Chronicles of a forsaken patch

They took so much and left us
this and that, you tell me once
again, as if I haven't heard you
once before telling me of what was taken

amid sunrise, that they have taken
all the stones, willing to build new houses
out of our old bones
but stop, they saved us water

for a time long enough to balance
the intake of oxygen and the separation
into drops, this is what they first intended
to build canals out of land patches

and praise, they took this and that
more fruits for the cultivation of jam
to make extra sugar, red strawberries
milked out of our blood

they take this and that, you tell me again
the river, the countryside, our patch
of land and sing once more: this is my land
and yours, free to the seer

but be, you said despite this and that
travel with nothing more than your clothes
upon your back, like a nomad
but never leave, be back to demand,
the land where you stand.

To the highlands one October day

There walks a stranger in every corner
yet here I am, out of origin
a fish out of its tank
these are floods, the city streets
and trams, and castles and armies
I back my hand onto a wall, brush my fingertips
onto a skirt.The highland sounds,
deafening my ears, sheep, bagpipe,
human laughter.

Enough

There are enough hands to paint
with lose brushes the edges of this world
but not mine, unintended for the dab of color

enough is left for the mornings
grey with silhouettes
and soft-spoken sunshine

 I do not dwell in the houses
where the roofs are stuck to the floor
with haughtiness around the corners

like spiderwebs, chronicled
for the missing moments I avoid
when I am not looking

you hire my hand, for today's dish
for tomorrow's wish
a clean stove, baked bread

I result from the ingredients
I give, salt for the completion of wounds
and anger for the sandpits of childhood

here, it is quiet, under the blankets of my room
I sip in air conjured of too much fairy dust
and a little hint of carelessness

breathing in the night,
I sit and attend to the watch
of things moving, still

There are enough syllables in the language
but mine are reserved, for after the speech
before the script

Permission

You permit what you cannot stop
the rolling of a ball in the mud
the bleak rain as it drops
high from earth
to thud and make thick
soft, chipped-earth.

Address change

New letter arrives today
stamped from a piece of earth
sealed inside with three papers
and a new address, you have left
the old self at the red-chipped kitchen
and moved to places where roofs are covered
by my new letters.

Half

Half a century in trial
and the other in error
and we have not been able
to learn that the more we
try, the more mistakes
we will make

Half a century and all we do is defer
dreams and delete realities
it is easy to eradicate half the planet
by a click of a button

Half a century passes like a year is not
of great measure in the number of days
passed in trial, flavored in error
half this time we spend building
the other half we regret
the reason why the buildings slant,
without specific purposes.

Windows, lights

 Don't hold me, perfect. I might break

like that, the broken window allows

enough light for us to see

and extra night blankets for us to sleep

Tireless from too many stones

packed under our heads.

In praise of open hearts

For T, the hero

How much longer can we keep at this,
going back and forth with prayers the size of heaven
patched, stitched

Tell me, what is needed for us
to not open hearts
to not close others

we will face it together we said
yet I am alone with the scrap
of a heartbeat

I save the newspaper clippings
the news, no matter how old
will make you laugh

I am too sure of myself
there is a new position
to my heart,

a bit to the right, above my breath
a bit to the left in worried hushes
 there is a new outlook into yours

You told me to smile
and that I look beautiful
and I told you, you teach me

how to use my heart every
day. Feed the dogs, in your absence
make the bed and not cry

there are a million possibilities
and a racetrack inside of my head
your little arms make my neck look small

Do not go yet,
Do not go gentle
I plead

We keep at prayers
the size of heaven
for the right amount of blood
for a repair of hearts broken too much
by trust, we pray
to stop the stitches
stop the patching
and have a new heart arrive, homeward.

Right or left?

He leaves her hanging by some words
scribbled for the higher good, near the doorway
there are two paths, one choice
and no exit

Walk the fire

Don't, he had warned
walk the fire-pit in front
of the devils who play God
and wait for you to beg

Mercy doesn't come in batches
not in shreds
not even in drops
don't wait for others to stop staring at your feet

as you take off your shoes
and trod onward
embers glowing
at your feet

Don't walk the fire-pit
for the devils, because
people who walk the fire
forget that they burn their soles.

Respect

We do not respect 

the death of a moth 

by nearing the fire 

too closely, 

how rude we are!

This is a memory

This is how it tasted,
finding myself sitting
beneath the tree in a park

There were three kids
swinging and parents
the size of the equator

but there I was
my feet inside my
lung

breathing slowly
the sand from the pit
where I camped

my tears inhaling
the salt of where the
wind met with earth

and I exhaled
for want of softer
touch on my tongue

I had seen you last
by the tree,
hanging the branches

that were already tied
to the tree without force
I was alone

this is how it tasted
the first time you let
go of my hand-

I knew this time it was like
the end of a Popsicle
where the tongue meets
the wooden stick
and retracts.

