Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Confessions over milk-shake

Hold the wind at bay outside, there will be enough wind ruffling
the dirt off earth, of its laced seams-
picking out the stones and the grass grazing the last bits of morning away
before our eyes, squeezed in a corner of an old cafe

the smell of cigarettes will stitch itself
 to the corners where once we used to shop for abstracts
tied in with cheap bon-bons, This is how we sit
now, stomachs sore to be lined with milk

milk butters everything, makes the syllables I am about
to say softer. You ask a definite question of celebration
young love and older bodies, strange horses these devices
are from one another, these thoughts, those desires

inked in hand to hand, like sand to seawater
like my blush when I answer with a positive nod
your questioning to one of life's important milestones
you laugh at my sly eyes, avert yours and offer

a promise. An exchange from raw milk to milky chocolate
sweetness swims in my belly, same  you held for my niece
you ask again and I show you all that I wanted to
tell you everything I know while swilling my cup

with breath, if someone reads the oxygen
they will decode all that I have confessed
that the earth still spins the same both when we love and when we lose
but it feels faster when we say those words over a glass of milk.

Watch the dance

Dim the lights in the room,
there will be faint blue lights moving and a soft music

one table centered,
a center piece of flower and candles, fake snow contained

in a glass jar, Christmas carols at the other end of the room
like the end of a year, the launch of a new one

on the wooden floor, receiving arms
 a sea of men holding onto women and whispering

the words they are too shy to say when the lights
are brighter, eyes white and green and gray

with the remains of the last bit of alcohol
from my far end of the table I bear witness

to the crowd moving all together, staying in one place
arms holding arms, hands in hair and smiles

there will be love in motion, there will be
soft spoken words, violins and music

there will be loner on tables their other
halves cast away to where the sunshine reaps first the fruit of earth

dim the lights in the room,
watch the dance unfold, before your very eyes-
there will always be love somewhere-
there will always be reminders of things you lost, in music.

of hearing a horror movie play

it is not understandable what a sound
can send over your spine, under your breath
a terrible sense of panic, a spider burrowing over your arteries.

Monday, December 28, 2015

The day I could have...

The day I knew I could have lost someone I love
there were trees, basking with their hands
covering the sun better than the clouds,
there were birds, chipping like it was another day
not a thing prepares you for your thoughts,
not a thing prepares you for the lack of a
stable wood under your feet or above your head

but when it hits, the wall, the cradle, the fall
it becomes a day with clouds, without birds
without trees, with a sole idea
like this: I could have lost my mother
I could have lost my pillar or life.

Sunday, December 27, 2015

Do you hear what I hear too?

At the brush of midnight, the stroke of a bell
floats over the choir of voices that walks back and forth 
for the glory, such a big word one pins down to
friends faces like matching names, matching socks 
there will be wine pouring instead of juice 
because the aged wine is less risky on the heart
easier on the stomach than the sugar that will also arrive
by midnight when the bells start to ring announcing
a change of the music, a change in the direction of the wind
southward to mangers and houses decorated red and feasting on envy
in  a time where hugs can be exchangeable for better options
for toys, for dinners, for a solid existence,
 why do we have to keep rejecting these words
pretend that a seasonal change will fix the fractures of a year.

Glitter, pine leaves

three candy- canes in a jar
there are pine leaves but the house smells of wood-fire
fairy glitter spread everywhere, for a child who
is coming by midnight.

Christmas in a snow globe

Put Christmas away, this year
our joy is deferred, a little wooden train without a railway
He, the Son will be born, yet nothing red can stay
birth, beauty, baubles with glitter and lights

read the rest here:

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

The Last Straw

The last straw that cut the camel's back
was a bent request
asking him to stand up for the thousandth time, that day.

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

Winter Song

Tapping of rain on the window
a three year old's laugh
a raincoat colored white and an umbrella of many colors
people's fear of walking under water, like they were made of wood
assured that mud cast them from clay
hardened by the weather-
it is different to be indoors on a rainy day
watch the day passing by, without judgement
listen to the music of the rain.

Monday, December 21, 2015

This is the news from the other side

This is the news from the other side,
 a bridge that doesn't connect
sides but rather transforms humans, from one end
to the other, without leaving a trace on the ground-

this is not science-fiction, but rather a reality
forcing open eyes, where cemeteries force you
to close them instead- shut them
from the falling shrapnel and screams

this is the news report for this morning:
a detail report of numbers and names,
some stain the papers with bodies, with an infinite number
death number 134 for the day, for the hour

the hour of death knows not the name
disregards familial ties, educational backgrounds,
like one was five foot ten, ten years in school
and one ambition to stand on two feet

provided by a previous piece of news-
it is dangerous, difficult to read the papers
there is more in the news from the other side
than death, sometimes a lower scale

sometimes, a happiness-
like a tune of  a face under a veil
or a step toward tomorrow in a better country
made to fit ones desire

it is easier to ignore the news from here, from over there
close the televisions, open the eyes.

