Pity the young girls from the dirt roads

Pity them for they do not understand enough
those who live on the dirt roads, half paced
with the droppings of animals, the whiff of sand
and this urge for smelling sulfur

sometimes when I walk normal streets I wonder
about them, young girls whose feet march
roads others say under privileged
because of other men's feet

when it rains there will be
a flood at the edge of the village
where they walk to recive
more water, how sad, this is a conversation I hear

spurting from your mouth as if blessing me
as of cursing me, for a small town with the roads
remaining of nothing but nature
unfolding nature

Pity the young women from the dirt roads
who walk the  wrong street, walk one that's paved
with dust only and the desires of other men
dreaming of desert horses and belly dancers


Pity the young women from the dirt roads that are paved
with nothing but soot and sand that creeps between your toes
to the side of your heart repetitively to let you know
never to pity a woman from the desert.

this is how we crucify

let hang all those we do no comply with our thoughts
at the doors of Jerusalem
then say He was not crucified
but left to dry like the country
that gave birth to many who died by breathing
the same country that rejected Him
for better heathens, there will be one
stick of wood that passes our desire
to surpass the  passions called for
but never effectively met, in a tearful note.

the jokes we hear

in the corner of your hands, bellow your elbow
the joke lands, like an iron rod
it does not tickle your elbow, rather leaves you
remembering spots you have already forgotten.

Custom made

Custom made to fit
should be a label fro clothes, for jewelry
not for a religious value, or a thought that floated
pretty much like this one.

The one who rides a donkey that doesn't bray

He rides on a donkey 

knocks on the doors of Jerusalem, that are already open 

same doors that refuse him constantly 

untouched city, of stone and people in masses 

He rides on a donkey that doesn't bray 

we rejoice for his sight, we rejoice 

for He makes Jerusalem, a heaven unseen before. 

Haiku into the ocean

To the edge of the ocean
I have gone far and wide fishing
for a goldfish that's escaped, my pens

spring cleaning

Air the little particles that stop your breathing
in mid-air, sneeze out the day's memory
with the end of a brush prepare for the approaching summer

The earth moves when I sleep

Earth shook in my dreams tonight
between the shifting pillars that support, us
was a birth different to nature
maybe, a breath from the long hours of labor

earth shook in my dreams tonight
or maybe it did in reality when
I slept and other people started their day
with a jolt, a quake, a synonym to one thing

happening quickly and at the same time
creating a newer terrain-
a building tumbles to land
only the cat survives

its leg limps onward,
later, the children will call it
limp Louis,  who would have been king
of the room, had the children knew

the time Louis dusted his little paws
over the photos, the house,tumbling
the family still missing
searched for a long time yet forgotten

once the camera reel rolls off-air
yet still earth shook only in my dream tonight
and for an instance it was all I could afford to remember
once I woke up, shaking.

Christian habits

Throw salt over your shoulder to pierce 

the devil's eyes. This is how a grandmother teaches you.

a shield against the spirits, Saint Cyprianus- 

a totem against magic. Sometimes I forget 

the number of saints I have learnt by time 

but I always remember to cross myself 

whenever I cross a church's door, a habit of the faithful 

a shield against the sins inside of me.

Flies, annoying.

Mosquito, fine legs
beware
it is my shouldered dream you bite into, repetitively.

First unveiling since...

The poet wonders, at times 

where the words went without questioning 

upon finding an old sheet of paper 

in the past they used to write on scrolls 

in stone, the words of God were formed 

but now, in space, the poets throw their work

evident by a persistent northern star 

the direction of this verse

at least, still visible 

this is the first unveiling of true words

as if by default we have to try out our 

luck with false words, with falser tongues 

one day, I will lose more than skin 

more than hairs falling down the drain 

one day, you will lose me too 

but until then I will keep 

folded onto my self, the scrolls 

I made on my first attempts, prevail them 

from a loss in space, that stopped the verse

for a long time. 

Short n Sweet

The sun of spring comes home
with a smile, taps the windows clean of winter's dust
like my grandmother
Short and sweet

how this poem works

This is how the poems are born these days

in between two tasks: 

either burn the bread or sacrifice the end of lines 

or shift to hurriedly scribble it out in between the bar counter

and the sleep induced by too many hours of wakefulness

in an instant it can be received 

a word stuck between you and me, reader.  

