Three secrets to opening a bottle of champagne

Shake up the contents, they will glide on your belly

a sweetness flourishing from the end- 

by virtue of odd pressure

release the days from their burden, if it ends well 

it doesn't mean a better start for the next day 

yet don't let hope hold onto alcohol
its a sweet way of getting an euphoria from nothing

be careful, wary of the floor people step on

champagne is tricky

starts with celebration, then smoke popping in the corners of cheer

then fizz

then a kiss

then a vow of a new beginning 

On growing up in the middle east

We live in the shade of oneness,  crumpled 

we make a possibility of ourselves, 

stretched like rows of teeth

a set for the parents, 

another for the eyes that follow the steps

when thirsty we drink goat-milk 

and ride camels, for the joy of nomadic life

How many of these elements do you see on my face?

only these moles on my skin remind me of sunshine.  

words and madness

There are days where the poet questions
the company of words- as the questions haunts:
Are these the words, the bits you want to leave
gossiping about you behind your back?

Coffee

Once you press it against your nose

You can never let go,

It haunts you, like a thousand galloping mares

Brisk, its vapor rubs onto your senses – a wake from begotten dreams.

Hot, beneath the fingers

It is a world of its own

Drink me, or puff over my head- I ask only for your breath

The grounds, grounding you onto the chair

Or the bus

Drink me,I will make the world less hasty

drink me- I am the answer to last night's problem

and the paging pain above your neck. 

know & do

Knowledge is separate from practice
to know something is to keep it
to practice something is to feel its core

she knows they will both become an item
for keepsake, like crumpled leaves and pebbles collected
a childhood intake of nature's warmth

nature's warmth, they exercise keeping the weather,
 most unpredictable clear in the corners of the house
vivid in the crooked smiles, this is how practice looks like

organization is the root to perseverance
only set clouds rain down, only lean wings can fly
but mixture mostly gives best results, like cake and pressure diamonds

if only, she thinks they could keep their dreams
separate for a while, the same way they do socks
 tuck them in  different drawers, code them by color and use.

Jealousy

Fire in the eye
a clasp on the mouth by the upper lip-
silence roasts her alive
jealousy, a lick of flames on her ankles.

Manger's Son

manger's son

born in the cold,

sheep for Mary!

Crucified by watching the news

of earth on a daily basis.

Chipping

Nothing is clearer than the chipping of crystals
like the corners of the morning
rising, it dismantles slowly
every strike is visible
every ray catches the eye
that's when you start noticing
incomplete residue

the cracks start at odd angles
for reasons undefined and unknown-
you cannot really tell when a vase is about to break
until it does
then you bite the dust for being slow to the rescue

'if it is not broken, don't fix it'
that's the general rule
but there isn't anything that details
the potential of readiness
what if you are ready to mend things that await
breakage?, a lamp just about to turn grey
a skilled player's violin string
better leave things till the last moment

maybe what divides us
is really our ability to see the chipping cracks in the crystals
maybe we should change the rules at times
for the sake of precious metal and sentimental value gifts
and other things, like wood chipping early
maybe we should say instead
if it is not broken
don't wait for it to break first
for you to fix it in leisure time.

Special occassions

Chase the statue at the bottom of the temple
tell it I refuse the pineapple and coconuts and the exotics
of land categorized like spices in plastic container
I've seen exotics like me, learn to ride a bike,
learn to write and cook with one pan
tell the statue I turn my back at carvings of exotics
because in flesh I know a girl with a pen in hand
and flowers in her hair, only on special occasions.

There's more

You hang too low,
push too forcefully at times
the end of the rod-

you never realize that at some point
there's breath to catch and there's more than
the conversation of flesh and bodies
there lies a marriage of stars and mud
unbound by attempts
unfailing by trial

two steps

At ten he said he wanted
to step outside the lines
become a difference, his own
so he became the first pilot of paper-planes

At fifteen, he was sure
muscles pave the way to life's successes
women, good health, an idea of beautiful
he joined the line of planes up in the air

At twenty-five, he fell in love
with one woman, one beer and movement
to move forward in a straight line
he had to leave the air and land feet first

in two years he became the step between
the bars of music, the sand-bags could rest
chasing the stars, and rotating over and over were a sign
of days and scars present on the ground in memorials
he still breathed

one day he stepped with a woman's hand first
pressed onto his left breast-pocket
he lead her onward, as they battled
forwards and backwards in rhythm
wooden floors and flashing lights
tickers of times, counting down like a bomb
an explosion of melody and magic

that day he became the ideas he fought against, fragility
and tenderness like cotton and a mover-
he put his learning in a card-box and sent it flying
to exotic lands where bombs drop and blood derails
he knew he had the answer, to how he became different

at twenty-seven he won his battles,
the three medals and the photographs on his desk reminded him of the question
difference lay in his shoes, the secret in his toes
he was the boy who learnt the art of war
before learning to put press his feet together
and lead a woman in step, on the wooden dance-floors attached to earth.

