No longer

Is the voice using
the words like can and cannot
these are auxiliary verbs- words that keep moving.

Another way to look at the question

Create opportunities
is what I hear being said, every time someone mentions
another building has effectively fallen.

The Laureate's birthday

This is the day you were born
a quote to celebrate your achievements is dotted over space

your vices, are kept hidden, like the same answer formalation
we give to tyrants and presidents at the same time

they've broken us, but we refused to break
this is something only you would write

only a man would write
only a man with a messy desk would write

only a man with slanting glasses and exiles would write
only a man with torn out passports and detention orders

it only took one man, to cover on a national level
causes that are ours and not ours at the same time

without blanketing but with the written word
the word that had descended first from a mouth holier than yours

having never kissed as many women
from both sides of the equation, yet remained grounded

it will sound sacrilegious if I speak of poets- national- like I would speak
of excuses, long and unbending

there are days where I work in your shadows
there are others where I taper into your spirit

a butterfly effect from a man's heart
crawling lightly on a woman's chest

from a balconey that overlooks
your grave, I will whisper today,

Happy birthday, restful laureate
for in death only you have found your peace.

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.

How close, how far?

I stand near where I buried my dreams last,
the vast space overlooking the hill
and a long street that could have been a high street
there's something inspiring about the state of poverty

it moves with you regardless of where you find your footing
in the world above and beyond you
close or far to the point of origion
everyone has a root, essentially

but this state of poverty never leaves you
the runs in you are bigger than ladling with dirt your hands
your land has been sown and replanted
over the years yet still you cannot cover yourself from the sun

I stand near where I buried my dream last,
a cotton candy seller walks past
hauling pink-puffed promises in plastic bags
I lift a prayer to present myself into the chaos

please preserve my dreams intact 
beneath realities rained by rubble 
let me be, vast and rounded 
like the eternal sea in me.

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.

A day, selected for women

Selected, like a hand picking a flower out of its stem
is the day made to celebrate a majority
the inclination towards saying words that mean little on the ground stifles
all hopes I have built with imagination all those years
but a flower meeting my fingertips should be enough
to inspire me to make something valid at your hand
a celebration that fits me with my curves-
hugging me from head to toe.