Friday, June 30, 2017


This is the state of grace
that things moving backward
find the clock handles ticking forward
a cuckoo bird singing, it is already morning.

Thursday, June 29, 2017

Upon returning

you note how your absence is the same as your presence
enough of old fashioned items, same bed, same pillows
nothing changes but you, you breathe a bit wider and smile a bit longer
because in your step forward, it has shifted
all that keeps you standing still.

Wednesday, June 28, 2017

Fallen over

Fallen to pieces, your favorite mug
these hands, shook at your voice
I apologize, for the ruins

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Calling the other side of the country

we call each other, voices tittering, cyber hugs
before I reach you; I think you are like me,
ordinarily sweet, brown-eyed, olive skinned,
unlike me you'd have sea-salt in your eyelashes
a crush kissing the brown bow you use to wink to men

lower shyly when a friend is around 

Monday, June 26, 2017


It was called Ra, once
the day the pharaohs discovered
what burns you is sent from above

Ra, a sun upon my head this morning
I do not pray nor believe in the past life
just this present that I can barely handle

handles tied to my waist, like a bicycle
we would march on,
toes-in-sand, like land-crabs

there is a sun over my head today
that burns slowly, responding Ra Ra Ra
like a wave that bounces of the shore
and comes to greet me.

Sunday, June 25, 2017


not with blood nor with old guns
the arrival of a new moon and the fast is now done.

Saturday, June 24, 2017

G, lies softly

between lads, lie, softly,
like a waterfall that is loud to hear yet oddly sensory

like love, be forceful
an indentation before speech

between the dance-moves become
a pain dried up, like a well that hasn't seen rain

like dewy grass, attend to the possibility
of containing little things; laughter and bugs, children and adults smiling

sailor, you are, between the lost lads
waves lapping on tomorrow relying on yesterday

you become tongues unspoken and bottles unbroken
not sealed or sent to perfection but a space

to find possible this leaning forward,
that prancing, that dancing, the friendship that stays.

Friday, June 23, 2017

excuse my absence

excuse my absence, for it will be
lacking words, chasing a silver cloud
that has gone too near, yet too far this summer
a shooting star that fleets by unknowing of its own end

I write in backward letters yet think straightforward
why do the sounds take longer to leave me?

excuse my absence, for I will be riding a wave
thinking of land, whispering a bohemian dream
to those who can sleep while listening
to fury the same way they do music

excuse my absence,for I will be looking into a magnifying glass
at the grains of sand.

Thursday, June 22, 2017

this fear of the past

like an ant, is the fear of the past
quiet and persistent, like an ant
climbing a chain-saw reel

your bike

In dirt and half paved roads
it spins quicker than my heartbeat
your ridiculous blue bike.

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Seen, with others

Do to others the same that is done to you
like help, remove dirt from their eyes
to make clearer, their vision

Monday, June 19, 2017

like salt

Like salt, dissolved into everything
went missing,
three children and a man who cause so much laughter

Foam memory

What's better than a sleep
a restful bliss in the night
deprived, are the insomniacs

what's better than this body
your one own true house
to take you in, to let you be?

slowly, it descends onto you
the night, masterful player
of what you are and what you will be

I know myself by keeping time

I keep time, the way a farmer looks after grains
with a serene knowledge that there will be blossom
in the spring. I keep time like grains

I keep grains like I do memory
some fresh with today's hope
some other laden with the grief that finds me when I least expect it

like watching you sleep

like seeing your body rise and fall in breath
in some other person's dream
there is a memory to where my hands reach for you

foam memory, the indentation that is left
when your body rises, that the bed remembers you
the way my knuckles fill softly the spots where your fingers should have been

this memory wraps us both
like a foam that reverts to be
not the surface of the sea

but what's better than sleep, for us, those who think before closing their eyes.

a return

 your absence
my presence, like old fashioned items
borrow, never returned

incomplete poetry

the words, all incomplete, half-rhymes
half lines, how do you imagine them to be whole
when the letters do not speak to one another?

Why this will not matter

Because I said to you, I will stay and lied
this will not matter

because I see myself, in a frigid city
scavenger of Za'tar to make you happy, this will not matter

because it is only secondary, to want and burn the bread
while you day-dream of the past, this will not matter

because I still write in cursive while most other type letters
to you, to them, to the universe but mostly for myself, this will not matter

because the trees have blossomed, then lost shape, then regained leaves
while I was just watching, this will not matter

because there are more dead people than one could count on ten fingers
and our death is faster than life here, this will not matter

because each time I wear my thobe, I forget how long it takes
to stitch together one life, one thread at a time, this will not matter

because I was never a freedom fighter,
even if I believed I could never live  in a cage, this will not matter

because the longer I write, the easier it is for me to reach myself
this will not matter,

because of all the times I wrote I was using the wrong pronouns,
writing to you, to he, to she, instead to the "I" the eye ignored
this will not matter

