Circling in my mind

Completion is relevant
to the amount of times a circle is closed
to the number of page folded out in a book
for rereading. It is easier to reach
a closed roundabout of the essence
of beautiful, by assuming
all things are created
set to be whole

but when the wind whistles
in the small hours, dead of the night
some are awake to count the stars
thinking, not everything, nor everyone
is set, or ready, or complete
when you, most glorious
are whole, one could be missing
and when one could be missing
another sprouts out, whole
like a century old tree.

Pillow-talk

You ask me how the weather is outside
I can hear sunshine in your voice
I lift the curtain enough for sleet,
no snowflakes tonight, just enough wind
to lit shiver a volcano
you ask me to layer up
don't get naked, you instruct
we ran out of covers
for our pillow-talk.

Correct use of Question Tags

Hard to say I used to hate question tags, isn't it?
I never understood the power of  a question
at the end of a sentence, like a breath of reaffirmation
a pause, I restate where I left off without tracing back
the thoughts I have. Magic potion, isn't it easier to add
a few letters and suffice the need to restart over and over
again. Like a new excuse, I reach out and jam
a question in the face of uncertainty.
Now each time I lose my tracks, even if the woods
are misty and the vixen are screaming I turn and say
I came here by curiosity and by need, didn't I?
I will exit by owl hoot and fireflies, burning.

How not to miss

if you were thinking of missing, scents,
places with no histories, and sheer longing to unattainable time
there's one line to your rescue-

plunge
like salt in water -dissolve
you will lose, gain, make balance
but not miss the crisp of the factory
that has once split you open and filtered you
to redissolve
in a plastic cup,
the worst of places possible,
the least water to fit your limbs.

packing

It seems I am packing away
a lifetime into cardboard boxes,
brown with envy, I cut for myself,
a will for a replay button of some sort
or a majestic magic wand that sorts
untouchable objects, variations of days
mini-holidays and mini-memories
these days I find myself thinking of abstracts
if loving you was like these boxes,
four sided, brown with bruises and heavy
will it unpack by itself and take the weight
of the words ravishing in silence?
or would I need to send it cargo
to future destinations, unbound
hoping the sea wouldn't swallow it whole.

Cap & Gown

Cap and gown,
a door closes, not with the barricades of tears
not with the hardship of sweat
it is an end with a cap and gown,
a throne, a crown

of grape tales

The most lush grapes are nailed to the highest branch of the tree,
this is what you are told, climb up high
scab your knees and mud your shirt before
you taste sugar leaking into your skin

certainly, ask what makes us climb?
I climb for fear of standing alone
before the ripening of raisin and wine
you, it is another story, one I am entitled
to read at my own pace.

I imagine you a statue, gold,
lying with grapes to your side
my wild imagination; stereotypical and vain
prods me to the making of my own wine
dark, sharpness- a few things
you will not taste, I hope

As the alcohol rounds for yet another year
in the cellar, the smell of dampness
and cologne, old and citrus-like reaches me
I lean for bottles, preserved for sweetness
imagine the old vine by the gates that lead me home
we climbed those gates once
wanting sweetness, no neighbors to catch our
tumbling like rotten apples
we crave the furthest grapes, right to this moment

half the bottle in my hand, perhaps makes me wonder
sometimes wanting the impossible is easier
than working for possible routes with the same
extensions, like grapes that eat half the sunshine
keep the rest sizzling by the buzz of the summer bees.

Six months

Six months, long enough for hair to grow
lush and luxurious, and Rapunzel thick
but six months is more than a time stretch,
more than hair elongating, for me

I am at the train station, it is not dark nor fair
trains arrive and depart on time, nothing changes
the platform is wet with thunder and the fur of a few dogs
it is clear, stretched, waiting

You step toward me, your belly slacking
carrying the homeland in the white folds of your skin
you advance towards where I stand
hug me like it was yesterday you left
I hold you back, like you are leaving
tomorrow.

answers are coming

How many times have we
done this? swing past the pendulums,
in our attempts to find balance
round the rough edges of the valley

tell me how much longer
do we have to plead the higher hands
to stop dealing us
this piece of ground,
this unresolved hunger
when roast is on the other end of the table

do not bother with my intense questioning,
what collapses for lack of foundations
would not stay put once it is rebuilt,
stone upon stone lacks glue and heart
heart, the scenes unfolding
dramatic, these cobwebs of answers at their ends

