Sharing the Journey, Week 13

Slow with EVERYTHING this week, including late with this post…but continuing in the right direction. I’ve been able to start taking a few small steps with the injured foot this week, for which I’m deeply grateful. It’s still much too shape-distorted and twisted to put into a proper shoe, but even to be able to put it on the floor and have it hold a little weight is something to be deeply grateful for at the moment after a week off of it completely.

I’d mentioned an upcoming two-part issue of very short poems (less than 30 words) at Right Hand Pointing. Here’s the link to the first part of RHP 121 — part II will be available mid-April. Don’t miss these amazing short poems!

At the end of last year, film-maker Marie Craven used my poem “Peace Prayer” as the basis for an exquisite poetry-film. It’s always an honor and a treat to collaborate with Marie, and to see my poems from a different perspective through her lens…she brings them to life in ways that surprise and delight. This week she posted some process notes for three recent films, as well as other recent activities. The post includes “Peace Prayer” along with two other films. Enjoy!

This week, I also received a copy of Until We Are Level Again, the latest collection from poet, editor, educator, and friend José Angel Araguz. For years I’ve read and re-read his poem “Gloves” which appears as the first poem in this collection. And I’ve wanted for years to somehow respond to this poem with a poem. When the book arrived, which was during my rather unscheduled holiday sitting on the sofa this week, I spent a long time staring at the cover (painting by artist Ani Schreiber), then turned to the first poem in the collection, and read “Gloves” again. Then I fell asleep, and dreamed I finally entered the poem in a new way, and from there traveled through many other poems of José’s that I have read, and when I woke up, I tried to chronicle that journey. You can read “Gloves” online here: And here is what I put to paper after dreaming through the poem. The first word in each line of the following piece, and the lines that are capitalized at the end, come from the first four lines of “Gloves”…

Variation on the Theme of “Gloves”

for, and with lines from, “Gloves” by Jose Angel Araguz
I wanted to leave my body temporarily, so I
MADE a prayer for my skin to unzip, let me climb
UP out of it, as if following a rope up out of
A cave, then walked slowly backward through the
STORY you have told me in your poems. I went to see
FOR myself the statue of Selena, to a back room to inhale, for
MYSELF, the fragrance in a coat, to stand at a window
ONCE myself on Clifton Avenue in Cincinnati,

THAT I might continue the wordless letters sent,
EACH place from your poems, I gathered textures, sought a
GLOVE you wore and left behind you there.
I gathered each of these, carefully, in the order they were
LOST or were outgrown and left behind. I

WAS long in doing this. When I’d gathered all I could, I was
SENT back to my body, climbed back down inside, in-
TO a room within me, cleared it completely, emptied the cave in
MY rib cage, made space to assemble packages for your
FATHER. Each of these offerings once protected your hands
IN whatever place you were in. Each place was its own kind of
PRISON. I ache for him to see how you’ve been working free.

– Halima Ayuba (Laura M Kaminski), 29-March-2018

One other poem drafted this week, a gift for a friend who is an aspiring poet who asked for a poem for his birthday, and mentioned poetry is an area of struggle for him. This is what came as a response and offering:

