Saturday, May 30, 2015

Sinking into a bed

An bury sink sends
a sinking young into the bed,
stars! send them again.

the season gathers us

I haven't seen you in a while,
but-Ramadan gathers us all together
with the Harmattan wind carrying the dust of the Gulf
nothing else of its riches. The dates will wait
for other gatherings, for dates
for the sittings together and sharing the same
wind in our lungs

Come to me

You arrive at my shoulder
with a handful of tears
you scooped by the toning

of a regretful death
you tell me, a few secrets
harder to keep, spilling is easier

you need only hold one bean
it is a classic, what they tell you
about carrying, on your front

a bloating of water, pregnancies
of sugar and lumps truly not ours
you say regret comes in fetuses

when you carry the weight on your back
it is a hunch, a deformation
of the same bones, bent outside for the inside weight

you say, I do it for love,
this suffering, hugs brisked by
snowfall, blood drained through water.

Friday, May 29, 2015

How to be hauntingly careless

jump high, you've got nothing else to lose
no trees left uncut, no money to make a difference
nothing to wear for the Sunday nights

Jump, you've got nothing to lose
no mother to cook for you
fish in an oven flaked by parsley and lemon
or a father to tell you a story about
the chivalry that died in him long before
you were concieved

jump, there's only the air to hold your weight,
the nymphs to pass your song

don't care about death
by the edge of the water

Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Little Luna

Lifted the veil off her eyes
Lit the staircase, twice

Learnt her alphabet backwards
Leapt across ponds in the name of misfortune

Left the cakes to bake
Let out a cry when the surface burnt out

Lead her brother to the lion's den
Lashing out at him for coming back empty handed

Lurked in the shadow of the stars

Lost half of her brain in a nutshell
Loved too little
Loathed too frequently


Tuesday, May 26, 2015


the numbers of times staring only brings forth
lack of words

like there is no begging, no beginning
middle of the end, the action starts

the number of times winning tug of war
only to fall flat, ass first and hands burnt by the rope

like the music played in the gradation of the night
to induce better sleep

a nameless face to a child who has been named
but hates the formality of titles

like there are other things to fill the whites
other than long lists of people's moods

a chance to create more, own less
nothing is worth the exchange of soul and water

like the title holds so much
yet so little significance.

Monday, May 25, 2015

This is how a woman loves

This is how a woman loves
with her ineptitude to hate

the curls, the cigarette 
things she couldn't choose
things she cannot change 

Sunday, May 24, 2015

Room corners

there is joy in removing the corners of a room,
like puzzles, take them out together and you
will find  color to defer darkness

Saturday, May 23, 2015

Cinquain for friendship

long tails brushing with venom at their tips
to hunt or protect
from a shadow or a friend
just beware.

Friday, May 22, 2015

Don't think of others until...

I used to think you were reckless,
motor-cycle parked and regret stitched onto your left arm
 tattoo of wolves howling in the dark

I used to think you were sadistic,
laughing death off its face with
a jaw tightened around your foot

 I used to laugh at the way
you held a glass full of daisies
on top of your head

move, you said
posture is important
for the straightening of chests

clogged by anger
and this pollution, this pus
that's killing all of us

it never made sense
the energy it took
to watch a smile

forming onto your face
maybe we are not always
meant to understand

that certain thoughts demand
more of us
than we are willing to provide

in shapes, in words
even silence

demands too much,
I used to think so much of you
like you were a broken piece of glass
scratching my palms,
making me bleed. I feared blood
on your young face,  too young for twisted lips
and broken bones. No need for sliding miles
on the motorway
To think you are reckless
it was the third survival incision's scar
I saw that stopped
my thoughts

Thursday, May 21, 2015

Gone, now

Pigeons crooning, for want of water
the red feeder is empty but of ants
your house, vast with sunshine streaming the windows
but cobwebs refuse to grow
respecting the space of their owner
you have been gone a while now
no one promises the spiders
the length of their wait

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

forgetting flowers

Three flower petals on my window
browned to crust,
must be forgetfulness, these days

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Where next...

