I
Waiting endless months calculated with precision at nine,
The mother patient, accepting, with a reluctance to pine.
Expectantly, she sits on the edge of the horizon,
To witness first-hand the slow movement of time.
Behold, a shooting star streaks across the heavens;
Then falls down to earth sprinkling stardust afar,
Under pale, ancient moonlight, the earth door ajar.
II
A thousand years decline such an infant to compose;
The infant face sleeps her first morning’s doze,
No human thought can fathom such mysterious repose.
Small white bubbles form at the edges of her nose,
Her sleek black hair curls into petite bows.
As delicate and miraculous as a newly budding rose,
With beads of dew nestled between her little toes.
III
The father holds the squirrely body in gorilla paws,
The bonneted head held securely in his gentle claws.
He raises the swaddled infant into the window light,
As though making an offering to nature of this infant sprite.
Instead he whispers Quran’ic verses into those delicate ears,
Of the one God who has given her the precious gift of life,
The one true Reality to sustain her through turmoil and tears,
The living spirit in her heart as a support across the years.
IV
Fallen down from heaven at the appointed time,
Before the tiring mother could utter a feeble whine,
Just as casual and thrilling as an echoing rhyme,
Tightly wadded, the unmapped face reflective of the Divine.
A bundle of joy name Arfa, meaning sublime;
Pinched features pucker, her breathing a rhythmic chime.
Emotions of discomfort and delight shaping the soft skin,
Like moody butterflies buttressing against the wind.
V
Here is a full life not yet lived,
Nine months in the womb, now ready to give.
Free like a caterpillar abandoning its cocoon,
The day-old infant is fearfully made and wonderful to behold.
An old soul in a young body if truth be told.
Smelling of sweet cream down to her fingers and toes,
Created out of love like the petals of a rose,
With a destiny to live that no one can suppose.
This is truly meaningful and engaging, John. You have reminded me once again of the magnificent experience of the birth of my three children. One tends to forget. Thank you for the reawakining. Love and peace to you,
The beauty of the baby is difficult to describe. But you have done a beautiful job in doing it.
While reading, I have great difficulty understanding why so many babies born under Islam in places like Syria are faced with such horrendous hardship caused by religious fervor. Almost a life not worth living when one is torn from one's home to avoid being tortured and killed merely by believing one way or another. Aren't all these children the same? Or do some follow Mohammed better than others?
Taking the birth from conception and up until the miraculous birth speaks volumes to the reader. Ahhh . . . But it is the afterbirth of joy and tenderness which molds the infant over the years to be all that she can be. Very well articulated, John.
A wicked Cajun Fairy named Robes Pierre entered the impenetrable Magical doll land of Sha Bebe. Queen Faustina, the ruler of the doll land, thought she had destroyed him, but he's back! Will the doll land survive his evil ways?
Regis
While reading, I have great difficulty understanding why so many babies born under Islam in places like Syria are faced with such horrendous hardship caused by religious fervor. Almost a life not worth living when one is torn from one's home to avoid being tortured and killed merely by believing one way or another. Aren't all these children the same? Or do some follow Mohammed better than others?
Ron