Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Forest trail

What if I whisper incantations to the moon,
late when the stars drown with mist,
when the mist drapes the lack of the sun with sugar plum dances,
low, my voice races me-
I will enchant these hoots with nothing but bearings,
 charms, sentiments and a little of the breeze I kissed
to send away, to corners of earth further than my body

What if in the dead
cold forest, all I do is dig up
the soil piling round my face,
dirt splashing into my light, curled hair
I drip, sweat into earth as I look
this is, I am sure the last spot I left, here I lost-
the earthworms gather
my sighs

what if you are there? I probably pass by you every day
let the dog rest for a moment, perk its ears
in an effort to hear the trod,
the voice not present, your wrinkles still developing
growing like mushrooms in moist and stopping
in their tracks,

leaving me with these untended questions
when I go deeper into this ground, this forest,
this voice of yours, the denim you wear starts
to feel real to my unused skin,
 starts to feel raw against my flesh
what if the incantations I whisper to the moon
are secret prayer?
let me find you, it's been long enough
tell you what, it's about time
I let you find me.

I will not write poems

Tonight I will not write poems
smelling of sawdust and rats and morning
puke by the coffee's side

tonight I will not write poems
the size of the Atlantic
too far are images, too big metaphors

tonight I will not write poems
that jump rope and play skip
the stone, sometimes the boundaries are already fixed

tonight I will not write poems
because the taste of oranges is still in my mouth
too soft and tangy unlike poems

tonight I will not write poems
I have not lost anyone, nor gained anything by waiting
other than my faith running out of Elixir

tonight I will not write poems
of exile and of home
what you return into is boxed in memory, alphabetically

tonight I will not write poems
my hands are tied and my eyes are merciless
the voices make up most of the space I occupy, every day

tonight I will not write poems
not until the last star turns off its lights
and goes to bed.


Every single day the crow sleeps
convinced that she will grow red feathers
beyond her ebony glimmer,
that at a certain point she will
willingly turn into a vision,
with a voice soft like morning larks
chirping water into crystals
the conviction holds her by the tongue, the reddest,
the harshest to manipulate her daily rounds of ranting
the crow knows what works and what's best for her skin
yet she knows, the darkest of spite, the harder it is to hide
dye, coloration and disadvantages of managing time
by the call of each new morning, the crow awaits
the turn of tides, into red, the color of apples,
the glory of sin and beauty, and fatal attraction.

Monday, February 23, 2015

The city

too much happens here,
the streets are widened with nothing but the anger
of the banners, the shouts
repeating echos
we have men and women who need a call to the street
to pave new lives, others to dot old letters
into comprehension, so that new literate mothers
can read, anger in fancy words.

so much happens here,
there are old walls and solid stories,
here are walls one leans on to watch
unzipping, the day ;
three cars whiz by, one the color of blood
another the valley and one packed, like pickles
humans upon humans in this disastrous city
I watch as the sky turns and think of the unsold oranges
on the cart in front of me, ample is this hunger and sweetened
I think, in the city
no one looks humans in the eye any longer
not even the shy kittens screeching the corners for a life support of thrown
trash and jugs, void of milk

so much happens here,
the hangings of washing like the hanging of men
it's set for a grand display,
of well versed, sharp linen and grazed eyes
the size of almonds, minuets the sound of fury
there's what you see when you
open your eyes

so little happens here,
this is the burden of small cities,
they wear mantles bigger than their shoulders
loose-fitting so the sins of pregnancies and the failures of men
do not show on their skins
but that's the grace of small cities,
they, unlike me
can easily find balance.

Sunday, February 22, 2015

A dare

He drew a map and asked me to set out the borders
like instructions and constitutions, these have to be made
with barb-wire and pointy watch-towers
I took the pen and drew
water at the foot of the mountains,
birds around the land, soaring with eagle sight
and a poppy in the middle of a rocky
terrain, a little bit above the face of a cliff
I called it the capital and begged that he only
learn geography from those who plough
the wheat only to relate to land with reference starting
at the north-most tree to the south-most pebble.


