WINTRYPOET

I was born into a world devoid of ambitions and skills.
My youth passed with little laughter or joy.
Schooling taught me nothing but ancient, forgotten history.
I paved the path to college and fell fast asleep.
I worked hard and held good jobs,
Yet my money seemed to disappear.
I set out to find love and romance,
And found only heartache and despair.
When I read some verses, I knew myself.
Then I wrote some verse, and I found myself.

©Habib Dabajeh

THE UNKNOWN SCRIBER

When I reached the age of ten,
I began versing a life of laughter and tears.
Words were stitched together, over and over again,
And beauty was created in silent revelry.
I compiled a wealth of verses through the years,
And the curious would ask, “But who is Wintry?”

From my heart the sweetest sound rings,
But fools were skeptical and questioned me.
All night and day my poor heart sings,
Weaving the melodies of joy and woe.
I sang of youth, innocence, love, and beauty,
But none cared for the passion my verses show.
“Wintry,” My heart cries, “Don’t heed foolish men;
They have eyes for naught and cannot see!”
And truth has spoken–how can they know,
Or even grasp the beauty I cause to flow?
So I remind those silly sap heads now and then
Of the beauty that I create with my heart and pen.

©H. Dabajeh