Gift for a younger brother, Mahmoud Abubakar, on his birthday.
Difficulties. What do they
mean? When you say:
I have difficulties
with poetry. When I say:
I have difficulties
with walking. What do
we mean? Is difficulty
not another way
of naming, another
way of saying we
are experiencing
longing? Younger
brother, as you enter
this new year of life,
take a moment, sit
here with me, let us hear
a story, kasa kunne.
When our mothers
carried us in their
bellies, think you their
feet did not swell
with bearing our weight?
Think you their backs
did not ache? And most
surely, when they bore
us into breathing air,
did not our bodies
fight them, even when
we were too small to
know it, did not we
tear them open,
pain them in the many
hours of their labour,
leave them weak
and bleeding? And
from then, our own
stories begin. Do you
remember the first
moment ever when
you were an infant,
helpless, hungry,
crying out without
words about the aching
gnawing in your
belly? Me, I don’t
remember my own
first such difficulties,
but am sure the both
of us were screaming
when we were hungry.
And what about
the first time ever
trying walking? Do
you remember how
far away the ground
seemed when you
first tried to stand?
Or how hard it was
when you fell back
down and bit your
lip and skinned
your knee to bleeding?
Me neither, but I
assure you, younger
brother…you and also
me, we experienced
such difficulties.
We are human.
By definition, these
things happen. But
when you see an
infant taking steps,
struggling and falling,
do you ever think:
Look at that one!
She’s so clumsy! He
will sure be crawling
in the dirt well into
his twenties! She will
never learn to walk
properly or gracefully!
He will never manage
to keep from falling
to his knees! No?
But why not? Why
do we not so judge
the babies when
we see them in such
distress, so clumsy,
screaming, frustrated
by their difficulties?
Is it not because
we trust the living
process? Do we not
automatically expect,
in their case, grace?
That they will, in time,
be growing, will learn
to stand, will learn
to balance, even
the miracle of walking,
running, dancing?
And do we not trust
also that their screams
of longing will grow
less frequent as they
learn to speak? That
they will find the ways
with words they need
to express their
difficulties? So you,
your difficulties you
have with poetry,
at your age, and on
today, your birthday.
And me, the difficulties
I am having again
with walking and falling
as I am approaching
fifty years of living…
you and me, have we
not each lived long
enough, and seen
enough of grace
to at least begin
to trust the process,
trust the One who
“knows what is hidden
in time past and time
future”…does that One
not say “you will
climb from stage
to stage”? Difficulty,
my friend, is merely
this: our longing
for things to happen
on our own schedules,
in time with our own
impatience. We have
had a glimpse
of something greater.
But remember: already
the One has promised
to assist us. Already
the One is running
towards us.
Amin thuma amin.
-Halima Ayuba (Laura M Kaminski), 29-March-2018

Stay blessed!

P.S. Thank all of you who’ve reached out this past week and a half with warm thoughts, prayers, and words of encouragement. I am grateful for your kindness.

Sharing the Journey, Week 12

Some weeks are more challenging than others. The Praxis Magazine Online site was not (online) for a while this past week, although I’m delighted it’s back up now, and our Women’s Day Series posts have resumed. We’re running behind schedule on them now, but we’ll keep on until all the amazing pieces we’ve accepted have been shared.

In poetry news, grateful to have a five-part mini-series of poems appear at Via Negativa this week. (Thanks always to Dave Bonta for giving a home to so many of my poems!) This series is a love-poem of sorts, and you can read the pieces here:

It’s a bit of a spoiler, but only for the first poem…the super-independent narrative persona in the poem begins by falling and injuring herself. And so did I myself begin this week…I lost my balance and caught it on the top of a foot rather than the bottom, and while nothing is broken, the ligaments in said foot have much objected to that treatment, and the doctor at the hospital told me I’m not to walk at least a week. I get around in the house fairly well regardless, one knee on the seat of the walker and the other pushing off like on a scooter, and day one after the fall is through and done. Each day gets better after this. (My physical therapy involves walking about four hours each day, and that’s not going to be happening for four more days…but hopefully I won’t lose too much ground. In the meantime, I probably won’t be online as much, as I need to keep the foot elevated as much as I can.)

So, this leaves me much in mind of a part of Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet:

You are good when you walk to your goal firmly and with bold steps. Yet you are not evil when you go thither limping. Even those who limp go not backward.
Kahlil Gibran

Stay blessed!