the homeless wolf

Hunger and thunder- outdoors

the wolf  of the pavement,

collects the moon by shades of the lamplight

Broken mirror

He could not handle the thought of a century, with luck closing down onto him
only because he broke a mirror, a mere reflection of his half eaten face
not one he enjoyed watching anyways
almost a century and it was not his mirror he broke
perhaps it is not bad luck he feared but revelations
of the ugliness it takes to break glass surfaces:
once complete and smooth
in an instant, powder unscented

The growth of nemesis

You can grow nemesis, like flowers
water hate and foster the rest under your skin
enough irritants can make you a professional
in the scheme of detest

I never developed the desire of hate
but like humans, existing
I fell into the trap of developing
a nemesis

my teacher, the dark haired woman stopping at the taps
of my kindergarten joy was the victim-
I sought running water and running sands
mixed them to make a sea in a sandbox
and I made a sandstorm around my flat-ironed uniform each day
and when Miss B washed off the whirlwind
I planted the first seed

as I walked alone, away from the sandbox
to my house, the roads widened and filled with other children
packed at the gates, there awaited a  boy who glared at my red apple,
the same one that kept the doctor at bay
as I embarked on the first bite, Robin Hood had the apple
 with his arrows  and for him the roots started to spread

When I arrived home, my sister had taken my doll
into her mouth, half of its hair spread on the floor
clothes cut up like confetti, what I owned- my child shredded
my sister wore a smile the size of a tennis-ball
as she pointed at my loss, I didn't talk,
I  howled and  inside sprung  a stem and a few green leaves
the budding stretched when I stemmed higher

When I brushed hair off my moth eaten, acne face
a few years down the road, I still saw my nemesis
eye to eye, her tin smile, yellow and twice my size
shrunk as my pimples grew and by then
my tree was tall, proud and held out
branches, birds careful nests making a possibility of new breeds
 squirrels hiding the last chestnuts of frigid weather and even rabbits
burrowing off what falls to earth from above

I happened to catch my reflection, on a walk near the river last Monday
it was a normal Monday-  one where you realize a week had gone
the job you mostly detested, worked your nerves but your reflection
greeted you, like a polite neighboor
and as I peered into the water, I saw the top of my tree
the nemesis would not budge
how did the enemy become
much like me?

Mantra

Chant it like a mantra
repeating the rise and fall of notes
those things you failed to say
while I was in the room.

Geminid

tonight the clouds look confused,
 too much light
a shower of stars

Hide & Seek

one to three you count

for disappearance, like a pinch of salt into water

dissolve into the walls, 

behind the rust of the barrels 

dissolve into anything

that keeps cover for the sake of fun 

to become everything

this is how the first part is played-

hide well.

Search and research where you least expect

the tree's branches, the dog kennel, 

the room with spare tires 

use the pronouns, up, over and under 

inside the hollows of trees and outside the lines of the clouds 

look carefully, this is how you seek

find and lose, who cares- really

if what you lose is for trivialities 

another way to kill time, scavenging for valuables in rubble

we've hunted at these childhood plays too long

till dusk, till the voices called louder than wolves

but we still care,to find what we lost or hid on purpose

have you looked for me when you last closed your eyes ? 

I have been out in the light for a while

I'm sure you've seen me

If I hide again, will you come seek me?

The song of waiting

the song of waiting starts low with a standstill
it has not departed the lips of its singer
it has not yet arrived, yet its forming down the throat of a songbird

a chain of paper decoration,
growing slowly out of dust-
into arrangements not found, untouched

Chained, we are to the tune that escapes

repeating onto our heads like drumming

it is one we must bear-

like a state, unchanging
by features of the harsh weather
and the ticketing of faces on the morning gates

A transit of solo passengers,
and desolation in islands, remote
it is a long pause

cut for its own purposes,
we cannot understand the need
for snow to bask in the seconds

from points of starts to
points of end
we move yet

the song of waiting is loud
audible to those who expect
time to bounce back, like a boomerang.

Over the wind

Hug screens, sigh,
send kisses into vaccums - it is a new norm
both sides can hear the same river-
one at the source, the other at sea
both ends recieve the same recycled water, some soft cushioned pebbles too
this gush we hear, it is there yet missing from us
it rests on the last word you say-
what love sounds like over the wind,
nowadays.

Prespective

Gain, more- lose less
is the child's logic in games

save little to avoid mess

is his mother's logic, with games and wooden toys at the bottom of the bag

Race

race
not the end of the run
not the boy with the lumpy leg at the end of the road
nor the girl with 'slanting eyes'- born of exposure to the sun
nor the one wrapped like a toffee, for God's rule and self satisfaction
race not the Indian with a feather on his cheek
nor the African with exotic head-wraps
not the Arab with a belly dancer on his lap
race, not the fool who makes believe and traps himself
into a higher chair in the name of mightiness
not the burdens we make for others to carry
while we watch them with eyes turned out, for want of pity
stop racing now