Illness

Head the weight of mountains

eyes blink rain, seawater and jellyfish 

gush without warning-

the soft sofa sticks to the body 

like hell, warm and paved by your doing

and the sinking, there's an intense submersion 

into a spinning wheel, that starts and restarts 

where it stops. To feel hurt by breathing 

is sharp, only rest, reading revives 

the ailing 

the coin

Days we used to gather, fourteen children
round my grandmother's stove
crisping bread coated in yogurt and thyme
and the smell of oranges gliding out of the fire
long nights of stories. On the opening of the year
like the swinging of a book, we cut the celebratory loaf
 made for the next three hundred days, odd with the unknown
full of envy, one would find a glimmering coin
coated in tin foil, for the ease of dough
dropped like a princess' cue for a groom, the prince
fourteen pairs of eyes set right and left towards the crunch of the coin
one winner of luck for the year.

Rummaging through the old drawer I find a sparkling bit of tin,
dated to the few opening days of one year when luck
was as abundant as grass. I flip the coin in my hand,
the metal is cold against the palm, its previous owner
the farmer who planted it is warm somewhere, yet long gone.

Prediction of the year 2015

You may need to avert
getting caught off beat
the answer is in your feet
gloat, it is the year of the goat.

Careful

It isn't of any remarkable qualities

just like any other fall-

bounce into the corners of the house

I let my limbs take shield

the voice comes from your side, from your slumber

higher than a jet, careful next time, you say 

and since then I master care, 

I control my falls when possible, 

I tuck the bruises under my shirt and blame winter

for my shivers.

blink

Close that sky-dipped eye
replenish in the darkness-
open up your eyes, the monster
in her pink dress awaits you, smiling.

Sliding the statue

I break the statue, your favorite-
a woman of full white marble, grapes dangling to her lush lips
you wash it with the back of your hand, like it is nothing
sweep around the dust, it is normal
the joy of destruction teaches me
to drag my feet,  after the words repeat themselves,
a beehive on a tree
guilt

I carry inside of me
a stone-weighing head,
a loud drum for a heart
and the statues arms, the other cavities
I shove with my foot beneath the carpet
I'll bury the crumples in the garden, a proper disposal

the life of a statue ends when mine stars
the arms nudge me, porcelain with long, lean fingers
if I were to fall, the stone will catch me
still- I am scared of choices, I admit
each time I choose, I realize I will
make way for one option to rule
I am weary of choice but each time I turn back
I see broken arms, dismantled and a woman who loses her head
rolling on the floor

I am haunted by my dread
words repeating in my head,
you approach me with the same haughty carelessness
you sweep the statues that keep breaking since
as long as you don't break things that cannot be restored, things dutifully not yours
you say. perhaps you are right
this is why I shouldn't be scared of my choices
not everything brings along guilt-
but that's the nature of children
they first embrace rebellion
then slide into regret.

When you seek me

If you've come here expecting Ka'ek,
then know I am a failed baker
I acquired enough skills to get by
purchase bread out of nylon bags and forget
the touch needed to acquaint myself with the dough
formation of crushed wheat, oil and salt.

If you've come here seeking a clean house,
then know I am an artist,
the paint-can drips blotches of color over my sheets
there's always a spare pen and empty sheets of papers for words
be wary of my sleep cycle and art cycle-
Don't approach my desks, let your skin fade from mine when
I'm in the mood.

If you've come here reaching for a child,
then forget the coloring pencils hidden for white days
the lollipops of the midnight hunger and the voice that refuses
to scream in labor starting too early for other children-
cute as a button, rounded up to responsibilities of
feed and teach and get by again.

If you've come here because you find no place
to rest your shoulders, know I am not a mattress
I have long stopped giving comfort to the walls
I do not handle the cold surfaces well.

If you've come here to just seek me,
then you just need a soft knock on the door
before you hear me whisper
enter.