The lonesome

This is what the lonesome does
craves a hand to walk with to the end of the road
but sits firmly to watch the others run in good time

Visiting Darwish, once more

Under the willow, is his grave,
I point to the butterfly effect that the shadow drops over 
where the tree meets the top of the stone

sleep. sleep here, eternally
for how many women have lain braids of their hair and peace 
onto your body? 

sleep and rest, poet 
with you words and old poetry, 
a smell of a woman with braids of wheat onto your body

under the willow is his grave 
but in the room is his passport, old and torn 
letters of love and letters of disappointment line the walls 

what lines line our day with words 
all known, that lead into nothing
everything real will go too

the record plays his voice when he had left 
somewhere between death and live, he has walked 
how slow are these other walkers!

in life he lives simply;
ate at the same restaurants 
made love to the anise strong Arak, loved the night 

sat beneath willows, they do not grow here
but out of the roots of exile 
alien, too foreign, these leaves

treat it like a shawl poet
let the braids of the trees cover you 
head to toe where no woman could now 

under the willow is his grave
beneath the butterfly effect 
I stand, pray, to return once more.

your voice

A wind sweeps past you,
this is your voice, someone says
why do you have to howl and scream
isn't music also, a voice?

Rejection, like a ring

You treat rejection like you would a fallen stone
at the bottom of the lake, taking down a precious ring with it
you know it lives outside of you, while you cannot see it
it is still there, in the deep, for the fish to swim around
scoop or glare at the glistening shine and your misery.

Saturday, June 17, 2017

a strangeness in the city

This city, holy and unscrambling
is small enough to contain us both
big enough for us not to cross paths

wishes, she said

like glue, she said, wishes are stuck to your lashes
the minute one falls, make a wish and close your eyes
I keep counting lashes, without waste

Saturday, June 10, 2017

a sense of wonder

Lifting the night, is the dawn
as I watch the city sleep 
I tie together my life, 
how long since the colors made me realize I miss wonder
the amazement at everything beyond my arm's reach. 

Thursday, June 8, 2017

instead of a wall, a grey wall

Eyes shut, I can tell there were once flowers here
where there was once a street
now is just a pile of grey concrete

I used to remember
pink flowers swooshing past the islands
in the middle of the world
as if between the world and me

were those pink flowers 

it didn't change, who said so?
Don't let my tenses confuse you

there were once pink flowers, that still are, living
as if frozen, piled over with concrete
as in, a way to forgetfulness is to cement
make a base and go on from there

between the world and me
there were once pink flowers
that were, that still are, cemented 
into a wall- instead. 

this shadow of yours

With a switch of a light-bulb
it disappears, like love
this shadow of yours

Monday, June 5, 2017

call onto yesterday's light

The thrill of a slumber continued in you
like a long wait about to be broken
into two, a present minute and a past hour
this is what waiting has done to us,
the ones desolate enough to call onto yesterday's light to cure the blames.

Sunday, June 4, 2017

the city's waters

The city hasn't fallen and its bridges stand still
I recall, lost, as in unable to find myself
a straw in a old bag of beans

someone said walk the river trail
where there is water, there are others
as in, you will never get lost if you know
the source is always your northern compass

so I walked over to find myself again
a small whiteness over my skin
eyes, brown, like my grandfather
tortured three times to let you rule

and conquer, a kingdom fallen
princes belittled, but in the city I had found myself
we grew up singing to its bridge
off it, the fallen, had found the water

we were never silent
because we knew how to swim
if you follow the trail of the river
you will never get lost.

Saturday, June 3, 2017

destitution forms the night

Destitution comes in the form of the night
knocking on a closed door, a thought,
thrown around like an old song worn into vanity
contending to your shadow as a means of reflection

desire comes in the form of the night
this is a destitute attempt at shaking away
the dust that clamped its way into my ears
I cannot hear a song and this is a song for you

death too comes in the form of the night
quiet slumber and pained turning over in bed
like the sheets have the ability to swallow over
dreams painted grey with slow breathing

destitution comes in the form of the night
running onto your shadow, like an old reflection
like assuring bearable, a shade in hell
I cannot hear a song and this is a song for you

what's wrong?
have the music stopped or am I too deaf to the same old tunes?


this apology that does not arrive
with limited vocabulary, like habibti,
loved one, folded twice, like a kitchen towel
left on the counter to gather dust.

Thursday, June 1, 2017

a month's opener

If the new month opens itself
with better manifestation of the sunshine
does it eradicate the clouds that still float, timelessly.