be shot with indifference.”

Young Narcissus 

contemplating your beauty

in a lake of selfies 

I, too, am enraptured 

by your shifting reflections 

updated, regularly 

Please, look away —

lest we both stumble and fall, 

drowning in our vanity.

I ran hard and far

to outdistance my pain

But, when I got lost

my pain found me —

caressed me, wordlessly

and carried me Home.

What is a mystic

but one who swoons,

defenseless

in the face of beauty

A natural believer

in evolution of spirit.

Two types of kisses,

and the choice is yours:

either with burning lips,

that bind and blind

Or a lipless kind,

preparing us to leave

a too-tight skin behind.

I stand, helpless, before

the sensuality of stretches,

but get down on bended knee

for the spiritual variety.

Overnight, your once blessed existence

might reverse course

become an alien thing

and you stand accused

of unspeakable crimes

Never mind, you are innocent

of these base horrors—

as Kafka says, in his Trial,

‘Guilt is never to be doubted’

Be grateful, then

there are still dreadful sins

in our fallen world

of which you are blameless

Now, tell me, how will this crucible

change you? Then show how this

unasked-for crisis is

blessing, allow it to assist

the birth of your longed-for self

Thank God, for this Holy Mess!