This is Ka'ek, substitute for bread, delicious in all occasions-

Busy

leaving the dishes in the sink,
the time to call a friend, we disguise
wear busy as a freedom-
an excuse we make
to avoid engagement with the exhaustion of being present

Give, without hurting

Mother said I can give without hurting myself
so when my friend fell into the season's first puddle
I gave him my jumper and marched in the rain

later, the smell of food made my colleague hungry
so I split my sandwich
then filled my stomach with rain water to quiet

afterwards, lipstick pens, coins, and time flew
I handed over to my friends some things I didn't have myself
saved them the foul rush of fortune

one day, over coffee I donated
a portion of my heart to a boy
who turned man when I touched him,
boy by shadow-fall, he turned the turnstiles on the future

when I saw the girl who tortured the days
A hug was all I possessed, my  enemy received
on her way to the toilet a wish for happier days

Mother said I can give without hurting
if I knew how to give myself
what I easily lose for others.

Clarity by the river

Maybe if you give up experience
you will adhere to more than generics
like learning to be a tear in an ocean
independent, dissolving into clarity
while maintaining her own head-
it isn't an impossible fact: discard what you know
you will end up somewhere beautiful.

This is what you give me as an advice
funny before I know the thoughts are climbing you
I find my ideal spot, barefoot, on a tree branch
one foot in the river, the other in a book
I find beauty as I seek it
when I have the chance.

chain of thought

In the garden, above the frost hops a bird,
a magpie, black, blue and white-
he who steals shiny metal, would he take my old golden ring
to use as a decoration for nesting?
I wonder, does he have children, other little magpies
do they have enough worms?
dirt and worm, sun and warmth.. isn't that enough?
my selfish being, must I clean the garden,
take out the weed and the wheat along, a thief I've become too
 Have I mowed over his last meal for the day?
They say magpies alone, bring sorrow
in couples, bring joy, what if unlike storks magpies cannot hold
on abstract concepts,nor babies,
nothing but glimmer and packed rays of sunshine
maybe the weight of abstracts is too much..

do the birds ever tire from their flights?
if these questions fall with the speed of light in my head,
then they are just thoughts.

Leftover kiss

Half a beard dipped into alcohol
half the lips glazed with cherry red
and the hall sends eyes and ears to the
movement of the lips,
an extensions of a leftover kiss

the chase

A ferocious dog has been chasing me
downhill on a windy night
it is three a.m., I'm old enough to be married
but when I shiver
I only need my mother.

Recent Reflection

Recent reflections
a life through words
made available online

Recent travel pieces found here:

The Quiet Hour: http://www.wesaidgotravel.com/contests/quiet-hour-uk/
In Roman Waters: http://www.wesaidgotravel.com/contests/roman-waters/

Flights

You must learn to swim
before you learn how to fly
so many birds can handle the wind,
very few survive the waves.

abundance of love

There's enough of love-
mutual for humans and birds
rising like song,
there's enough of love that
lets us wake up despite not sleeping well
that lets us break the bread into two
and leave the rock hard crumbs
for the birds to consume
on the windowsill.

Under a single roof

House in the city
a house on the outskirts too
one house is far from the smoke, surrounded by green
by horses and trees and imagination to fill
the bowls and clean the cups in the morning

the second house rigid
rulers and pencils, sleep hours
and bath time, it has a comfortable sofa
but no one to tell a bedtime story

the first house, they reserve for the weekend
for the time allocated within the week for breathing
and a quick visit
growth lives the second house suffocated by
the smoke of the city, the screaming and noise
this is where the children grow-

in the first house, they live by the sun
in the second they live by the moon
because one cannot house day and night
under a single roof.

Nomad

You stop being the nomad I know
once you set the pegs into the ground
carve a circle round your tent and declare:
this is the house I know-
I have enough; a goat, a running river and a lifetime

You are not the type that begs
you'd work the desert, plough the goat
filter river waters in the nests of your beard
you make a possibility of stones

You will stop being the nomad I know
once you carve yourself into a timetable
accessible to others, kind to your own
you will settle between the frame and the picture
some sand in your toes, some hay in your hair
and the traveler's wind blowing around your shoulders
urging you to stop settling down

Feel of new

Opening lines are always the hardest
you have to get it right, not too short
yet not too long. Conservative, yet open to
questioning. Close a chapter and start an open one
like dew, melting, this is the easiest way to start
carrying the waters of yesterday, waiting on today's sunshine
to take effect and brush away the exhaustion
that leaves itself hailing the watch that stops
without reference.