Sunday, April 30, 2017

Light explaination

You wonder, how to explain light
to someone who only knows darkness

it is easy, the voice says

the same way you take out darkness 
onto someone who has seen a lot of light

How do we part ways with ourselves

How do we part ways with our selves?
the old wears the same comfortable coat bought years ago still stained with coffee-marks and old stars

the new takes in its hands a magazine and flips for other shades
of a freshly sown coat

the streets get wider when they are unfamiliar when you walk in new shoes

the streets are smaller with memory of the corners where kisses were stolen

Do we really part ways if we stand on a cross-road?

this is the lucky encounter
where we part ways with ourselves

as if the younger needs guidance
that only arrives by age

like dried, vintage wine
the space of a thumb

this is how departure is, a move forward
with a weight set onto your ankles

taking your weight backward
there's always something new to look forward to and something left to be buried

on your way out,
even if it is just for yourself.

not shareable

This body
is not yours but is no longer mine
not shareable or bite-sized
this body belongs to the water that cleanses it.

Saturday, April 29, 2017

Sesame trail

The trail of sesame is shareable
release it as it slides across the floor
eat away ants, the sesame, not my toes!

To the people who do not sleep

The people who do not sleep 
know the souls of the city 

count stars instead of sleep
match their eyes to the intensity of darkness

reflection, shadows, treetops
this is how the day dies, a light, alighting softly

light doesn't always reveal everything 
the slow-walkers can tell you how much you are missing 

the flutter of a hummingbird as it treads from flower to another 
in your back-garden while you are bent, chasing away moles

the sleepless can tell your age 
by the number of stars they have seen make a constellation in your eyes

they can lead you out of the dangers of the night 
entertained by the mad music that rustles with snoring 

they take your hand and page you through a book
chronically registering laughter and futile cats wandering the streets

blessed are those who do not sleep
for they are the time-keepers of the night 

and we, sleepers,  realize at day-break our loss.  

looking into the world

Maybe when you stop seeing the world around you
it starts to notice how many times you limp
before you can stand on your feet

it will hold your hand before pushing you into a jump
lunch forward and some haphazard net will appear
as if it was always there
as if it was never missing

maybe it is easier to open your eyes
when the world wants to force them shut.

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

In the trap

In the trap, crushed bread
a mouse with his small hands
does not think like a raven


How many times have we spoken and written about the sea
like it is magic when it has killed us and our own

how many times have we glorified the fire
blamed nature for getting angry rightfully, without understanding

we are sea and fire, yet all we have is saltwater
this is the empty stomach's growl;

the answer is zesty and bitter
much like seawater and our death

you do not wait for salt to touch your chapped lips
nor for water to assure both work together to cure you

do we need salvation, from dehydration
death or dignity above waters

how many times have we been turned down by the sun
which is essentially a star, resorted to the sea
as an exit strategy?

countless, like salt,
boundless, like water

we don't need to count any more.

dream visitors

Visitor in her dream
she had expected you to enter through the slanted door
with warmer hands

A tale's theft

Don't steal the story from the beak of a raven
leave him to tell what he has gathered with the magpie

shiny little things; coins, pins and the end of a grandmother's thread
like the end of stories, a lot like love

do not steal the tale from the birds
only they can fly too high and drop your lines from the sky

crushing the tales into pronouns
to be picked out by the ants.

Some goodbyes

Some goodbyes are never said;
they are left in the bones and felt
like a week-long flu

some goodbyes are met with a nod
a gentle turn backward to note
if the other person has already started walking away

some goodbyes are held
like a hug places all the puzzle pieces together
before they crumple

some goodbyes are like nightmares
they keep playing, using the same elements
yet exaggerating the fear already jumping in your lungs

some goodbyes are not made ready for
no one is ever ready to leave
the same way we are ready to begin

as if only beginnings are sweet
without being forced out of labor
long hours and short breaths

some goodbyes are distracting
with length and breadth of the times
faced within the same minute curled up

some goodbyes are hosted
like a dinner party, display your favorite china
and wait for the storm to break it to pieces

some goodbyes are easy
because you naturally part with your hair,
tree leaves and old skin

some goodbyes last the longest
like a constant sunset, glowing orange
then fading into the night.

Savior, blood

There's blood on your side
your are in pain, but won't be too long to see bruises
how can I help you, flush out the wounds
when you know you came into the world to save me
my selfishness, my silence and your peace?

Monday, April 24, 2017

one lemon tree, a swing and my yard

Watch, the spaces we do not occupy
like the scent of lemons fragrantly replacing
your swing in my backyard

The graves are empty this morning

The graves are empty this morning
but the crows are loud with song, it is the effect of music
louder than vain measures of space;
someone has kindly places vegetables over our dead
from their bones grow not only flower but food to fill plates
faithless against the respect of earth and water;
water a grave and the soul will be free
but it has, it has risen with Him and marched to Jerusalem.

held up by two arms

Lined together, a fox-like step
a bar that is back-lit, light the backs to reveal in front
other than alcohol, what you take in reflects outside of you
smiles, kisses, loss that still manages to find the door keys late at night
held up by two arms

Across the ocean, I carry my heart

I carry this heavy heart of mine across the ocean
maybe if I look carefully a few things might shift during the flight

maybe it is hopeful thinking,
to think that you can move a heart by sitting still above the clouds

maybe it is because I have told half truths
about fear of heights, disaster and you

or perhaps it is the proximity to heaven
that allows us to be more confident

the higher you are to a chance of peace
the better you are at clearing your thoughts

your tray-table, arm-rest, knees squeezed
face-pressed to the glass you lean on and say a prayer

against the melting snow forming outside
I carry this heavy heart of mine across the ocean

and while the slow snow melts
my life flashes, little by little before my eyes

I carry my heavy heart across the ocean
on purpose above fear, above noise of strangers around me

I carry my heart across the ocean to meet yours,
I flew all night but I feared truth by extended hours of flight

you will receive me, once I land
with a flight-shifted heart.

