Jahara A. Solaiman
Malong Weaver
Her companions being
A backstrap loom,
Vibrant filaments of every hue,
The weaver
Conjures magically
The warp and weft
Handed down
Through the centuries.
From her deft fingers
And the back and forth
Of the strands,
Colors, textures,
Patterns, motifs,
Simple and intricate,
Spring forth.
Treasures come into being
Whether it be
A landap for a sultan,
Or the rare andon for a bai a labi,
Perhaps an ampik for everyday.
From dawn to dusk
Sitting at the weaving-frame
She basks in the mastery
Of her craft.
The loom
Making the same music
Her forbears had played,
Her creations meant to stand
The test of time.
She weaves
The song of her people.
Rock Garden
My soul dwells in a place
So secure,
That if you hurl
Boulders of hatred,
Cobbles of insults,
Pebbles of spite,
These will just drop in vain,
On the grassy courtyard.
Like stray cannon balls.
Do come again
For the next round.
By that time,
You will not miss
Seeing that
Your debris of strife
Just made a beautiful rock garden
Out of the rubble.