POETRY - Out of the East

In a Persian market, I heard a Persian merchant say,
"Come in and take a look at my antiquities display.
All these artifacts are genuine, everything is real,
And just for you, lovely lady, I'll make a special deal.
We Persians don't dissemble, we would never tell a lie,
Allah has forbidden it and we hold the truth most high.
Here is the skull of Cleopatra, great queen of the Nile,
As you see, even in death she has quite a winning smile.
If this one is too big, or you don't like the way it's styled,
Here is a smaller one, it's Cleopatra as a child."

In the streets of the Middle East,
Men rein least their own lustful beast,
Burning with a forbidden fire,
Unwilling to resist desire.

Hide female temptation away,
In the Name of Allah, they pray,
All women must conceal their taint,
So men need not practice restraint.

Coarse cotton veils obscure their wives,
Leading somber, demeaning lives,
Hobbled chattels to weak-willed men,
Bearers of original sin.

Little tyrants, strutting and vain,
Imposing purdah, doling blame
To those who bore them in great pain,
Gave them life and now share the shame.

When will they come to realize
That extra piece of flesh they prize
Sets them apart but not above
The women they profess to love.

Were women master of their souls,
And could reverse the gender roles,
The world would be a kinder place
And no one need to hide their face.

I rule this land with an iron hand,
My subjects think I'm divine,
Yet I'm alone on the Peacock Throne,
The last of my royal line.

This lovely pearl of a dancing girl
Swears she will never be mine,
But she can't know how far I will go,
To possess a gem so fine.

If she will share this burden I bear,
And let our passion entwine,
I'll raise her up with the golden cup
And toast her with new May wine.

A royal life as my loyal wife
Will be hers as queen sublime.
Her life will seem a heavenly dream,
We'll be wed by summertime.

"I will share your bed," she gladly said,
"And I'll be your concubine,
But have no doubt that marriage is out,
For I just can't spare the time.

I must be true to the work I do,
I dance in the chorus line.
You see, my dear, I have a career,
So, sadly, I must decline."

Whirling dervishes dressed in white turn dizzily across the floor,
Feverishly spinning their pious pleas upward to Heaven's door.
With endless whirring turns of a sacred prayer wheel,
We bargain with God and try to strike a better deal.
All the folded notes of the faithful placed in the Western Wall
Are dropped in God's holy mailbox for the next morning's mail call.
Countless votive candles are lighted to burn until spent
To speed the journey of the blessed message's ascent.
Droning mantras and the repeated striking of a bell,
We hope will save our souls and keep us out of fiery Hell.
Appropriately, my prayers to Providence are mailed in Braille,
And in American sign Language in case the Braille should fail.