There are things we cannot control,
those thoughts when they roll on
like films, quick to latch
leaving grain and negatives of newer topography
the places visited stick,
regardless of our means of disposal
burn, shred, ignore,

there are things we cannot control,
like the change in the weather and the shadow
collector's corner, in vain you can try
to change the hour, the rays, the starts
of the current as it moves

there are things we cannot control.
like these thoughts heading north of earth
heading perhaps towards a body of imagined muscles
a body made by scents and old dreams
burnt-out at the end of ash-trays
thoughts that aim at a direction

the thought of you, now naked
in the dark of a room, glowing
with stardust, the thought of my head against
your skin. There are things we cannot control.

there are things we cannot control
like half-drunk poets
raving love letters to women long dead
and half sober poets
imagining the remaining creatures
alive and prospering
things uncontrolled create mountains
these become in time, silent volcanoes

nearing springs

Frost bites the land
removes the green grass, limps
onward like a lamb
 promised of a nearing spirng

Monotonous Melodies

The clouds stop momentarily here
before they abort their rain, 
down on the valley, down on the houses 
tapping the tin roofs with clanks 
when it rains, it rains outdoors
but here the clouds stop momentarily 
to watch what their brats do when they land
land on my hair, right where it is parted in the morning 
two braids, one eastern one western 
before school. In the midst of my hair, a drop takes shape
I wipe it and walk to the corner of my room.

Here, the clouds stop momentarily, 
mother asks where the last bucket goes
the sound of heaven's music dances on our roof
the tin roof of water and dad's dreams, 
or our reality. I have lived these walls for years
I have heard the sky's melody each time the clouds decided 
to pay us a visit. Like violins, somber, salty 
the sky plays on, adds drums at night for a complete orchestra
adds pipes for rhythms. Adds hunger upon hunger 
for my brother's holed stomach
but only adds water in plentiful,

The clouds stop momentarily here 
to abort the remains of their failed carriage 
the clouds stop momentarily here and I can speak loud and clear
I turn to my mother, a bucket in her hand
the red bucket adds to the melody of the skies
aren't you sick of this music? 
aren't these monotonous melodies?

Thursday, February 19, 2015

After years together, a scent

On the hairbrush webs remain, long and spiky
conditioner has been conditioned by outings
like almond, rare and bitter

The last time she smelt roses, on a night like this
it was years ago, over a window edge
when roses smelt like sunshine
bleeding song and chocolate
over the linen.

Obey and I'll show you

I will, I promise offer what God created
pieces of land for jewelry, dates for your ear
animals for your hours of loneliness
when the hoot of the owl is louder than your heartbeat
I will give you a compact universe

I promise, miniature treasures
I'll glam all the bars you will visit
poised between the shimmer of a champagne glass and the late conversation
rounding, your heels clicking
but your hair, your confidence
the size of a hazelnut

I have told you I promise a world
if you promise to kneel at my legs
wash them with tears and balm them with silk
if you take away the night-dreams of the rocks
smashing windows and recasting my face anew
if you follow the trace of my voice like a madwoman
or a piper at dawn, I will show you
the depth of the ocean
if you try the locked windows,
I will show you a shadow, familiar
buried, struggling to breathe in the soil.

Monday, February 16, 2015

The poetry of non-sense

Three hundred and sixty five are the numbers of developments
from thoughts into words, verse flowing, crisp like morning
clever like using a thread to cut the world and extrapolate
the juice. Birth never happens without pain-
the baby is born out of procrastination, long hours of labor
ticking of clocks, like time bombs and anxious parents at the end of the
birth canal, submerged into awe.

babies are smooth, poetry isn't-
sometimes there's rotting in the rubble, crude, grey and green
some others there are just shadows, pigeons
 floating over the surface of a lake,
 hover low  to catch the coldest whirlwind into the clouds
hover high and frost might bite your wings
in poetry except moderation
when salting the wounds

For poetry does not grow alone,
poets send grace into space
and thanks regardless, for readers faithful as believers
and families, cast by blood, the generation of creativity
for the triple set of As on college desks, on whinging roads
on movies and short of library coffee
for the sacred and the sinful,
the flesh and the body
I, the owner of words dedicate the journey
of finding, losing, keeping

 For the greenery, mossy in you, my love
for the unknown knowledge I send my last grace, as for the world too:
thank you for paving my roads with thorns
but leaving rosewater on your hands for my wounds.