Sunday, April 23, 2017


I walk toward you, you state taking three steps backwards
when you turn I ask, why is the stepping away from my body
I had walked toward you, you state,
now it is your turn to retrace your steps to me, lover.


First salute the sun for hitting your face with enough rigor
remember it is just about cleaning, the utmost point of silence where you bow
letting your face touch soft earth, a cold veranda, the mat placed
carefully with odor and soft smoke not colored but smelling of oddly familiar cedars
you grew up playing under, tapping with your hand the bark
without screaming for near ancestry. After that turn your head
to the direction of where the sounds are, not simulated through a headphone
or a speaker but natural, this array of every living thing looking
for a space to be. Cells, cicadas, soft brushing of trees shedding their burdens
hear silence for it has its own sound and calling
careful enough to move the heart forward, by letting it lean backward
this is the state of meditation, the way you make still what moves you
restart to salute the sun, turning right and left
each time it gets cloudy and dark above your head.

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

To the present

Present: 1. (of a person) in a place

without much notice, the leaves turn yellow
as if overnight. No one has requested them to wear
the colors of the city, wait, tell me
how did time dye the leaves my window overlooks?

Read the rest here:

Monday, April 17, 2017

Granting you freedom

It is absurd, how humans think
they are able to grant  a butterfly wings
when she was born with them and waited for their colors to mature.

Sunday, April 16, 2017

the straw

Atop the water floats a straw
a top of turbulent waters, floats a straw
atop the sea's breaking waves, floats a straw

there is a sinking man, a moving current and a straw
may the finds for survival be larger than straws to wrap arms and pull to shore.

Let me paint you

Let me paint you,
I said. handing over a stool with a dripping paint-brush
you turned your face to the other side

the flag

I do not have land to my name
the places I accumulated I have harvested
with local produce, lemon and olives and ash

to grow a tree it takes years
to mark  land it takes a minute
I do not have land to my name

I am woman and a mother does not need
to teach a daughter how to be a mother
or daughter, like instinct, this intuition passes

I do not have land to my name but I have a flag
a flag marks a proud ownership
grab my flag once more, take it from beneath my thumbs
to see, how regardless of land, the lemon and olives will look after me.

in the cavern, at night

Unlit, cavern yet there is music
no presence of tobacco in my lungs but there is smoke
no fire, none on the ground or near the table
but some sparks on the shoulders you massaged.

Wednesday, April 12, 2017

to challenge yourself

Here are some instructions for you to challenge yourself:

- stand atop the mountain and scream none-sense, if the echo answers, run
   do not wait to hear repeated what you have told others
- buy tools that you are unable to use, make a masterpiece in five minutes
   best things come in the most limited of time
- inhale green smoke and tell yourself, it doesn't touch me, this madness
   even if it touches someone else sitting next to you with his hand down your back
- dream in color, but speak in black and white,
  the devil has lodged itself in the clearance and we care for the details
- see the stars, learn how their death lights up the whole world
  stop saying you can be like that, melting for light
- love yourself, despite what they will tell you
   despite how they at around you, refuse, belittle, the little things will find a way to find you.

Monday, April 10, 2017

Not generic

Not all knights need a horse, go convince him
not all nights require a drink at hand, let the glass know too
not all mornings are cloudy or overcasts
not all mourning is black upon  black
if He has ridden a donkey into a city old as my bones
maybe you can walk to me, without shame to your name.

Perhaps, it's too loud

a drumming noise in the back-garden
winter has long passed us by
what confusion of the senses
perhaps it is too loud,
I'm hearing my own heart

the wheel turns endlessly

The wheel turns, this is an endless fate for the revolutionaries 
that they face the wheels with a word, 
a shake in the hip and little fires in the belly 

this is another turn of the wheel
bright eyes, bright smile, a slant in the middle of a speech 
women who write backwards, to mirror an image 

the image is a mirror too, do not mess with the speech
but the wheel of movement marches on 
twenty stomping feet and a fleet of hair in the wind

the spirit of a horse is free, born and bread wilderness 
you cannot contain a horse in a mason jar 
let alone a woman in a flame-like metaphor 

a little and it will end, 
this insane turning like a hurricane that doesn't want to stop
or the tremor of a heart that beat on the wrong side 
too long. 

feels like love

My throat has no sound in it
but music, that has found its way there through
a broken pipe, an old record
this feels like a surge of the ocean
a lot like love.

Sunday, April 9, 2017

Egypt, my child

Christians of Egypt,
I fear for you
the wrath of the Pharaohs.