Sharing the Journey, Week 11

My friend Siraj and I have something of a tradition of communicating through poems, and recently, he sent me a poem in response to my poem “Anchorhold“… and has given me permission to share his poem here, followed by my response to it.

inspired by Laura M Kaminski’s poem, Anchorhold
for a couple of hours
I watch a boy
a hungry looking boy
holding an apple
he looks at the fruit
as a boys-seeking teen girl
examines the growth
of her breasts. I ask
him to eat his apple
but the boy ask in return
if I would have my god
and eat him away
I look into him and
remember my father
because he’d say
sometimes it is enough
to see what we need
without having them
-Sirajo Illo Abdulazeez (Sabuke)

After several weeks, I was able to respond with this one:

response to and ending
with lines from “enough”
by Sirajo Illo Abdulazeez
if we stop to watch
this hungry boy again
and find he has
still to eat the apple
in his hand, perhaps
we should explore
the entire scene more
closely, from an other
point of view
let this hungry
child who hasn’t eaten
what he most desires
and is holding
in his hand…let
him be our apple, our
miracle of grace
to be examined,
polished, cherished
if we have time, we
may examine him
in four dimensions
and with the three
dimensions given
us for coordinates
in space, plus time
we can look more deeply
and now see
what he is holding
in his hand
is not an apple merely
but all that this
apple has been
and will be
this hungry boy holds
in his hand not just
a single piece of fruit
his open palm
holds an entire tree
roots and branches
a pale blossom
ripening skin, hidden
core and seeds
in four dimensions
this boy is boy
and in time, old man
wrinkled, wisened
holding a tree
and a seed in his
hand, holding the soil
of all seven earths,
holding all the rain
that has ever fallen
on seven continents
holding ice that formed
when an ancient star
inhaled and was
broken open
in four dimensions
this boy is boy
and also infant
and his parents and their
parents and their parents
back to eden, then before
-Halima Ayuba (Laura M Kaminski), 17-March-2018

If you’re interested in reading one of our earlier poetry exchanges, editor Cristina Deptula of Synchronized Chaos has been kind enough to make a home for some of these conversations in poetry. Here’s a link to our conversation in 2016:


As always, thank you for continuing to share the journey. Stay blessed.

Sharing the Journey, Week 10

This week I’ve been immersed in editorial work at both Right Hand Pointing and Praxis Magazine Online. As I mentioned last week, Right Hand Pointing has been inundated with submissions of very short poems (poems under thirty words), so much so that we’ve decided to do two issues during April rather than one. These are amazing selections of poems…I’ll post the links on or about the 1st and 15th of April when the issues are released.

At Praxis, I’ve been curating the Women’s Day Series, a celebration of International Women’s Day (March 08). Beginning March 8th, we’ve been posting a poem and photograph in the series each day, and expect the series to continue through the end of March and perhaps a bit beyond. There have already been some amazing pieces featured, and there are more to come. You can follow along by subscribing to the Praxis Magazine Online email feed if you don’t already receive it; it sends out one email a day with links to what’s been published, and you can always unsubscribe at any time.

I’m deeply honoured to be curating this series, and feeling incredibly grateful to the poets and photographers who have sent in the work that makes this series possible. We don’t receive many photography submissions at Praxis, although we have done several photography chapbooks. Working with the photographers on this series has been a real treat; several have already responded to emergency requests for additional photographs, as I’ve been trying to find just the right photo to go with each poem in the series.

The poems in this series are special…celebrations of women, powerful self-affirmations…and also the more difficult poems: poems speaking out about abuse, poems detailing the kind of advice women get that keeps them in difficult relationships, poems about how difficult it can be to break the cycle of domestic violence. Poems about not fulfilling expectations of what it means to be a woman, whether the expectations of others, or one’s own expectations and longing. Many poems speaking out against traditional cultural confinement of women to the kitchen, each poem with a unique voice, perspective, and protest. Poems of gratitude to and for mothers. And more.

We’ve had submissions from all around the world, and not just from women. I was delighted to have the opportunity to include the title poem from Daniel García Ordaz’s forthcoming collection, Cenzontle/Mockingbird: Songs of Empowerment. I’ve discovered some incredible poets I’ve never read before…and I’ll be seeking out more of their work for my personal reading list.

