the injured bee

My head stings
says the injured bee
to the hand that hit her

Desolate rain

Desolate  rain

A menacing fox walks

covered by a box

The horses of Bruges

The horses of Bruges
tell a long story
of a lost princess who chased the geese

Snowy trees remind me of sparkles

On her nails, the sparkles
glisten like a tree
left in the snow all night

rocks, bellies

Originality is keeping space
between the pebbles
knowing that dirt can creep under the belly

Question to the wind

What is it like to kiss you
I wondered
asking the wind

voice, women, faith

A woman's voice
moves mountains
so does faith

Rock heavy

my biggest fear
is that each time I harden
I will turn into a rock

olive picking

Three on the floor
legs between buckets and century old trees
olives pitted and non pitted
let down to earth with nimble hands

Look at the birds flying south

Pointing to the birds in the sky you said 

look at the birds flying south 

an act of migration 

I said, it was a dance 

a murmuration,

an act of togetherness 

into an open sky, 

into the sunset the birds 

move together 

next to me, you were silent 

your eyes on the horizon 

its beautiful, you whisper 

I'll think of birds now 

of glorious sunsets 

when I think that you left

fifteen minutes after the birds flew

to get to you

To get to you
I'd have to cross two oceans
I am not a great swimmer
I am also afraid of sharks
I am scared of the high tide
I am captured by the night

to get to you
I'd have to let go
what I have built slowly
an empire of bonds
writings on long summer nights
dancing bodies that excessive love
the difference between the moon and the night sky

to get to you
I'd have to give once more
without expecting to take anything back.

after the heart is open

After the heart is open
I tell her, a wildfire

sweeps around the edges of the room
taking with it, the clothes

the photos, the gifts,
all physical beatings over memory

after the heart is open
a hurricane storms

in its belly there is a calm
unlike a storm, safe from a rain

of stones and waters
things taken from other people

after the heart is open
there is a vacancy

like there never was
wildfire, hurricanes and earthquakes

all forms of natural disasters
caving at the touch of a lover.

Daisies

Ring around the roses
but you pick daisies

not in season, these flowers
that are a wild spring breathing

daisies, daisies
denting on your window

this is age, you sleep
with the daisies looking after you

breathing.

recycling

reuse, the minute because it doesn't come back
reuse, the things you'd throw to others to handle your burdens
reuse, the power of the muscles on a human body
reuse, the weight of a summer's sun on your skin
reuse, the way you turn around to the sound
reuse, the births and deaths of hope
reuse, the purpose you've made for yourself, revised
reuse, the minute of eliminating burdens.

has this autumn started yet?

Has it started, a season like autumn
hot like summer, heavy on the heart
why then, does all this death look like a joke?

it has then started, the cycle of regeneration
fitting into us, a skeleton into the trees
like finger for wooden tables

does it have to make sense?
this destiny, this end
this vacuum?

Peace with a native tongue

The horse in me stopped fighting
for a greener pasture
made peace with the rye around because it was always home.

haikus for an uneventful evening

A hazy evening
a mad hairy dog moves
like wind melting chocolates

heat and cold

how to do deflect from cold?
try a sheet made of wool

how do you deflect from heat?
try a bit of water for better measure

how do you keep a heart warm?
try small things

how do you keep a heart cold?
try the wrong statements

dandelions, or mixed names

what do you call it,
she blinks at me

the flower that you puff
the one for the horses

we call it horse flower
what do you call it?

a dandelion, with mixed names
clear genes to hold its spine up.

in translation

For Z, the better poet

Your words have despair
painted over them like a flag

all I have to do is be a vessel
that carries you across to the other side

with clear thought patterns
copy and paste your despair

over the towns and trees you've cut
with the edge of words

all I have to do is be the eagle
that looks with a sharp eye

on the nuances of what you don't say
does it make sense to paint the desert sand blue?

this too, is  vain, that poetry speaks
better truths than drunks

the truth is, in poetry we are both drunk
enough to reveal our biggest fears

etched with the sense that I lack
this very moment I am addressing

a body of words bigger than mine
washed out like a sea of treasures

fished out like the ways we spell
Baher, the sea, big and understanding of us both

this is what it is like to be someone's despair vessel;
attempt to cover the holes the wind insists on getting into with only bare hands.