Sunday, January 29, 2017

Modern dieting

Pull the dates away from water
an excess destroys their pulps, appearance and bitter chew
no bitterness here, a decade tastes with your eyes
remember, no longer only using your tongue
this is modern dieting my dear, where we keep
guarded others but easily hurt our own, isn't it so?

held rain

Crows call this morning
three beats a minute
then swiftly falls the rain

who had held it between the cloud and the earth then?

on my desk

On my desk
torn out pages of last night's writing
a whole fennel cut up into little moons
mismatched fortunes, same destination

Saturday, January 28, 2017

6:a.m. wake up call

disturbs you these calls
take you without note
without reference

when do you look into
your old self like you do an old sock
half expecting to find something
between imaginary toes

half expecting a familiarity
to break the soil and rise
from this fresh ground

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

Gravitational pull at hand

There's a gravitational pull
to where my hand lies,
long after it surpasses your face, in a dance
shy, yet taller, than the both of us.

Monday, January 23, 2017

In desperation

We ask for little things
if the herbs work for your aches

a soothing sensation at your gums
can only arise from how good these herbs are

in desperation we seek old flannel shirts
that no longer fit us because the sleeves were already tight

discover new ways to love our bodies
with old eyes, with the same fierce intensity of a mother in winter

in desperation, we use our voice
wrong, scream too loud, whisper too soft

isn't that dangerous on our vocal chords, who cares\
who remains to guide our hushed lulling into a valley

where desperation gathers the drops of yesterdays tears
in an attempt to move them into the sea tomorrow

in desperation we  no longer stand
but crawl as if childhood had anything on us

those desperate enough of us,
to stand, lean on the rails of a fast moving boat

pushing through ice-cold waters
three times over a bay so deep we are not
desperate to find out how dark it is
at the seabed.

I am that tired

from this futile pacing
before the clock, like counting time
what for, you stress again
for once, I have no remarks for you this evening


spoken about your perfectionism
but I do not believe in odd numbers

this is my problem
I have to forgive you seven times
seventy and I am unable to look you in the eye

weak before the ocean or the sky that had me write your name
in letters made from water,
no prints left on my fingers

seven, the stages of my grief in you
but I have surrendered to one of them too long
forsaken the other six

seven, the times of prayer
that is counted in my head
proceed to project the way hums turn into another music

kept before our eyes are shut
to envy daylight
prevent it from entering

this lit hour, seven
a number has its ways
to forgive, one seeks to stop counting sand swept opposite of the storm

hunter hearts

Hunter's heart, I thought that made the difference
I was unaware,
it was always the link of the hands
over silk routes

old house

Hard to believe, a sofa stood exactly between
the two pillars where now
two spiderwebs have grown,
hard to imagine I have lent in a star
to the ceiling in my room but when I looked up
the florescent trail it left has disappeared
this is what happens to our homes when we leave
there is rust and dust now, where I once slept dreaming of liquid stars at my fingertips

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

just a casual day

You smile too much
he remarks, between paperwork
even if you have broken your two front teeth,
he goes on

Road shift

Changes in the roads and shifts are always shaky
because they happen midway
you tell me, a public display of a private fact:
I cannot drive but I am trying

this is how the road usually ends
we either arrive, disheveled and bumpy
or we return, there are no two ways about it
there's an end somewhere down the road

made especially to fit the people like me
who are unable to dirve but still sick of walking
because the effort of pushing one foot to keep the other
standing takes too long, and requires strength that we

those able to walk cannot have pinned in good time
to the things that make us true to ourselves;
all the bare trees, our youth buried with sprinkled time
this is the shift in the road, I can see the end but
let's keep driving.

reasons to say thank you

Three stews on the gas hob
on the windowsill, novels, new and old
there will be no hunger in my house tonight,
thank you, grief

Saturday, January 14, 2017

Self realized, lie

with pepper
a realization that no one will know
the story of an origin
was a lie

Till when?

Till when
you ask, will your anger consume every bit of you

till the turn of the tide
that has washed our feet, twice, with foam on their edges

till you stop telling me that you loved me once
in the name of lies and mirrors that should have been broken

long before they were put up
to face the universe

till when, till you realize
the laughs behind you are about you

the stare, the snare, the sniping head
of a tiger in disguise that blesses itself
with an apple, a gun, a gab
enough to leave behind openess


All these trials
the tree asks the wind
to end up with the same answer
three daughters dead and nothing to fill my arms

water in my belly

This tug, of the branches over my body
leaves nothing but water in my belly
a chance at a breath caught unhinged

hands, universe

Your hand
the small of my back
a caress, the universe

Monday, January 9, 2017

Boredom descends

Generally boredom descends
like a watchful eye in the shadows
trails its invisible body into your time
and into mine too

Sunday, January 8, 2017

habibti is a beautiful word

Habibti is a beautiful word
said at the opening of sentences
that with tenderness you beckon love
at the start of the new year

Son of the manger

No wind when He shall be born
but frost on the manger
heating up with the sheep's breath

A nomad

Your voice is so distant
coming from the desert
when we had met on an island
the sea was soft and its foam like butter
on a surface, but you, now desert dweller
will always be a nomad

The poet writes a love poem to another poet

Write to him like you would your own soul
say, I have waited for you in the ink that lines the pages

a drop here, another there,
senseless fact and furious fiction

make the work adequate not too long and not too short
one cannot read at length when the eyes are flu-ridden

ask the right questions, don't expect an answer

Are you going to stay the night
are you sleeping on my eye-lash

would you bring home a flower
but only one, no need to deprive the garden of more daughters

keep it light, with smiles folded in corners
the way talk goes between you two; like a river giggling

 at ease, do not stress the conditions
to your verse, the counter words become a garden

buds to flower and earth to earth
make him appreciate your honesty

end with this;

may you never know sadness, never know how
anger can make you turn twice in one night
sleepless from side to side
may you always find a way to me,
away from me, the way you see fit.

little things, homes

A gust of warm wind
celebrates my existence
you, this warm breath on my forehead
a homeland

Thursday, January 5, 2017

On call

Not everyone is able to cry on call
some take longer,
like the stretch between two horizontal wishes
successively over the stretch

of hail and sun intertwined
like lovers, a nature divine,
this obstinate need to force
things that cannot pertain us

that let fall, those tears of yours
naturally driven from the ocean blue
salty, safely dry
dissolving into the whispers of others

not everyone is able to cry on call
or veer toward the sun, sea, stars
something that started this desire
to cry or leave everything else on the sidelines.

Destitute hour

Wrong timing
this is the benefit
of tears on my desk,
leaked at a destitute hour

A chance

This is a chance
to open a page and pour out
the shreds of a day past
another still in the making.