Wednesday, January 31, 2018


A day recoils
With an old, warm fool surrender
This is routine 

A photograph before the family

repeat with the smile still on his face
my neighbor
who became a photograph before his family

A super blood moon, tonight

Keep your eyes on the skies tonight
the witching hour has a spectacular sight
tonight's full moon is the product of three phenomena

it will be a blue moon, a red moon, a super moon
for the times you were red and blue, moaning
the moon will appear larger and brighter

it will also be a blood moon
the shadow of Earth
will lean to breach over the fields

Stargazers, eastern and central will see a clear skies
the Wolf moon falls over us, it had once inspired
mankind, enchanting with witches' calls

packs of wolves hungry
to rare breeds, run after the thirst of blood
yet there are many bleeding without purpose

here is everything you need to know
full moons can be admired
they light up the skies, like fireworks, like phenomena
gathering wolves, witches and men under one roof.

Conversation with a cat-caller

You hoot,
like an owl in the morning

I forgo the words you say
like a sinking coin in a well

turn to let you know
you emit what falls onto you

unnecessary wind, dirt
things you heard work to charm a woman

but a woman unlike a non-living thing
has a voice, siren-like and sharp

you hoot and whistle once more
I ask you for reasons behind birdcall

you answer it is about the day begining
a rise of birds to answer for morning

but it does not raise the level needed
to act like a human would

like a human, I talk to your no longer listening ears
this time I will have the final say.

observations of a young new mother

Wavy wintertime
his little hair creates
a break in the rain that’s falling
before the chocolate is consumed
by his little milky teeth

what breeds in violence

Above the jaw, 
a little bellow the eye, 
not pink nor blue 

a little purple these days
she describes
exact location to where he deflated his anger 

I, blue and black 
know that what she said will ring in my ears longer than expected.

As you hold my body

As you hold my body, know this
you hold jazz in the lungs instead of wind
indie in the steps
blues in the soul
a latin fire in the kiss

As you hold my body know this
it does not break like a biscuit
but hardens like a rock in the sun
aging simply with flowing days

As you hold my body, know this
you keep in your hands a space
of ideas and worries
storage of flesh, blood and sun rays

As you hold my body, know this
I am holding back in my hands
those little building blocks that make you too.

Saturday, January 27, 2018

a blackout of houses and memory

Speak in a nonlinear language
about the first flower in earth this season

but how can I forget to mention 
how this land has been cultivated 

with blood and sweat
kisses and hard blows to its guts 

how can I switch the ways 
in which I think, only worry about which flower is first to bloom 

out of the same earth that contains 
the ash that had been once human, lost without question 

with the fever of a thousand houses 
collapsing at once, a blackout of live and memory.  


how could you, talk to all strangers?
asks the same woman that motivates
a sprint in steps, an opening up to the world
mother of mine.

I want to meet you

I want to meet you, new love of mine
away from all the old places you found me with rimmed glasses and old notebooks

I want to meet you, love, anew
in places where you won't normally find me

in the library, the quiet section
where I sit to read of other people fall in love

around the bend in the road
where all the young boys fall, where all the men avoid walking

in a loud bar, where the lighting is florescent
and I am not wearing bright colors

on a dance floor where my feet know the beat
and your eyes dart to where I step

in a wheat field now winter is clearing
and spring enters into effect with its wild rye

in an office by the copy machine
where I make duplicates of the same thought I made earlier that morning

in a church, where I feverishly look
for the different manifestations of God around me

in the high tides of the ocean, in the low murmur of the trees
I want to meet you, new love, wherever you find me.

perception in darker eyes

it comes as a point of appreciation,
in darker eyes,
the nuances you lack to see in yourself

A free weekend morning

Pour the coffee to your taste
three thirds black and blonde, this is how we refer to the bean

wait for the sun to clear out behind the clouds
it had risen while you were sleeping

dream big and believe in the beauty
of the rain as it drops past your window

don't think of it as loneliness
think of it as freedom to tell another tale

take time out to learn how your body
curves willingly into a dance of its own

a free moment is rare in this fast age
just take it slow.

a wonder, a river, an animal

The river filters out
the wonder of the animal that bends to drink

A new thought

This is what arrives to you
the new thoughts that fill you
once you clear of the past demonic appearances

Tuesday, January 16, 2018

the pain in your chest

There is pain in your chest, a little cold
the wind has caused it yet it grows,
this pain when you think of the ones who are cold
without blankets to cover the frigid fingertips and toes.

Monday, January 15, 2018

All else at once

You only appreciate your back when you stand
only look into the ability to breath when you are wrapped with a blanket
this is the short contradiction you are mostly yourself when you stop being 
all else at once. 

