one hundred and two years old

one hundred and two years old
we are turned away from the face of the fire

by virtue of one document
oh, how important is paper to this land

taken out of the roots of its olives
splashed with the ink of hundreds tears

black as the day we were signed off
a place for no one, left for everyone

this is the fate of nations
for their kindness, a blow on the head

an increased hundred and two
years of pain washed out with sea-salt.

Strike

It is all closed, the storefronts
the streets, all void of people

it is all kept at bay
the cooking, the school-boys running with burdened bags

it is all left behind
the tiresome, slow hours of work

it is all closed off, striking
except the windows to my heart, open.

citywide

I have been thinking about this word for three days now
how can something be wide as the city

yet small enough to contain a sack of old marbles
crossing the pit where they were thrown

I have been thinking about this word for three days now
how a thing can multiply and find itself similar

in cities that wear different capes, husky
brawling, windy or plain desert like

I have seen people describe cities
like they would a lover

with soft eyes, with skin for stones
but I have seen cities eroding people

like lime to acid
like our city to our heads

this is a citywide gathering
for town-wide hearts.

falling stone

There's a stone that fell
rolling with it
a nation

Jerusalem, the heart

Eighteen times, built and destroyed

imagine the damage 

I have only once built 

one sandcastle then jumped on it 

imagine, seven doors 

open then another six waiting for Judgment Day

I have only once waited

for a letter of your judgment, never arriving 

imagine a bullet-hole in a metal door

marking the wars on the land

I have seen a war rage inside of me
on the seven doors of the city, where I walk and weep every day.

Palm Sunday

He enters Jerusalem
like a soft breeze, on a donkey
we weep the walls that keep falling for him

in my birth city, without you

In my birth city, without you, there's a tightness in my chest
you are over the clouds but it feels that I have kept you inside of me
somewhere exactly near where I keep the affirmations
that are developed across mirrors, chats and wine glasses
I am in my birth city, without you, in our birth city
one we call hometown, the mighty Jerusalem that still stands
minus the towers of the fort that hold her protected.

The TV shows me

The TV shows me fire
screams at me with slogans and rocks
all I see is mothers and daughters waiting
for their loved ones to return

hometown

I have seen a different rain this winter
mothers' eyes clouding over
sons screaming, fainting on the tarmac where the warriors once walked
locking children in the houses
clouds lifting from earth- skyward
this is my hometown, midwinter. 

memoriam

Your photo is framed black
the women weep
come back, even for a second

they say when the prayers rise
get across the river

come back the women say
but your photo is framed black

On the news, the streets of your city

On the news
the most familiar streets you've walked
the grocer's, the post-office, the place you fell when the school-girls laughed
the bookshop, its glass doors, it will all look different
with the same intensity, it becomes foreign

on the news, the most familiar streets in your city
become alien, when the tanks start moving in.

in times of desolation

Locked are the gates of the city
ones only opened by God

those who pray outside the fortified castle
hear the screams of the sinners inside the walls

those who do not pray will not come to understand
that a revelation only comes if you kneel on hard stone

skin in the night, not glowing
prayers never soft or slow

locked are the dates of the city
ones only opened by God

try as you might, the faithful can hear the sinners
murmur under their breath, that only prayer works
in times of desolation, like these minutes.