I’d like to take the opportunity here to offer a personal salute to everyone who submitted, whether or not I accepted your work for the series. Keep writing. Keep speaking up. Keep taking incredible pictures. Keep doing what you’re doing. I appreciate you. I believe you are making a difference in the world. Keep on. Stay bold. Stay brave. Stay blessed.

For a taste of the series, here are links to a few of the Women’s Day Series posts:

You can find others on the Praxis Magazine Online site at:

Thank you for sharing the journey!
Stay blessed.

Sharing the Journey, Week 09

Every journey has milestones. If you don’t know exactly where you are going, or how far, you may see those markers without really recognizing them as milestones or finding them particularly meaningful. And sometimes, the journey you are actually taking is different than the one you thought you were taking; each step of the journey opens up new possibilities, and so each step of the journey is, in essence, the beginning of another journey. My own personal practice of poetry has been like this. I want to use this week’s post to share a couple of milestones on my own journey.

My journey started in earnest about five and a half years ago: On 12-August-2012, I began an active, daily practice of poetry. I didn’t have any clear idea where it might lead. The idea was to read (A LOT) and write (A LITTLE) daily, a ratio of 50:1 pages roughly, and do that for a while and see what happened.

I’ve loved poetry since I was a child, and began committing other people’s poems to memory when I was in primary six. When I was in secondary school, and while first starting university, I had aspirations of being a “writer” of some sort, and remember a dream where someone told me I probably wouldn’t be able to make a living writing poetry. Truth, although I remember as a young teen resenting that information, taking it as a judgment of the quality and importance of my writing rather than as it was intended…a general truth about supply and demand economics as far as poetry goes.

As a general rule, this is true. Nigerian performance poet Dike Chukwumerije is the hardest-working, most beautiful and deserving exception to this rule that I know. His poetry celebrates diversity, transmits history and lessons learned from it, provides a living, breathing, laughing, weeping, hope-instilling chronicle of what it means to be Nigerian…the difficult heritage, immediate necessities, and future possibilities. Recently, Dike and his team took the Made In Nigeria / Simply Poetry show for their first performance in the northeast, in Maiduguri. After the show, this is what he had to say about it: And after I read this, I felt compelled to engage in a centuries-old Hausa tradition and compose a praise-song in honour of his visit. Which resulted in this:


I dreamt I’d been leaning against a window
during a lesson, had fallen asleep and somehow

fallen through the opening into an outside
I didn’t recognize. There was only one kind

of plant here. Every single thing with leaves
was all this one same species. And only one

kind of lizard. And one kind of bird. Gone
were the kingfisher, cormorant, and chicken.

Gone were the kite, parrot and the river
eagle. Only this one kind of bird was here.

It was as if heaven had lost its all of its
creativity, had gone in for automation, gone

in for efficiency. The nightingale, after all,
really isn’t good for anything. Neither so

the hummingbird, neither stork nor ibis. Why
waste the space, the energy and air on such

variety? Imagine this: a heaven that has
decided we are simply too lazy to appreciate

all the effort that goes into diversity. In
fact, perhaps we might best go back and check

our scriptures…but of course, if heaven’s
gone in for automation and efficiency, then

there would only be one book to check, no
bothering with that tailoring of revelations

to a specific audience, specific people in
a specific time and place. In fact, if we

go back to check, there probably wouldn’t
be a book at all. Why bother, if such a vast

majority seems not to care to read between
its lines? Why not just send signs? Or rather,

sign. No plurality. No diversity. Nothing
to catch the interest. Keep everything plain

and simple and homogenous. That way it would
be easiest, for sure. No debate, nothing

to contemplate, potentially misinterpret or
misunderstand, no mysteries, no wonderment.