Why can I not write about you?

Maybe I over-wrote of my feelings to you
too many time exhausted the similes
of you, old lover, like an apparition that is no longer with me.

Saturday, January 13, 2018

Indigo child goes worldwide!

Each of us holds within a point of light and pride, I am proud to call myself a reader.

Before I go on, I will leave you in a context of this post. In 2016, I was part of the larger international IWP family (that is the International Writing Program in Iowa) and I was also a traveler across the globe. Aided by my love for the words I had started to see the world with its people, with its places and in books. The world wasn't just continents floating around the great blue mass pinned over each atlas I opened, it was alive and bursting with stories.

My reading however, wasn't. I could talk for hours about the newest YA novel, about intellectual inspirations in local literature but with all my head-buried in books days I still couldn't tell you what was the most exciting Icelandic book I've read, or what was trending in Armenia. I couldn't even talk about modern Arab fiction properly. I am a polyglot which means I get access to the literature in its different languages yet I am unable to grasp the rich essence of the world.

This year and likely the first half of next year  I want to attempt to change these reading habits. I want to spend the next (78 weeks) reading the world (following the example of Ann Morgan). Now I am being realistic with the goal since I work 5 days a week and I would need to read 196 books for all the UN recognized countries (replacing the Holy See with Scotland and adding Taiwan to my list courtesy of my best friend) but I trust that I can make it. For ease of access I will only be reading in both English and Arabic to keep time for reflections.

I would like to hear from you what are your favorite books from around the world by localities/country?. What are the local books trending where you are in the world? Which authors' works left you speechless?

My only take on this that the books to be linked to nationals of the countries not to what others slot as a certain literature of that country. I love fiction and poetry but I will also be dabbling with non-fiction and memoir, I would try to avoid the YA genre having spent years reading the genre I would like to see the world with adult eyes.

I leave this chance for you to inspire me with your suggestions and I will make sure I keep updating with the most striking of reads as time floats by.

I wait for an answer

I wait for an answer
that doesn't come by your way
have I wronged you with my time?

manifestations on the world Batel (useless/lost/gone to waste)

is the way you define the lack of use, we say batel
as in discarded, as in empty and cast aside on the road
like an old flute that can no longer hum melodies

is the way they tell you age shows in your bones
on the skin marks creasing over your eyes
like age is more than the strikes the sun makes on your face

they hit him with egg and shoes
like all men do to those who commit treason
like those who are batel by virtue of uselessness to the nation

the way his hand turned around her neck
like a rope on desire
as in throbbing, as in harsh- the marks left behind

from Batal, a hero
that who makes of himself a story, after uselessness

is the way you define the lack of use
as in a self carried like the stars across the seas
as in a redefinition of the ways a gate closes on its secrets
like an old flute that can no longer hum melodies
batel,down-right useless, this power in the words.

I want to paint you a story

I could have painted you a story
in the colors and sounds available to my hands
but my paint-brush is broken and it is expensive to replace the color
with a simile.

I could have made a story sparkle on your skin
leave you with the effect of sunlight over a lake
I want to leave you with a story
that comes from nature to find you when you want to just hide.

it follows me, this flight

It follows me
the way she speaks about love
like birds taking flight into the Amazons

Monday, January 8, 2018

Brave in the little town of Bethlehem

I wonder how the star
can know well the times the savior keeps being born
once for the East and once for the West
this division of the same God carries its footsteps
in my blood, where millions can be brave
brave in the little town of Bethlehem.


There is a chance you take on kindness
an attempt to shine a light where there is no electricity
efforts you take leading nowhere

a lesson in the history of art

Talk about where the brushstroke has fallen
within eye-sight to mark essential visuals
for you and me to talk lofty about
call the mess and the minutes we had
a history of art

Sunday, January 7, 2018

this is womanhood

This is womanhood
you are bent over like a folded paper
yet are expected to keep standing.

Thursday, January 4, 2018

the truth, how hard

the truth is harder
to break down
than the glass- bottles consumed in the process.

Wednesday, January 3, 2018

challenge to pick sides

It is a challenge
to pick up a side, in a battle
if you are always looking at it unfold from outside.

Monday, January 1, 2018

Not a sugar cube

You are not a sugar cube
my mother used to tell me, why then do I
fear the rain that could fall flat on my head
gentle and with vigor forcing me to run
to the nearest street-corner, hide and cover like it is the end of times?

we talk about love the way we talk about trees

We talk about love the way we talk about trees
long, lean and taller
hard of our reach and still standing the storms.