in a human form, we lose

Trees wither and we accept this loss
call it autumn, call it a death before a rebirth
our bodies wither too, but we call their losses
A birthday.

First rain

Tap
I close my eyes
while the first rain flirts with my window

I will answer you

Don't speak to me
I will answer you, you know

even when you leave chipping wood fire behind
I will answer you

you know, I cannot claim to know more than you
I will answer you, what you ask of me

even when the old curve of your slender body fails to fit near mine
I will answer you

this is the state of those who wait
they keep answering even if the lines were cut

An easy afternoon

What do you call this-
indentations of the wind on a summer day
a hiccup with how we feel
an easy afternoon

Release of the dead

How do trees grieve their daughters
little leaves, getting sicker with autumn
never able to protect them against the ill wind

how can you grieve something
that has died, the plant on your window, for instance
you thank your wits for not buying that goldfish

no woman should rely on a man for feeding
when you are part feeder, part fed
you turn to yourself, stare

at the hair, released, shorter
the death, apparent on your skin ever day
even with these uneven lines

nothing stops grief when it hits
not the wind that turns the leaves yellow
not the same wind that toggles with your hair

this is why, atop the mountain filling with old trees
you release, dead, the locks of hair,
his memory and old tree leaves,
everything deserves a burial

There is a song about birds

There is a song about birds
how their feathers become collectibles
how they fly away from danger

it is all usual, love
we are used to this relation: a bird, a sky, a flight ahead

there is this song about birds
a winged freedom, as if, only by experiencing the clouds
will we be able to appreciate the mud and stone

it is all usual, love
but I am not that generous with you,

no feather, fallen, silver on its edges
a little darkened with a winter sown
breeze, that tangles our hair too

it is all usual, love
that there is a song about birds

it starts with a soft whistle and echos
of flight, of being light, of letting go, love

Zahret Narr

Narr
is also fire, is yellow and orange glowing from the same
log of wood we threw and set aflame

Zaher
is rose and is pink, it is both senses in one place
that a gradation of pink petals can fall on your face

Zahret Narr
a flower of fire
a flower from fire
a firey flower

flower razed by fire

Protea,
it is called, one that dies
for fire and is reborn from fire

Protea,
Zahret Narr
a flower is fire

fire is a flower
protecting, those who fight in fire
to see flowers, bloom again.

courtesy of Google image search

How do you forget?

Like a stranger cruising the streets of an old city
you forget

like cats using empty bowls to catch food they won't eat
you forget

like a denial of little stars that burst in your brain when you remember
you forget

like finding your way out of a maze you made yourself
you forget

like beads an old monk gives you, ones you bury in your drawer
you forget

like your favorite song playing backward, without your ability to stop it
you forget

like the dance of dawn on your window,
you forget

like a child wanting to be an old woman,
you forget

like the distance between the first letter of the alphabet, population by letter
you forget

like yourself, mostly forgotten
you still forget.

A gathering of envy

This path of envy 

under my skin 

is a gathering of leaves

old and rotten,

A Stroll through Central Park in Autumn

Many leaves have discarded their leaves
I walk ahead without noting how the wind shakes the trees
from my body, this is the condition of loss
that you do not notice what happens
that you are like others unaware

of three sax players tuning
with air, a meaning for your deepest fears
strangers in the day, lovers in the night
this is the condition of bedazzlement

such small space, you are,a leaf under tree
move forward, sway backwards

on the mall, statues,
a figure of this and that to a game of guessing
who spoke that word, but most importantly who wrote it
ink remains etched, on paper, on stone, on brick and bone

scenes after scenes,
keep the photographers for later
no one knows when there will be a time for use
a time for discarding the memory

of those who should have strolled with you
instead of inhaling cigarettes, drag after drag in the nighttime

before Bethesda,
the pigeons remind the angels
of the importance of flight.how you can turn
twist and turn then mange to return to the exact spot for rest

these are small wings and little freedoms
the discoloration of death in beauty
over Bow Bridge, no trolls but sunshine
three beats of these feet to the foot of the bridge

sometimes this tapping makes you stop and wonder
where did music originate from, love?

once you stop imagining you will see, I hear his voice
once you start imaging you will be, I hear mine
as I walk under the trees that shake their leaves
onto my hair.

inside, outside, home again

inside, the fire burns clear-
not a space to escape, even the trees were cut down
save the olives, the bloody olives

literally bloody and oily,
so oily, this is you then, on the inside

outside, the building is three times
taller than the last time you checked
you had patience, another way of saying waiting

without realizing it, you have grown
used to, not used, taller yet still short

leaner yet with other excess fat on the belly
fat on your sides. Hair lost, things not found
yet the search keeps going. Home again

how many definitions are there for the place
you bury scrapes saved from the fire
tales taller than pages written, than your years
how many definitions are there for rolling a bloody olive
on your palm before stomach it?

What if you use colors?

