New Middle earth

The experts warn-
the desert is taking over earth
water recedes to allow space for dust

show me life and I will show you
the face of your forefather
engraved under these bones

it feels wrong to assume
all that is left of us is a
dust we are making for this new earth

called it mid-terra, middle of the world
make its own land yours
by playing the wrong, right strings

except you do not hit notes
except you only hear deflated
out of tunes wheezing of lungs

ceremonies of the lack of innocence
drowned by the age of five
known to be a castaway with cooler documents

into new areas, you make out of  a comfortable living
an arid soil and request the return of the desert
to its own-

this is a recipe for new earth:

cut enough limbs of some to avoid the return of others
cast the native into the heart of the fish, like a ring
lost forever at its belly

redraw maps with words no one claims
to have said, redecorate the inner walls
with pictures of dancing harem

bellies exposed, heads covered
in shame of a soil that doesn't carry
the incense of the east

recipe for new earth;
stop pouring the blood over the map
let the old earth seep the red moist
to grow trees evergreen and demand of the desert
to take its dust back, demand the seas to spew
the treasures it swallowed, helping to decrease
global warming, at the center of earth

Decision time

On the thirtieth of each month 

when the moon half casts its shadow on earth 

a decision is made: 

a newer start, each time the calendar rounds up to one. 

Mountain Mist

From the top of the mountain the mist covers
the cities, drowning out the noise of vendors
the calls of the Athan that comes from the mosques
the mist is a glorious reversal of the clouds

under the feet, a beetle buzzes an early song
to revert the effect of the times one hunted
for insects to deprive them of song, of joy, of gathering
it soothes the heart, the song, the scent

not of a woman trying to become a flower
but of narjes, narcissus too much into
reflecting among themselves
the possibility of no other

this is how verse comes to the poet,
yoga- splashing on a mountain top
with rain running down old notebooks
wetter, wilder, dreamier lines

too much mysticism runs in these words
there are elements, ends of waters, winds, fire-storms
in these lines but maybe, sometimes the stronger
the ground, the higher the vision

they said poets dream with music on
because the words flow, now on top of the mountain
there is nothing but a few olive trees and morning sun
this is what the eye sees,
from here the watchtowers of the world grew
to make space to destory only to know at the mist's
arrival that pain can reside in the most peaceful moments

Finding metaphors

Spilled between the books, behind the coffee-table
she found a metaphor, that sums her being into one image:
hers only, revealed but associated with the deep connotation
of the salt, the sun, the stars, the shells
lingering she left it to the idea of others-
is it always necessary to each find their metaphor?

night-time in a familiar city

The city at night is a new vision;
this city; empty dancers and full streets
a rattle swinging past midnight in a taxi driver's voice
this city; bars and men with ease
around women who are miles away at mind
strangers in the way the body takes shape into space
this is the new city at night: much too old similarities
stale cigarette buds and empty shot glasses
only the stars are silent these nights.

Staring too long at the sun

Stare at the sun, turn your head away
there are red spots in your view today
unlike the colors, demand, tell me
what use are these eyes when sight is burnt down?

Stolen lemons

At twelve we dunked lemon in salt
all borrowed and chuckled at the taste on our tongues
climbed the fence between us and them, for a taste
sharp for our throats sneaked salt in pieces
from other men's oceans distilled

at twenty four, on the verge of goodbyes
we know, that lemons falling on your side of the fence
taste tangier, have more options of mixing
than with stolen salt, peels buried in the backyard.