Race our ability to pinpoint difference
for the sake of fun

race it to death

gifting gifts

Kisses half dipped in air
like poison apples
for her special day

Budding

The bud knows at its heart 

there's time to crack open, to what the wind brings 

pollen has to bleed,

the arms have to shake 

and  petals,fall on little girls' hair 

before the birth of almonds

Like buds, I celebrate 

cracking open to years winding 

carrying with them pollen, whiffs of other people

it is the petals that do not shake in me

they change color with severe weather but fail to fall 

on nicely combed pigtails, they refuse to hide in the corner of braids 

I am stubborn, I know- 

too hard for my own good but at least 

my almond comes 

at its own pace, with a different taste: 

sweet when let to cool with the grazing sunshine

bitter when squeezed out of me.

mainfestations of detachment

Like a pinch, it would feel, that's what doctors warn
before injecting aliens into the body
it is sudden, the rush of fear

Like a thorn, soft and bendable
the prick hums with a newly discovered sense of life
it is landing, cushioned in a field muddier than your regular track

Like strangers in lonely cities
roaming the corners for an old phase, phrase or luck
it is the realization of singularity within the multitude that nags for satisfaction

like the end of a spindle, that's the reality of detachment
by bullet-holes, needle ends and distance
uncommonly common, it is hard to remain hopeful
when metal cuts through you.

Warmth

They say warm hands are the route to a warm heart

without fail, heat isn't accessible- at least warmth is not

being in heat doesn't mean you are warm

humans can tell. can smell warmth. Especially in comfort and grace into small sensitivities:

bed-time stories, sing and cook meals and hours of sunshine 

signs of warmth. True warmth is when you seep into your skin

on an old sofa, after a hard day's work-

feeling for the thunder that just exited your head. 

definite future

There's a limitation to the plans you can make
towards a definite future-
beyond the clothes picked out for the next morning,
beyond tomorrow's meal-
there are issues to discuss
she was aware, if only she had enough choice in the matter
sometimes, haphazardly we end up in situations unlike us
binge buys and binge drinks and the lack of drinks and sales
for the royal hunger and the royal coin
we cannot control everything, that's how she'd start
she figured by explaining that the family will be expanding
and for that, she'll have to wear the same dress
until a definite future shows it tails
on the horizon

#smart, #notsosmart

#smart

the exercise of morning devotion
to the sun, early rising
coffee in hand and a newspaper in the other
a choice or habit- does it matter?
it is a smart way of life.

#notsosmart

now-
the amount of time wasted
over trivialities beginning with morning devotion
to screens, phone above the nose
you shut out the world as you gaze
at a stimulation to a way of life
it could be both realms

#smart

dressing is a part of the morning
like calling a name game-
 a ritual it becomes when the colors
are associated with shades of mood
like roses are red, who insist violets are blue?
in color we recognize the light that's left out

#notsosmart

shuffling into an old pile of yesterday
mashed same way as a parent's favorite potato recipe
it is another morning ritual some skip
like a stone hurled towards a lake
it is better to throw bits and bobs everywhere
there's order in chaos

#smart
goes about light-headed, always prepared

#notsosmart
leaves it till the last moment, enjoys the core.

Nana's Tailsman

Gold and earth are not the best of mixtures
hide your treasures in earth, that is what humans did for years,
earth seals your treasures from misery, it had protected gold with its variant forms
combined, gold and earth will protect you, child. Nana whispers a prayer to the wind
dresses a golden locket under my locks of hair,
dips me in gold and earth to ward off
envy, evil eyes, greed and magic
she leaves a prayer on my neck
she leaves it up to me to decide
if I will wear prayer forever around my breath
to ward off envious eyes
evil greed and dark, dark magic.

Spirit of Christmas

Magic and sparkles
all caroling, angels singing on the streets
joy to the world, joy, joy,joy
flails the little thief boy
his joy, a purchased pair of pajamas
and a plastic pug for company.

Critical age

So many years have handled the badge 

of a critical age, like an era of war, 

or an unprecedented piece of writing sprouting without necessity, 

as if there is a time-limit to beauty 

as if there's an expiration date to oxygen

there's a certain end to all ends- that's sure 

but why the gentle reminders?

because so much depends on the critical eras for men 

and more for the women, it seems;

a  love that ticks on a certain number, it seizes to be under other circumstances 

an unfulfilled promise of eternal settlement

and the children, must you let her not forget? 

 her future children will refuse birth after a certain hour

and the loss, the hole she will evidently face

unlucky, tsuk tsuk- shame 

too old now to dig for happiness she's hidden purposely 

Youth falls onto years, it cannot be bottled nor contained 

and such is the belief in the next sunrise

clairvoyants, in our own rights we sleep in an eternal wait, 

foreseeing the sun  without realizing that sleep might erase warmth-

we wake up fearing time's hands

Much depends on our ability to sleep

to dream, out of the handles of critical numbers

I too dream out of circles, cans and rounded dates

there are critical moments in my days, file-dividers separating the hours

into sewing and ripping, 

into touchable and edible- in me  there isn't a deadline for time 

I am fine 

You talk to me of critical ages, meaningful to growth

when will you realize that you lay dependency on  a woman, 

who repetitively fails to decode the numbers?. 

New month

Turn the page, listen
to the silence of noise and the hustle
of the wind as it flips over your calendar,
the one next to the window, awaiting
the birth of a new month