Appreciation

Saying words of grace
takes time
to arrive first to the heart
the black hole of all things

Smells like Christmas

It smells like Christmas in my kitchen,
smells like the time I stopped
in the heart of the house

right in the middle like a clot
not moving nor let anyone move
to make Christmas over cold stoves

here is a list of things you need for cake
that serves 6, realistically
even if you are on your own:

* peeled apples
* 3/4 sugar
* flour
* cinnamon
* nutmeg
* salt (to taste)

I stand on a flat corner
kneading the flour
needing a listening ear

I stand in the corner
in my house,
shaking like a belly dancer after a long show
cupping powdered sugar to an empty heart

He is born

Rest assured, for He has been born 

the one who created heaven and earth 

the one who saves heaven from this earth.

No appetite

there is no will
you tell me after I nudge you

to eat, to drink
even to live

this is a deep hole that you've sunk in
there is no one to claim

parentage reasons
you hear of wired words hanging:

triggers, envy, exhaustion
fatigue, lack of color, heavy eye-lids
unmatched skies, refusal of entry,
change, chaos, relaxation

the set continues
while you've lost the appetite

to even breathe
call it desperation, some say

but it is all in the gut, I answer.

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?

givers and takers

- practice an open hand
- practice taking something from an open hand
- practice slander
- practice remaining silent
- practice safe arrivals
- practice late text messages after worry
- practice love
- practice another version of love
- practice being present
- practice absence with an excuse
- practice snipping tree shoots
- practice planitng trees.

things I call autumn

once more left
to this rush
the fake leaves I make and call autumn

an east wind in summer

standard summertime
an east wind blows my way
it's only an hour's timezone difference

a hand in fire

I walk hand in hand with fire
you say it is not equal to water

who is crazy enough to compare
fire with water

equate the cause and its effect
the setting and the ending?

I walked hand in hand with water
you say it is cooler on your tongue 

I articulate my vowels differently
how then, do you want me to speak to you
like fire, or like water?

a burial service for the King

Here lies the silent music
of the mourners, piling like rice

waiting for a resurrection
in a wasteland

here like the silent music
of the mourners, with flowers

holding petals, shredded out
yellow, red, pink and gradation of hope

for the King lies in a shroud
made with musk and linen

wrapped, Lord of the universe
maker, human, seeker of peace

here lies the silent music
of the mourners, us among them,

in black and dark blue
roughened and bruised

mourning the tapping
of a morning on the windows of resurrection.

the light of Easter

Believe it or not,
this is how the light disperses
exploding out of death
to rise, on Easter

Weariness in the step

This land makes me, this land kills the things I love
dreams dreamed out of the clouds
weaved with the sun, everlasting rain
this land makes me, Za'tar
breaks me bread, whole-wheat engulfed
kills the chance of standing on my two feet
without crutches propelling me upwards
this land kills those who love it,
with its thrones, with its rye
with what makes of it, a boundless emptiness
without borders or barb-wires.

the taxi tells me

This is what this modern city has become, he says bitterly
stones upon stones, like pillars made to make the city a space
but it is all built on our traditions and ancestors bones
just like this shifting culture we are making tells me again,
the taxi driver who picks me off the street.

Clean, lit place

Over the desks, clear
with a space for the thoughts to arrive
like a bullet train heading to a known destination

plant in a pickle jar

In the name of keeping the environment
from turning its head around us
a bite on our skin, they plant trees in pickle jars.

He understands

The man understands
like the end of disappointment
that love, like sunshine, comes and goes

Winter cleaning

To mop away, the blue hour
the leftover soap not in dishes
this is the warming spring
creeping over the last bits of our winter

A lazy Saturday

Rain has sneaked into your dreams like an old song
tapering over the little things you lay out to sun-dry
coats, misspellings, containers, clothes hanging high and low
you scrape it up, stop complaining about the water
then sit, with fuzzy slippers and old pajamas
watching the same old series run over and over
love scenes, kisses, empty dreams
you light a candle to break away from the dark clouds
lay tucked with the music surrounding you
while you make a composition of the noise and notes
this is a lazy Saturday where you combat all the things
that make you feel alone, all at once.

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

When it falls

When the snow blankets earth above our heads
when it is the edge of December
we wrap around a year
to receive another
without knowledge of what the days hide.