Oeuvre The Moon

As i water my plants with love?

no back to youth.

I babble letters that relate to love, Not knowing where I left the words. Misplaced them, perhaps, Over there on the table, Maybe somewhere in my purse. They seem to be of little use when the fire and fury have gone out; When the dragon’s numb within It hoards gold but gives it up to the slightest of sin. “take whatever you want, for I lost and you continue to win” Its claws like the palms of an infant. weak and harmless, tamed when it should not. It breathes winter while it wishes for its own summer sun It’s wings grounded and pinned to the gutter. I pronounce letters the relate to pain, knowing their coordinates on a flat white plane. Placed in a frame above my head where I sleep, hidden in plain sight as I greet it with open eyes every day, the vision blurred My heart burned as it should yet now it only aches. The dragon no longer familiar with its essence, It gave up on me as did my lover’s presence. Slayed with pain, cuffed by distance, tortured by the same scene over and over again. It rages no longer, It forgot its chords exist, its neck wilted, its back bent, lost trust in itself, thinking it’s only a mutant reptile, in the end.

until they swim to shore and prosperity has taken its solid-liquid form.

To journey in a life of people, I understand I drink from a broken glass. that took an age of man and fire to mold yet took clumsy fingers to shatter as the second unfolds.  Once shattered, it never looked the same it never felt the same, too injuries protested their existence on the barrier , de-marking all boundaries between me and you lost pieces, too small to find, make the biggest differences. They’re the emptiness through which thirst creeps never quenched by sips of air.  I drink from a broken glass that tears my lips;  I taste the blood I see it red, paper cuts on my finger-tips. Broken glasses were never meant to hold so much next time I’ll learn to weigh the roughs, I’ll drink straight from the river as it never runs dry ill trust the palms of my hand to bear the water I need and drip that which I don’t until my skin grows tough.

Who am I The silhouette of the sun only clearer behind the clouds, softer as it sets The moon: visible when showered with light from non of its own The stars on my lover’s shoulders; hold me tall, hold my high. Let my palms rest on the curvature of your being. The rotation of the planets, drawing floral patterns onto the ever dark backdrop An explosion of supernovas beneath my skin splattering ink of all colors A blooming spring in my chest where wild flowers grow timid A deep breath away from a Mediterranean Monsoon A visiting autumn in my brown, brown eyes; I’ve seen myself fall one too many times An inevitable winter taking refuge in my stomach, the cold sets in only to ask for nurture, I wrap my arms around it. A statue of drying clay left on no-mans-land; the enemy is as close as the friend; my bones hesitate to move, I was never trained to dodge bullets, only to take them for you. The fashioned finger prints unique to my touch, I leave traces of me everywhere I go Every music note that echoed in my heart and resonated in my mind The colors of world behind my closed eyes. It’s a shame I only see the rainbow. The spectrum of emotions ranging from one side of my lips to the other, the graphs of my face read on a seismograph or broadcasted on the weather news; dress up for a rainy day and a summer breeze. My back bone, like a content page in a history book, every vertebrae grows in memory of what was lost and what was gained. I’ve lived too long to explain and will continue to live within the incarceration of time-too-short

The moment I step foot in Lebanon I will take a deep breath and allow a storm to brew within my confined lungs. I will cry out the rain just in time to water seasonal flowers I will fill a tea pot with water and let it sit and simmer and boil over I will drink burnt water and adore the taste on my tongue. I will wake up at 6 am to the sound of my neighbors’ honking get ready, strap my boots. my honeys are waiting for me and I need to buy time to get there sell me the seconds mounting to infinity; when I meet them time lies beyond the walls of the clock. I will tickle their needle and kiss their cones I will peep through the dew drops and see the world upside down, The sun shining through them accessorizing their royalty with halos. I can’t believe I missed the winter passing by Watching the snow fall of your shoulders, you bend back to wake. You take a sip of your first water, Shelter the first daisy to bloom at your feet, You whisper less now for the wind has gone, it kept you shaded with the friends it brought along. Don’t worry my honey We are back with delicate marches and witty talks I will always look up to you, take a deep breath and pollinate my chest and grow within and catch up with you next spring

A Bosnian Teke

Bosnia never left my being. When I feel gratitude bloom within me, I re-think of it in fractions of the golden ratio. Picture perfect, worth the portrait. It may never look like a Red Rose It may never smell like one too. But it invades the memory of my heart with a green scent. the lines of my thoughts like its electricity wires hanging between house roofs, its memory like hosted pigeons offering rest. It designs my mind in aisles; Sarajevo with its mesh of shops, you can never re-trace your steps, yet you can never stop. It smells like urban kindness, smoked with barbecued meat and bread on the platter and is streamlined with ripe pain. Its roads designed with grief and tarred with trauma never failed to guide the way. The houses I visited, overwhelmed by the resonating sound of the letters that spell out His Name The walls shiver before the acoustics of faith. If there is only one mosque that can hold me in a random lane, then let this country be the mosque and let world be what I happened to stumble upon as I tripped over my pain. Take me back to the long bus rides through the galleries of our grandiose mother, to the mountain tops that witness all and sundry as they stand tall facing each other. They saw with their wisdom; certitude taught them that there’s nothing new under the sun. Dressed with trees and blessed with the oxygen breeze, Their roots anchoring the ground beneath, holding hands with the depths of the land’s memories, translating the soil’s words to hopeful leaves.

We take our vision for granted our division for praise we see what we don’t through a screen and in return we lower our gaze Yet is it unnatural to look without seeing to stare at the mirror and witness solely the façade of your being. what surrounds you is the emptiness filled so clear, the microscopics of nature encompasses us carrying the scent of your fear the fear of the pollution we allow to be the fear of a virus we chose to see again, it is unnatural to look without seeing so what does it take for you to be fair with acknowledging that the unseen connects you and me it is the particles that we breathe the water that we drink the food that we eat the way we positioned our self; we are on the brink If you fear your death from a threat so minute, How come you refuse to fear the same science, proving the climate’s doom so absolute?

A picture on the poem on self-reflection and oneness

The further it reflects; it only seems logical that the transparency intensifies yet it is not for us to see it’s for the uncommon eyes that choose to cease.

Tripoli, Lebanon