Two roads diverged in an asphalt city
and we chose to walk here
promising a return
if you walk a road once, it is part of you
a journey back will be labeled with names
laden with bags, probably a gift bubble-wrapped in T-shirts
probably not

two roads diverged with a
return flight ticket booked, for a minute
who knows where next?
might be a star, falling into my lap
might be a bench with you
might be another chance for new faces
no one knows if the compass will point north
this time round

Monday, May 18, 2015


Your body is not safe on shore
nor in sea, you delicious thing
refugee, cast by sand
nibbled by fish

Sunday, May 17, 2015

graceless, sometimes

To think we are missing is vain
there is enough for us
but we never see it

we never reach out
to our feet, holding our vices
our virtues, we never look down

smiling, whisper, thank you for moving around
steadily, timely, duly
instead we blame an old shoe

too coarse gravel, too soft sand
funny, we really are once the look of satisfaction

this beauty we sense gently, for what could one day
become a pharaoh's curse
whatever it is you love

can kill you, if it wants to rebel
for acts of uncommon courtesy
little do we know to forward grace

like an arrow, sharp
splitting the targets, the arrows shot beforehand
grace comes in force
and complaints rain like meteors in the spring.

Saturday, May 16, 2015


Start not with a negation
no one likes negativity when they open
the window for sunshine, the day for a start
evacuate the thoughts of yes and no
nothing is black and white, there should be
a shade of gray-scale for light days

Friday, May 15, 2015

the color of the dead

It is not always red,
death is often an abstraction
sometimes green with envy of better rest
longer sleeps at night when there lacks slumber
sometimes it is blue, mostly, for the trace
it leaves, on the ground, like a storm
that will not end
sometimes we cannot tell
oak tree, or sandal wood, whiffs
there are a million shades
of dead
and so is the metaphor, of gold and lead
eating out my neighbor's head

Thursday, May 14, 2015

hormone hierarchy

This is hormone hierarchy,
 allows you the bed
 I, the pillow
will hold the head, eager

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

Bells prayer

I sneak into the sound of the bells
five beads in my hand, wooden
round, like earth with endless possibilities

Tuesday, May 12, 2015


She colored her eyes, blue
he colored his eyes, green
they never needed to change their eye color before
now it gets them caught,

Monday, May 11, 2015


In the summer's dream
these feet, wide
feathers that stumbled

Sunday, May 10, 2015

Tangerine Dance

Tangerine drapes your legs
but mint is fresh in your mouth
the rose-garden at your neck
you look good when you step
into music, like it is the last thing that concerns
the living creatures
like it is the first thing you smell
when you move

Saturday, May 9, 2015


We have met a long time ago
with the storks, you came
bundled with laughter
brushed with a joker's hat

sometimes I don't understand half of what you refer to,
intense movements on the green grass in the summer
and the swish of names taller than me
you lovingly tease, these small bones

there are days when I am filled with pepper
chili, hot and fire-filled
to the core, I will push your strings
perhaps plan to overtake the city
you have virtually built out of sweat and tears

but I won't, instead I will be
the soft board that navigates the way
you talk to me of chalky beings
made up of our creation, play and hide

don't wake me up on the weekends unless you
seek my ribbons, the one you used to steal
in childhood, to make ropes to climb the tree
take the ribbons from the second hand-side drawer,
 tie the new ends now

Friday, May 8, 2015

Flowers, at rest

Face to face with a three foot stone
I have to accept now that you are here
this is your new house, no sofas
no extremely loud television playing in the background
no photo albums nor drawers
this is where you rest now
that you have become, a flower

Thursday, May 7, 2015

City on fire

Good morning,
the city didn't sleep again today
there are many songbirds, on the pavement
shot by the cold of winter
and the voice of an elder shouting
good morning, my city
Good morning, the marches
the colors separated by buses
where hues interline
to shred, birds, songbirds
Good morning, my torn city

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Desire to roam

Digging around the village,
I march, sifting the pebbles
how insignificant, ant-like
does this make us feel,
the grander of land, the fading
of our desire to roam

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

Don't kill the magic

Three doors down the room I can smell
the salt brewing up into a potion
of tiny feet, strong hands and an arm

to hold off the night at bay
there are other little details I cannot
overlook, the way the stirring
rounds up into a conversation of opposites
like darkening cocoa, like tragedies unfolding

you assure control, once more
of the pigeons appearing in your dreams
begging you a departure, homewards
to a land of seeds and sunshine
here, just hats and rings,
how mundane

then there's the saw,
snarling and rattling,
like a clear incision
of iron staples, you cannot sew back
things you have completely amputated

I tell you against applying too much make up
against using too many props
I have always suspected the magic,
never once the magician.