[and on a general note I'd like to thank my faithful readers for sticking up with my emotional poems from day one and never seizing to share verses and ideas, happy first anniversary to this blog and to all of you]

Lots of love and lots of cake

Sunday, February 15, 2015

The native return

small parts of a long poem under construction

What would the desert offer an old absentee
other than cactus, lizard tails and sunburn

He who knows the call of the fang, the chrip
of the eagle. He who knows the vastness of the land
like the end of a palm, knows that dust upon dust
gathers only decomposition
some old, some new, some flesh and plant
but all the wind that whistles again and again
like memory

the native returns to chopped out woods
to half completions
he returns

Saturday, February 14, 2015

We've grown, now

We've grown now
so I can tell
there are new folds in my forehead
there are white lines on your head
instead of bowing, we refuse
to assimilate
like old immigrants in a new book, thirsty for possibilities
we are a new road, sacred

we've grown now,
I know, we stopped buying roses for every occasion
saved the bees the trouble of pollination
we, devoted masters, traded the hearts we drew for cards,
lost letters with burnt out corners to younger lovers
those who smell past the perfume and bellow the braid
enough for euphoria

we've grown now,
I understand- desire replaces love
the fire eats the flesh
the flesh submits itself to the flame
cyclic, round, harsher
we've grown now

we have both grown now,
I have long left my innocent grin
under the pillow for the tooth-fairy
and you have stopped drawing mustaches with a pen
started drawing men without the fear of mustaches
or the folding of extra skin

we've grown now, within
careless to shapes and names
doubtful about wrinkles
on our bare sun-dried skin.

image credits: google search 

Friday, February 13, 2015

Wall inked

Graffiti on a wall, dripping initials
and an explainable heart
in plain words- what we love kills

Before the jump

Water moves at a regular speed
unless you are above it,
High from the bridge
the river seemed to skip a beat
for every trace of heart I ignored

I decided to exit on a night like this,
balmy, sweet, short
I, the dramatic mask of saints and sinners
turned my head to the sunrise, turned my face
to bright colors and song
between my two arms and lungs
I harbored darkness,
docked ships and parrot feathers
looked down on the sail to engulf me,
curious, I glanced upwards-
a beaming star caught me by the eye
before i fell,
before I made the jump
since then I just look upwards.

Sugar Rush

Sugar these day is hard, 
round and full of ants, their little feet climb
 the side of the tablet 
plucking candy, like roses
in cyber-space 

Thursday, February 12, 2015

Laundry to the wind

Don't expose laundry to the wind
too fast it carries the pegs and along
carries last night's secrets,
today's lunch and gym sweat three days ago
into tall, lusty trees and lean, round eyes

Don't expose clothes to the sun, no matter how bright
too ill the sunshine can be on the old jean
draining away the color, the soft hems of ice-blue
like the poles of the earth,
too much sunshine is the same as too little
creates patches no one begged for

Don't hold the laundry outside
it might rain, from Sunday to Friday next
pregnant are the clouds and long overdue
with labor of love and tears of pain
laundry will need to dry, sit still in baskets
then tumble with its glory into the machines
trembling, warm again

Don't leave your laundry to the weather
where it strays by the hour, gnawing by the elements
leave the pieces inside,
once semi-dry, you can hide vintage socks
and lose other pairs within the matter
you hide


punch drunk, love
it is the things you say at first,
earth spins out of hand like a dervish for God
there isn't much of your face but jabber
not much out of your hands but cup marks on the table's surface
these are things you can see with one open eye

punch there's weightlessness beyond measure
punch, infused with hill-song and fruits
it smells of Hawaii and tastes of  rush, resentment
last minute preparations and minors without licence
dodging the last cop for the night, speeding
they blow their horns in night's ugly face
and take back its reeking breath,
the clad iron of a fist against the ribcage
a tear in the skin

drunk, your voice trails into my ear
I still hear, breath- a negation of death
you declare a victory in blur, you will forget
but by the essence of findings, remember
shards of glass splintered by the fall
hiding, like ants between the folds of carpet
I lay and watch, with eyes the size of peaches
explanations tumbling, like excuses
manly tears, vintage

love, you seem like you lack sleep
let me lift you if I can stand on my very feet
take you up slowly, like a building
one base at a time, maybe you will
see I am not made out of stones and iron
on the inside, that I am flesh and bone
I make my self out of matter
insignificant things, like flowers
painted hearts on paper,
bleeding out of paper-cuts

at the end of the night, you whisper
that like wine is the hair- mine
soothing, sharp- pulling
for the first round of your everlasting
punch, drunk, love
more for the silence I keep
the bruises when you meet my eye

Monday, February 9, 2015


Excerpt of a poem in progress: 

washing out from last night's sail-
there are hands that work, 
hands contributing to my guilt and yours
the damnation of a world on water, 
arrivals bitter,sweet, of love songs 
of faith, of lost at sea promises 
and of bodies-

Cautious horses

The horses have a mind of their own
sensing the snare of the snake as it approaches
there isn't a thing, a land, a sky worth the risk
of one hooves, of one's skin, of breath
that's why, like cautious horses
I check the ground often-
I know which battles to choose.