We wouldn’t need language then, no poetry
or stories. There would be no lessons to be

passed down, generation to generation, no
hard-learned truths to share, no experience

worth mentioning that was any different
than anyone else’s. No addresses needed,

no geography. All places and all people
safely boring, all of us the same the same.

And there’d be no beauty, no new experience,
no wonderment. As above, so below. And so

there’d be no joy. No creativity. There’d be no
one like Dike Chukwumerije, no #MadeInNigeria

– Laura M Kaminski (Halima Ayuba), 25-February-2018,
after reading Dike’s posts about the Maiduguri show.

If you have never been exposed to Dike’s poetry, you can either find some of his spoken word performance videos on YouTube, or you can begin with one of my all-time favourite poetry books ever, On My Way To Azure Shores, which includes a number of his early poems as well as his own more recent comments on each of them.

Somehow, someway, with that 50:1 poems read to poetry-sketches written ratio, I stumbled on through into 2013 and 2014, and actually had a couple of poems accepted for publication. It was also during this time that I discovered the online journal Right Hand Pointing (Short Poetry, Short Fiction, and Short Art). Short poems are amazing.

Personally, I have a tendency to overwrite, as if I’m sprinting on a track for each poem. I start the lines some distance before the beginning of the actual poem (as warm-up, presumably), and end well after the ideal finishing line for the poem, cooling down. I’ve gradually learned to take a blank piece of paper and cover the first line of each poem, whether in my journal or on the screen, and read the poem without it, see if it’s really needed. If not, move the cover-sheet down one line at a time until I get to the first line that’s actually essential. Then repeat the process from the last line working up, until I figure out what parts of what I’ve written are the poem itself, and what lines were just warm-up and cool-down.

I submitted a few times to Right Hand Pointing, and actually even had a poem accepted. But that wasn’t really the milestone. I kept hanging around like a puppy on the porch, reading each issue carefully and trying to understand what makes short poems work. The editor, Dale Wisely, one of the kindest hearts I’ve ever met, eventually invited me to be a volunteer reader for RHP. (THAT was a milestone. I didn’t recognize it at the time, because I didn’t know where I was going, but it was.) The rest of the story there is predictable…you feed the puppy, the puppy doesn’t leave. It grows. And it stays. And I have stayed at RHP, and I have grown. I’m a full-fledged editor there now, and reading more short poems than ever before (particularly these past two weeks, when we’ve had a flood of submissions of poems under 30 words).

Volunteering to read through submissions has been enlightening. It has forced me to think more about how and why a poem does or doesn’t work. It has pushed me to really explore the aesthetics of different journals, try to recognize what makes a poem “RHP-material” or “The Lake-material” or “Peacock Journal-material” and so on…to find the common ground beneath the poems editors have selected for such journals, to try to find what makes a poem fit one place and not another. This has actually done wonders for my own submission process in terms of choosing what pieces to send where for the best chance of placing them. I still miss, but not nearly as often.

Reading submissions has also given me this: EVERYONE misses sometimes, no matter how many Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations, no matter how many awards and published collections…everyone misjudges and sends in something that really doesn’t fit or doesn’t work as a poem every now and then. It’s no big deal. It’s okay. Declines just mean you’re still on the court, in the game. They’re a signal to do what you always do when you miss the net. You recover the rebound. Dribble. Shoot again.

And being on the other side of the submissions desk has given me a LOT of empathy,  patience with other editors. Insight into the workload involved and dedication required to maintain a venue through which other poets’ poems can reach readers. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I had absolutely no clue what it takes to edit a journal until I was invited to participate more actively at RHP. Dale’s invitation to be a part of Right Hand Pointing was a milestone, even though I didn’t realize it fully at the time it happened.

Today, I’ve reached another milestone, and this one I recognize as such. Like becoming someone who edits at two different journals (Right Hand Pointing and Praxis Magazine Online), this milestone is something I couldn’t have envisioned as even being a possibility five and a half years ago. Today, I received a message in Submittable that begins like this:

Dear Laura Kaminski,

I am happy to inform you that your essay, ‘Wow! Now What?’, has been accepted for publication, and it will be included in the upcoming anthology from Black Lawrence Press, ‘Far Villages: Welcome Essays for New and Beginner Poets’.