Pointe

In the mirror there's a turn
and an open head
the ballerina doesn't look at her feet
until dust clamps her toes

Language anew

Another tongue falls into mine tonight
simple construction
of little sounds, one at a time
for my lips to open, kissed by letters

Too young/ Too old

Too young to taste three liquors
and one licorice. There's enough sweetness
before the tongue numbs out
on sugar intake

Too old for a ride in the park
parked between the lights
the spinning of madness
you do not fit the child lock anymore

too young, for the music of the ages
as it sweeps you, swipes you gently
on the forehead. One cannot hear
but there's always a bit of harmony in the tune

too old, for the fitting of dresses
before the fine silk runs out of worms
to make enough fabric for those woe-stricken
by the sight of legs

too young, to touch another skin
this is another soul you grab at
blood, veins and skin
you are too young to be outside a human, inside of them

too old for the reading of books
instead of butter-cookies and jam
there are cavities on the mouth
by the virtues of high- fructose sugars

Too young for life, too old for living
you are, and still
you stand.

nightmarish child

I nightmare in black and white
the horror, the blood
stop inviting monsters into your slumber
take the scissors and place them under your head
they cut out the link
to the moments of closed eyes
less sleep, less fear
child

Home/Away

Home
the Arabic on my tongue is there to stay
     
Abroad
the English is a temporary state to exists

been told at home
to exists is to resist

I never raised a voice
but was always heard

here, abroad the fog engulfs me
I can scream and the woods can only answer

Space poetry

Nothing
in
space
like a poem

Nothing
in
a poem
like space

I have undertaken a new blog with my friend Avrina, please feel free to read it here:

http://twopoetswrite.tumblr.com/

Tracing the If down my thoughts

if the heavens are a little merciful
the dead would lay the living to rest

if the living work for an abstraction
how do they tell the change in the season?

Dcotor's hands

Use the same conditions
to apply balm
on two different wounds, cruel
the working hands of a doctor

Make luck, like destiny

we make our luck, plant and plow

slow, if careful, we can find it- I am told

you have to dig deep enough, get your fingers grimy

broken bare bones, will rest in your hand

 the dog had buried last week

maybe that's your share of luck

Don't approach a writer

Don't approach me when I am writing
leave your requests hanging
on a soft thread by the door
I will answer you
when the rivers dry up

Features on our skin

Etched on our skins
the features of earth
rounded to fit sliding off our shoulders
we ask ourselves to stop being careless
can we?

 the water climbs high enough in the veins,
 to keep the vessels
floating roughly on the surface
no one needs to sink by oxygen
or rafts  moving between two sides of the same earth

there's wind in the lung
we cough up cyclones and seraph songs
to think that the youth march with steady
rhythm in their lungs
is a blaspheme to pollution

there's more carbs in our bones
we rim the fouls of earth
scavenger on our ineptitude to
prepare the roasting of meat,
long enough to tender

etched on our skins are the features of the earth
rounded to slide on top of our shoulders
consuming us like paper
in the face of soft yellow fire

Need

I need you, this is not a confession

I make at midnight to let you 

take apart the distance between 

where I place my pen and the language 

with which I think. There are several voices

in my head, all with a difficult tongue

Too foreign, this intensity 

to my body sweltering with baked dew 

there are things we retain for reasons unknown

like a longing clipped into little sounds

like madness and rush

of the good times coming, into soundbites

midnight flames and round bread to stack 

on empty stomachs.

I'd like to imagine you awake

I'd like to imagine you awake
there have been constant times
of you sleeping, tirelessly

I'd like to imagine you awake
with wakefulness come the questions
smart and swift

I'd like to imagine you awake
so I can walk side by side
next to the dent in the autumn

I'd like to imagine you awake
for once, I'll get the details
of all cliche's knotted as one

I'd like to imagine you awake
to the sound of normalcy, a coffee
cup gurgling, a true rooster's cry  by dawn

I'd like to imagine you awake
there will be enough time to see you
sleeping, in total resignation to a world beyond me
I'd like to imagine you awake
 living with a moth ridden imagination.

Beggar Boy

The boy sleeps in delay

between the cardboard box and the passerby

there isn't quiet enough looking

at the rags patched, the lessons clanking

in his metal cup

what happens when a man hears fire

He is scared, he won't admit

the distance between the kitchen and the toilet 

equals a few hand-throws of nuts

yet when the hissing starts 

when the fireworks decorate the night sky

the seven year old becomes

what matters most, to his trembling eyes. 

Blood oath

One day she told me, there would be a v-scar
on your palm, like a swallow
it will remind you that there's another
you take the cut for,
in case of good times, your blood tingles
with a rush of cold water
in case of darkness, your ears will ring
twice like the end of destination
but know this, she said-
there will always be the counterparts to your oath
a promise is a promise
you will become sisters,
when the sore bleeds, the scar is imprinted in your palm

What happens when we pause

Much to look forward
after waking from a flood
the turn of sun rays,
the survivors and a pause
to start, restart
To simply wake.

You make an arrival

Appear is the wrong word to use here,
an apparition at least gives way to its upcoming
upheaval. You storm into the kitchen
with bunched mint in your hand
as if you had left yesterday
and came out of memory, like a real flesh and blood
manifestation of  an old differed vision I had
I will say thank you, place the mint in the fridge
forget about the person who brought the bunched mint
till I see the greens moist with dew, next morning.