Date for meetings

Maybe we are not meant to meet
nor tomorrow
stop looking

you won't find me 
in the cracks

Saturday, February 7, 2015

Sun, doesn't see darkness

Sun, you do not see darkness
but I worry about you, sometimes
whose side do you take when two squirrels fight?
who inhabits your thoughts at the small hours
of the night?


You take time to function
you count the drops of water
that drip out of the tap in the morning,
in your routine to wash your face.
Savor, tasting the clouds on your way
outside. Grip the wilderness in a flower
You take it slow, for we are never short of time
there will be enough for the completion
of sacred duties and sinful rushes.
You fall in love slowly, unaware that
the slower you fall, the harder you will bruise
lilac and green and red with sores
sprouting like fungi. I, unlike you
go about my day from mattresses to mistress
to jogging past the dewy roses and the flaky roads
ticking like a clock, I reach for east and west
knowing the moments do everything but wait-
must I teach you to reread the watches? to circle around the calendar
saying: the red are the bad days, the green are the days to reap
and the violet are the days we have left to live
I am not God, nor am I made of stars to tell stories of age
I leave a circle for you on the day I came into the world,
another for the day we met, urgent for you to connect the dates
and understand that only a dying woman would know
the preciousness of the hour.

Point and Shoot

Too big is this universe
to fit one map, one box, one anagram
or a drawing, a recreation of reality
there's oceans, deep and azure
there's living things, crawlies
birds, humans, all animate
and inanimate, too big is
the whole universe and too small
are our eyes, built with white light
and color, this is how we learn to see
connect black dots with red markers
fill in what we need, with the colors that suit best

this is how I learn to take a picture,
look into the mini dots and connect them
the ladybug on the green lettuce leaf
my sister's golden curls, timid with sunshine
the blob of bubbles our aquarium fish make
simple necessities, I connect the dots with my fingertips

older, time takes me into tunnels
when you focus your eyes into boxes,
holes, and telescopes
the world magnifies
the way the viewfinder seeks the flower
the way Hubble captures Jupiter
the same click a sniper uses when he traces
a young girl as she walks out to school, too close
to a holy mountain
too big is this universe for us,
focus to create it
Just point and shoot.

Friday, February 6, 2015

question of private

You ask to receive what is
unduly mine, my privacy
things that are forsaken
things I have been burying for
a century and a half

You seek privates intimacies, thoughts
names, and dates by piracy
intrusion never remains
black-flagged ships usually sink
taking with them
looted treasures and tales of drunken captains
half eyed, half legged

only parrots stay behind
echoing in your ear biscuit, bastard
basic banalities, too far from
private treasures, locked by charms
to coax, to hold.

Opposing tongues

We speak two opposing languages
and a third, like a son between us
exchanging baby words and checks
for better articulation of versatile
accents that shape us

Round the realm of reality
we learn from one another
pick up words, some here
others there, adjectives to describe
states. I teach you how to say, ass-
mule to the men round the corner
they wouldn't understand
it wouldn't sound right
but you still surge it out
like the birth of reassurance

in our spare time, you teach me
how to pray, say Lord, make me
what I've failed to become when
you gave me all the tools necessary
to simply be. I mimic your words
by the letter, maybe if I sound better
I can understand the little manuals
I'm left with when I call for second chances

From me you pick up the heart,
the mind, the soul. Three solid basis to meaning
anything, realistically-
I teach you juggling, reassure you that
you are a natural, ear to music
thoughts to the wind

I never learn to say
'Thank you' in your tongue
it comes clear like morning, the absence of words
when you leave me with
grace folded in a napkin,
one you plant in my palm.


The amount of time spent
between the word and the processor
too sick, too envious, too short
maybe it is too long, eloquent, elaborate
or just one piece of long narratives
pertaining to nothing
when the paper is white,
the excuses jump to conclusions
asking for an understanding
of a tired, ancient ear.

Tuesday, February 3, 2015

new season

Old tree, chopped
old woman on the balcony, watches
new almond blossom, fall on chipped earth

Sunday, February 1, 2015

Watch repairs

my wristwatch has stopped today
and I wonder
if I should replace the battery
will it buy me new time?