An essay. Accepted. For those of you who know my poetry, I have enough trouble with English punctuation that I resort to using dashes over-frequently – because I tend to write the way I speak, with asides and pauses whenever I stop to think or become distracted by something interesting. I split my infinitives. I splice my commas. And begin sentences with connectives. For those of you who know me personally, you know I love to share what I’ve learned, but will never be qualified to teach because I never finished university. But my essay has been accepted by anthology editor Abayomi Animashaun, who edited the amazing anthology Others Will Enter the Gates (Black Lawrence Press, 2015).

So Mum? Whenever you get around to reading this, thank you for sticking with me and encouraging me, even though you’ve never gotten to have the Mum-moment of watching me walk across a stage and accept a certificate and graduate from anything. Ever. Thank you for believing in me, and reading my poems, even the ones that go on too long in both directions, even the ones that miss entirely. This one’s for you.

Sharing the Journey, Week 08

It has been a long, and very full week…and it’s already two days past Monday, when I usually make these posts. When I’m feeling overfull, I go back to Roden Noel’s poem “The Old” — a poem I first encountered as a child in primary six, and have gone back to from time to time ever since. If you’re not familiar with it, it’s old enough that it’s in the public domain, and you can read it at Gnarled Oak, where editor James Brush included it in Gnarled Oak Issue 07: Dear Friends “The Oldies Issue” — along with my response to it, “Ferry-Luggage” about my gratitude basket overflowing.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Gnarled Oak these past nine days; the fifteenth and final issue of Gnarled Oak will begin posting soon, and it has me reminiscing and appreciating all over again having been able to be part of this amazing journal. It was this poem from JK Anowe, first encountered at Gnarled Oak, that prompted me to seek out its author — and was the beginning of a friendship that means the world to me.

And here is one of my favorite poems from Ehi’zogie Iyeomoan, another dear friend:

Gnarled Oak published Marie Craven’s amazing films based on my poems “Joining the Lotus-Eaters” and “Lilies of the Field” — and also Eduardo Yagüe’s films of “Considering Luminescence” (with his translation of the poem):

It was at Gnarled Oak where Saddiq Dzukogi and I first collaborated in poetry… one my translation of his poem “Sanyi” and a poem we wrote together (“Reserving Judgment”) which I go back to often when I’m having trouble with feeling like the words aren’t coming out right on the page:

And, among the many things I have to be grateful for this week, I received an email from James Brush this morning accepting two small poems to be included in the closing issue of Gnarled Oak. I’ll share those here when they post.

And, in the overflowing gratitude basket, five poems from the Heretic’s Hymnal manuscript were published this week, two in the 2018 print issue of Conclave: A Journal of Character, which went on sale yesterday, two at Verse-Virtual, and one at The Lake.
I’m deeply grateful to editors Lara & William Bernhardt, Firestone Feinberg, and John Murphy for making it possible for these poems to find their way to readers. For those who are interested, you can read the three poems published online here:

In closing, let me share just one more poem from a back issue of Gnarled Oak, one of my favorite-ever poems from poet and friend John L. Stanizzi. Here’s his poem “Train”:

Stay blessed!


Sharing the Journey, Week 05

Just a quick note this week to share the final two poems in the laundry poems series…

Gratitude to Dave Bonta of Via Negativa for hosting these, and to all those who have followed along through the series offering encouragement, inspiration, and response poems. Here are the links:

Laundry Poem #09: Give Me Your Ravaged, Your Ruined
and Laundry Poem #10: Tailored to Fit.