Sunday, December 20, 2015

Snow, white

There's snow in my eye
but the heat is warm, there is a fire alight and wine, chestnuts too
it is white, wherever I turn my head

Saturday, December 19, 2015

Accidents happen

Hit on the head by a bleeding dashboard
the road remains leading the same cars, from here to there
only the bends remain, the bumps and the bruise on the forehead.

Friday, December 18, 2015

Maturity 101

Is it the ability to hold your liquor or let go?
I do not know, I know if my stomach can handle
a blaze in a cup, amid other things

Is it the flight to the other end of the world to reveal a secret?
maybe, to lift the ladle to the mouth
then spit out the words, tasting like soup

Is it giving up love for the Looney Tunes pajamas  for the favor of blazers
and longer sleeves?
but these old faces will still haunt my dreams
a laugh in a day packed with human voices

I have been thinking how can one mature without growing up
because it was always easier on me- to ask
not to receive, these eyes have seen

what makes them lose wonder, lose freshness
take my eyes but give me the ability to look
without judging, without losing more

to the ravaging process of losing cells
 is it- the ability to hold liquor on the back
of your throat, but spit it like soup

that feeds the aging- is it the flight to the other
end of the world to reveal a secret-
that is better left unspoken ?

how is it that we grow? is it giving up
love for my Looney Tunes pajamas that make
the day bearable in bed?

we do not grow, but like trees
we stretch to see other views, that's just it.

Thursday, December 17, 2015

I do not know how to title my lines

Because it is a start, the start is always difficult
write slanted letters in one name clusters
squeak with the edge of a pencil over the wooden desk

once you start things will flow naturally to the rhythm of words
considered, to the lactation of thought and fluids leaking
from folds, unrelated to your body this time

write happy, write sad,  write drunk
who focuses on the amount of time you take
to let be, your most self every single day

observe there are enough things to consider changing
first lines, last lines, titles- why is it
so difficult to categorize the start

grabbing, gripping, containing
it is horrendous to title my lines
I leave the reader to take his pleasure, then.

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

Yule, no, proper name

A tree serves another purpose tonight
other than oxygen, fairies light and baubles
talk about snow when there isn't rain
candy-canes, a man in red and smiling children
the spirit of Christmas is in the air
call it Yule, red has found its arms everywhere.

Tuesday, December 15, 2015

Deadline for the fire

I was told earlier today that the firemen held
a deadline against the raging fire, that swoops them
careless to the cries, the wives and the wood that was
seemingly trapped on its way: this is the force
one cannot master or contain, nature at her best element
you cannot cage a wild tiger without pain
nor contain a sweeping fire by setting an expiration date
because there is oxygen that feeds it and fuels
this breath.

Monday, December 14, 2015

Instructions for better work

Sit close in a circle, made of plastic chairs
in the forest, in a while you will forget the names
just the smell of the stale air will remain
let the raindrops bang on your white coat
one you will donate to charity in a couple of months
let the rain delete your words, so you can find
new ones to fit in their places, for shinier events
let it take the grim details of where and how

he is the one who says, the one who instructs
and you receive on the other part
ticker tape poems and shards of memory
to convince you this winter will be warmer, somehow.

Sunday, December 13, 2015

Write for abstract concepts

She wore pearl the day she talked
in her mouth, spread stories of how change is possible
with a blue dress, hugged another woman who still believes
in change despite the tent above her roof
despite the rod in her heart.

Saturday, December 12, 2015

Fight over food

Before you eat, you give thanks this is what you were taught at ten
you do not give complaints for the hands that cooked, the eyes that
measured because spoons and cups are not the ultimate methods used
for fitting enough dough on your bones.

Before food, you stop to think about the origin, this is a story
of a name, where it came from- where it is going
it is not a story about the actual meal itself which can be
cooked with a thousand name but tastes all the same

I do not understand this need for validation: make sure you
know what you are eating and where it is coming from because
authenticity is the real deal, well, maybe one
should just savor food, like every other thing-

but even a simple meal here is a fight, you mark your territory by rice
by pieces of round falafel, originating from the bare chickpeas
you fight about the legitimacy of you tahini paste, like you
fight for your blood, the same way you fight for a space

to bury your bones. This is a fight to prove that history
sides with the one who has enough resources to carry the chickpeas
ground them like people under fire, then pour over them tahini
call them your own.

 What I eat does not fight this body, it fights to prove
both its name and this body- can stay.

Friday, December 11, 2015

A box full of smiles

two days I manage to keep a smile
crafted in a self-made box, decorated with gem-stones
for the bad days, written on its top-
you ask, a reason, a consideration
pessimism comes later, I tell you
it will know its hour


How many times have we spoken about this need
to be kinder, we said, to be lighter-
pretty much a daily basis of preaching

we have heard too much the necessity to look
into the other's eye, to walk another shoe
to feel with someone outside your body

today I wake up with a different urge
to be thankful, to the small things
usually dedicated to in writing

to the graver things, known to the masses
today I practice not Zen, not masterful meditation
but a power sweeping the walls I carefully construct

deconstruct, break, salvage-
how powerful are these verbs and this wave of being
a thankful salmon that swims
in opposing currents.