There's a scent in the air

Perfume-

a man will kill to have you, bottled

made, wrapped for a woman in love.

New GPS

Loved one, have I told you-
No, I think I haven't thus far
that you are able to find your way
it is not a matter of crossing all the roads

that cut across the path you take
your combat boots upon,
this time I will tell you a secret
to use when you lose your way next

it is easy, always take the right turn
doesn't matter, it will lead
to an unexpected turn
or a bend somewhere, but know that-

You do not have to walk
over my body to arrive
at your respected destination.

untangled hair

Spiderwebs for hair
the mirror tells a story different
than the aged hair-brush, catching time in its fingers.

Cheating with another name

On the verge of myself, I know-oh
the depth of the feeling of sinking

another synonym to the symphony
a crescendo to an entity

that dictates in my head
a fact I am aware of so well

like renewed skin, wanting
your friend's apple, your sister's dream

you fail to achieve several things at once
because you cannot focus on two

story lines with the same intensity
one will fall like seeds in a crack

to sprout, later not now
later, you will say when the kisses muzzle

on your bare back
like water touching your scars

you can still feel where the knife went
even after the blood stopped, the skin bridged

the thought floods you like a wave
 that was, central to the act

I pick up the book, read
it is not my first this week,
like you, not any close to first confession
of the rite you had called last before repeating yourself.

the chase

These ideas come quickly,
in vain it would cost
chasing the idea you did not manage to scribble down
in good time

the ant on a hill

The ant climbs the hill
on its head, a wheat,
it was knocked down by an ungodly hand
a punishment, to restart

What about happiness?

Is it an afterthought, or a previous alteration
made to mind the rocks we have somehow
cast deeply around our ankles, spread
on our bare knees

it is a process that goes far,
better than an abstraction or an absolution
but one can repent,
bend your knees, pray for it- ask

it does not take much, for some
to reach a point within where
demanding becomes the sole option
fit for the purposes of the request

to go through, open a door,
heaven began at a word and happiness
begins with a smile;
with one smile you can do so much

start by opening your mouth,
the new exchange of breath takes to what's inside
releasing new breath, the least better oxygen
for your skin tone

after that, say it, repeat: I am well
in my head, in my body-
the same realization will split you
like a bolt of lightening

it will feel like running,
when you drop the week's worth away on the track
before you start to sprint, the rocks
the heavy residue of he boss' talk

this is the core of happiness,
it hits when you least seek it,
taking the tolls of your bare skin
making you open and curve your mouth, in a smile
in a thought, in a cloud to soar
without need for questioning,

Winged surprise

Surprise,
the voice of a bird that chirps
after defrosting of its wings

Intersecting calls

My voice intersects in a second
there is news to tell, a story
that unfolds in chapters
five skipped in reading
before we reach for the end.

the power of a doubtful thought

the start of a long spiral into leaving others
to obtain a point of reference to the things
that would go wrong, oh, so wrong
evident, how the process of doubt
works, like a firework
then leave it to light up the sky
and die out with the same speed
into a cloud

Facing the mirror and the music

When the shard breaks
our fingers, our skin
we do not fear seawater on the wound
rather fear facing the mirror, or the music.

How we develop

Developing is another anagram

to saying, we have walked five-

hundred miles between the pillars

of sand and salt, munching on shark-skin

to arrive at the royal grandeur  that allows

us the privilege of sipping the same coffee

we can make at home with a price-tag

that fits none but kingship, that would

lead to a fall in the empire

and a gallant restart at the footing

of the deserts. 

Dissatisfied with the flood

I am dissatisfied with this foul mouth
it has released a flood of fish
different from the ones munching away
in my brain.

Loving a statue

How do you express your love
to a statue? once, more than that
you sweep the dust that sits on its mustache
before you leave for work.

Listening, or not.

A butterfly's wing flutter does not  speak
while I
don't listen

Motherhood in an hour

When the child enters
the brain first, with noise
you realize your mother's silence
resulted from muffled ears to screams
of children hers and other people.

The drop

The blood that spills
all the way to my nose
is of your hand's making love to my forehead

Eulogy to loss

Death reaps on it way
the tree leaves that fell last week
a grandmother's smile that once was, a world.