P.S. I am still planning to get some notes on these posted (Oka Benard Osahon has already sent me comments / prompts to write about the first one), but I haven’t quite gotten there yet.

poetry feature: Trust Tonji

This week’s feature at the Friday Influence brought tears to my eyes. Well said, the both of you. Thank you Trust Tonji and José Angel Araguz.

The Friday Influence

This week’s poem, “The thing about colors,” is a fine example of how poets often have to be unsettled in language. For instance, there is the performance of language in the public realm, where we do our best to honor one another in regards to pronoun preference, ability, and sexuality as well as cultural and racial backgrounds. Then there is the way language is rooted in the private realm, the personal effort and experiences that shape the way we come to understand such language and how we embody and live what it means.

Nebula Space Sky Abstract Colorful ColorIn my own life, I welcome a phrase like “person of color” for what it offers in the public realm, how it offers me, as a Latinx, a place in a larger, societal conversation. As a tool for unpacking and coping with insults and imbalances, such terminology provides a way to speak up with and make big…

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Sharing the Journey, Week 4

This has been another busy week, with some progress on editorial work and some progress on housework, and some quality time with the large puppy.

There are two more laundry poems this week, and they’ve become a community conversation of sorts: poets j.lewis and Kristin Berkey-Abbott both wrote poems in response to parts of the laundry series. “our name is mike” by j.lewis was a response to the first laundry poem, and served as a prompt for “Washing Instructions” (the 8th and most recent one). And the 7th one began with an epigram from one of my favorite poems by Kristin Berkey-Abbott, and I borrowed lines from poet James Brush for the close.  And we have danced without planning to do so, in a circle. While I was returning to “Exercising Freedom” a poem Kristin Berkey-Abbott had written in 2016, a poem I love, she was within the same 24 hours writing a response poem to one of mine. These interactions bring me much joy, and I feel humbled to be a part of them, part of a community, part of the conversation.

I’d wanted to write some process notes, and thoughts overall about the series of laundry poems, but I am less comfortable writing prose than poetry, and have a tendency to delete every page of it I write as soon as it is written. However, friend and fellow poet Oka Benard Osahon has said he will encourage me and walk me through the process of getting some thoughts about these poems into words…so hopefully I’ll be able to share some notes here in the not too distant future as a result.

As always, to Dave Bonta of Via Negativa for hosting this (and many other!) conversations. Here are the two most recent pieces in the laundry poems series:
#7: Laundry poem ending with lines from James Brush
#8: Washing Instructions

I’ve also been reading some intriguing social media posts from poet Umar Abubakar Sidi, of KSR Collective / Konya Shamsrumi, and those inspired this Recent Scribbling:


for Umar Abubakar Sidi, #sanctifying

Note by clay note, pipe me down.
Play the holes in my heart
that swallow love
and slowly heal. — Rumi

He was not created, made to be born
on this earth to give you
a sense of superiority. His
existence is an expression
of the fluidity and possibilities
within humanity. This

crossroads of your path and his
is not an invitation for you
to judge him or try to shove
him in the direction of salvation.
At best, the crossing of your
paths is a gift the Ever-

Merciful has sent to test
how far you have progressed
in polishing your mirror,
how much of the width
of Unity’s compassion
and mercy are you able

to reflect, to see inside your
self, ask how far has your love
traveled on the journey
toward becoming unconditional?
At best, this crossroads
is a gift of grace, a test

of your recognition that
brothers are all One. But
most likely, when your own
humility beseeches you
to kneel again, refrain
from anointing your nafs

with such importance,
then the mirror will become
more empty, and in it
you might glimpse this: his
existence, fluidity, and possibilities
are not about you. Not at all.

You are not being invited
to express your own small
opinion about this act
of G-d’s creation. Return
to rhythm, focus on your
own assignment: take

the next step
toward where
and when
your Love is not defaced,
debased by all these petty
limitations and conditions.

–Halima Ayuba (Laura M Kaminski) 28-January-2018

Thank you for stopping by and reading. Have a good week!