Monday, May 4, 2015


The catcher feathers
a blowing set of fireworks
from his feathers

Sunday, May 3, 2015

Darling, stand

I've never seen the walls tumble
because of a song before
but here we are, your voice
booms into the walls, cracking
the marble, the whites into a prolonging
of springtime
please, stand by me.

Rest in peace, Ben E. King

Saturday, May 2, 2015

On Jerusalem

'Stormy, husky, brawling' Chicago, Carl Sandburg.

Parched from the lack of trees
sensing the feet of a hundred sinners
a picture of a mosque, a church, an olive tree
my birthplace

The virgin statue in the neighborhood

On the street I live, is a statue of the Virgin
glazed in roses, incense and the azure blue of her robes
my best friend used to tell me, the Virgin's tender eyes
haunt her day, I told her light a candle and pray at her feet
she said, her God doesn't deal in candles
but with the contents of the heart,
sacred and scared
she like the birds, flies close but never too close to the statue

I pass the statute every day, say Hail, Mary save us
from the devil and I never once say that I,
I  am scared of the statue's shadow
falling on my skin.

Common Sense

Exacting the thought of realistic wakefulness 
to the demeanor of our day to day 
we fetch for common sense between the folds of sheets
pretend like it will be where we left it last.


In the suitcase she leaves
unimportant items, a stone from the house she lived
a bottle of holy water, for the danger unassumingly
arriving by carriages and wagons
she throws aside little clippings of the men she loved
with their features, dumps them in a plastic bag
how insignificant they seem
now she's on a different piece of land, far
from the days dunked in lonesomeness
graced by the whiskey and coke, to assure sweetness

why wonder, why leave the smallest things
between the zips of  a suitcase, she knowingly
approves of removing last ties to tasteless soil
would spare her the thought  of looking for the northern compass
scary, it is to find a place
that grips us by our feet

One day without her

The floor piles with unwashed hunger,
garden herbs have climbed the neighbor's wall
socks are running a marathon with the wind
today, of all days, mama is sick.

If I were a poet

If I were a poet, words would mean something
other than a stitch on the white paper

If I were a poet, I would
write in color and think in white

If I were a poet, I would
kneel at the hum-drum of rhyme

If I were a poet , I would be able
to better describe your eyes, to better paint your features

If I were a poet, I would make sure
nothing passes unnoticed by glancing

If I were a poet I would make use of candle light
but I am not a poet and you are not my midnight song
I am just someone who has befriended words
and waited for the sunlight to arrive, for too long


so much we don't hear
the riff of a morning bird, silly by his forgetful tunes
like a warning, to the unprepared generation
anticipating nothing but a flood of sand
there would be rain of particles and dust and storm
to overcome, to crush, to submerge all the senses

these are the little things we don't hear
catching us at a grip, the conversation of the stars
with the eternal moon, sick with envy of daylight
there will be several hours to lack competition
while the rest of the world sleeps

these are the little things we don't hear,
the sound of the gargle, of the river
there's enough fish for the prolonging of the swim
how everything bends for water, respecting its ability
to carve its way into the deepest of valleys, and giving them
their name

so much we don't hear,
the tone of the universe, the little things
mother's voice when it comes like the waking of sparrows
Music when it hits you, leaving you speechless
while you catch the subway to work
each morning.

Friday, May 1, 2015

Arrival of summer

There's enough fish in the tank, swimming
in the kitchen, the soup is boiling,
someone will arrive to eat soon
but the tap doesn't provide water
summer has arrived