Wednesday, December 9, 2015

Celebration of a year older

There will be candles melting for you to see
there will be faces to greet, faces to meet and a couple
of odd days that do not match the amount of awkward
smiles in your head, the amount of pleasant spirit in
your lungs. There will be words to be said and others
to be redrafted for this is not poetry that is written here
but words dumped on words. You know you will grow
sooner or later, rather sooner than later since you know
how change can become as easy as clothes worn
each day. How memory works like a fast December
transitioning into a newer year, fresh for a month before
rotting again into old patterns; sleep, wake, work, live
this is you, my child all grown for the exchange of breath
the exchange of a day into another, this is a process
of your growth. Close your eyes, wish for nothing and no one
but your own skin to keep you covered. Blow the candles while
everyone wishes you a happy birthday and you to yourself:
A happier year, or a vow of one.

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

Dear Rejection

Dear rejection,
it is nice to run into you today,
it has been a while since we last met-
have you dyed your hair the ever-changing color
that never steadies each  meeting?

I think you have changed a little bit perhaps gained more weight
around the arms that when you shake hands
it feels like my little bony fingers are being crushed
under your swift touch

 but you are constant, every time we meet it is the same;
you never disappoint. Always readier than me,
trying to convince me that you will leave me be for a while
that our meetings are healthy, stylish, even necessary

to my growth. You say things you mean
like you were brave sending this, you are beautiful
but- there's always negation in your speech
you carry sugarcoated words- I told you

some have accused you of being a snow-queen
heartless and repulsive but you constantly nag
on the fact that your disappearance will never
teach us, at least me, more values than your presence

my dear, dear rejection- why do you come
when I do not seek you or ask for you?
because would I ever decide to wallow
in a shelter of pity I have carved with my own bare hands?

You are smart honey, saying yes to others
while excluding some more, we are not all
meant to be perfect, practiced, learned-
perhaps some will have your negation later

always ready, you are a timely weight
upon my shoulder, but perhaps next time I meet you
it will once be different, perhaps we should stop
shaking hands and embrace, for once?

Picture found on google search, not mine.

Monday, December 7, 2015

In the kitchen, at home

It takes common knowledge and a little bit of salt
enough to wash the pieces of steak out
of their blood, clean the remaining life for frying
fifteen minutes to slice and dice the vegetables
wash, again with salt - all components
scientific names or plain, hygiene is learnt
with the carving of a soap bar, or the sizzle of oil

read the rest here:

Sunday, December 6, 2015

Tears, Gas, ecstacy

If you haven't seen the tears pour out of the gas
that shapes the borders of our city then do not
pretend like you can cry for safety when nothing
reaches you faster. Just say thank you for the way
you are away from the fire-line, there will not be ecstasy from
fire. Sometimes there will be tears, hot on your frozen cheeks
running water, in ecstasy, for the departure of salt and water.

Saturday, December 5, 2015


here we know we grow by the variations of the markings set above
the white wall where we notice how many times we stretch higher
larger than what we were

here we know the place by what's next to it, a house
a green tree, or a dead one-
or as once a friend said the house next to where the dog is tied

here there are streets that have newly acquired names
like newborn children, fresh from the birth of destiny
these will be reborn, streets and children

here there are night watches, not for guard
but for safety because it could have been worse
it always can be worse than you expect

here people right in metaphor
because they are too scared to use their
actual tongues, for sharper blades

here, there is everything set under a landmark
a reference to known places, too familiar by breeding
these are the pieces of land we are meant to just pass,
here- never thinking of the space between the questions.

Friday, December 4, 2015

what if, you are not from here

Where is the east, you ask
looking into the sunshine's eye
one would stop you, do you even inhabit this universe?

Thursday, December 3, 2015

big, light, seperate

Fairy lights on her window,
cellphone light on his face,
this is newness, a heart of a cloud
poured, shred, making a big world small.

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

Sometimes, no meaning

There are days when there is no meaning
to what you do, to the tedious curl out of the bed
rolling the cover from your middle and throwing
it into a repetition of yesterday's crumpled dreams
sometimes there are blanks, in the beginning
the progress and the end of the way the days fold
into your age, a year, another
sometimes, there are days when history repeats
what others informed, left behind
most days mean nothing on their own

Rise from the Ashes

Rise from the ashes, woman
make due the remains that got burnt
on the way to the market to pick up
new fabric for the clothes unable to make
for yourself because your skin keeps
burning like a charcoal, light then
darker to fuel the dates of others
the days of the children and the cut
out responsibility, they said phoenix
is a woman, her tears a river
her step fire, for herself, others
for a new next start.