You know winter has descended its mantle a wind
rambling behind autumn
you use colors when the sky is grey with ash
more tears cried yearly, from other borders
you ask again, what if you put color
over your lids, over your face
do you become a part of nature
or does it become you, since it is already in your bones?

Shared in confidence

Lifted, posted, marked
this is sharing in confidence
that you let another know of the mold growing
on the cracks among the wooden fence in your backyard

that you tell this wind to keep the ears out
when you speak ill of your own backbone.

He kneels while she talks

A red hoodie and a jeans-

a love for dead languages, living classics on their deathbeds

he kneels before her, a nod to bravery 

with trembling hands she asks him to stand up

red hoodie and jeans, dress, blue 

says it only took her a crossing over the sea 

to be able to thank his knees for hugging the ground, momentarily.

Notes on containing

We called it a container:

what fills a part, with car and cattle 

on the checkpoint, my prayer is interrupted

sacred minute, I still cannot contain any dry thoughts 

not wet with curses mixing 

like soup on this cold winter afternoon

even the sky darkens;

the line of clouds scatters like cotton 

above my head, too many sunsets 

seen, like a discoloration amid a traffic jam 

this is the case of longing 

for movement: to keep is to contain 

a small hand in yours 

a sun in the belly of this sky 

a child throwing a packet of gum into your car 

a prayer instead of the curses that hail on the realization 

that to contain you have to grow bigger; 

to fit, to keep intact, a smallness. 

Restoring the land

How do you restore a land after death
here they resurrected Christ once,
but I, a sinner, not worthy
have even missed autumn,
this death.

Jet-lag

is not the lack of sleep
it is the lack of dreams

that the folding of a word
into another where my feet touched the surface of water

was one thing, but now, this
sleeping in a familiar room

that lays arid to my body's night
waking, this difference

a stretch of eight hours, long enough
for your ears to forget they have been carved

like a question mark to receive
a complaint folded in the sleeve of a question

this is the lack of dreams
a colorless, odorless sleep

that solidifies facts you already know
there are no night-owls in a city populated

by little local birds, whose song announces morning
in groups; guiding the sun towards the middle of the sky

you remain sleeping as you move away
from a land distant, as last week's memory.

Sides

A daughter of the borders, 

I am used to sides 

a thin fence in between 

barb-wire, a cement wall,

a river blue cutting 

a land into desert and plain 

I was not used to a park 

making an incision over the belly of a city 

no smoke of cars, rush 

or barb-wires 

just a thin line of green trees 

turning yellow at their heads 

separating those who believe in freedom 

and those who believe in guns.

These faces

These names don't lie
these figures don't lie
these numbers, don't lie either
these eyes, have, however
lied to me before.

Homecoming

For the hundred time
you arrive home, to your noisy bed
to your noisy life
to a space between the words
and you don't keep thinking about it,
why should you?

Brave, bye America

Home of the brave
home of my body
home of the memories that pile
like sticks for the wood fire
I say thank you, as the planes take off the ground

Night into day

Night descends as you pull yourself up
like pieces of a puzzle
little by little
making an understanding of the morning you leave
take your body, elsewhere.

Breakfast At Tiffany's, today

On the street corner,
I found Tiffany, a box blue and green
a shimmer I can never afford
but I can always watch.

New York,I have heard of you

I have heard of you New York
seen you before you recognized my face

a shot, a thousand times rolled over
in my memory

but with your lights and rush I ask
will you love me or leave me,
 perfectly wishing for my old city with three streets
and too many same-colored doors?

Delayed song

This song will be late
because my throat has closed on its notes

at least for now, I can tell you this
wait for more light and music

coming like a Christmas carol,
out of place and time to make you blink

twice, this is the case of melancholy,
the way it arrives into your heart

disguised in celebration
the way fall colors turn yellow

amazing, you say
but can you see that they are dying

all this is going away too,
doesn't it scare you witless?

1000

One thousand, the Arab nights, keep the narration going
one woman, how can she contain a thousand stories
or is the thread only in one of them?

like a ring in the stomach of a fish
lost by a princess, returned by the sea
once, twice, a third time for negligence
for peace of mind

one thousand times, I have faced this empty page
where the silence was louder than my thoughts
is it important, then, this essence
this insanity to write, to be, to negate?

maybe it is, a millennium
like those stars bursting on your skin
whenever I lean in to give you a soft kiss
on the shoulders, those that carried me
into the millennium
this or that of poem, song, breakage.

This is a secret

Haven't I told you?
this flirtation of the leaves and my skin
is a secret, only we share,
we, the ones unable to move
yet unstuck, no, just rooted

Departures 0.1

A coin is tossed in the river
the clothes have been folded
this is the same departure
but you are carrying a heavier bag

the other's disasters

a tear on her jacket she walks 

away from the dust based hotel 

how is it possible 

other people's disasters remind us to care 

for our own?

Spinning

Not leafing of tales within old wool
not making a destination, or a return
but twirling around, the clock, when time draws near
to close an old chapter