Masks of life


It’s National Poetry Month. And as much as I wish I can write a poem each day of the month, we all know that’s quite unattainable goal (if we stress quality not quantity). But I will publish every poem I have written or wrote in April regardless.
So will share this one:

Woke up and wore the masks of life.
the thick air felt heavy.
Like some kidney stones in lungs.
The first flimsy grey light.
Not sure if it was meant to replace darkness
or make its absence more sublime.

They declared an old beginning for
Something we wait to end.
The swamps of us hobbling aimlessly for a meaning.
All feelings molded in one shape.
Despair begets comfort that nothing will change.
Hope begets ache as things stay the same.
The hands of time walk us step
By step.
While we look at our wrists
Afraid to be late on our way to nowhere.
Let’s laugh at the joke.
The joke that we’re made of.
Let’s put on a face.
The face that gives no mirror.
Let the day pass by us.
As if we notice that it passed.
As if it counts.
As if we could tell its sunrise from its sundown.
As if it matters .as if it makes a difference. As if it makes sense.
Because still..
tomorrow,we will all be wearing the masks of life.
Breathing kidney stones.
And laboring to find clear vision.
To find meaning to time.

  Read the rest of this entry

The Dreams of a Palestinian


They say dreams come true.
But the dreams of a Palestinian
don’t come through.
At a checkpoint,
They get stopped, searched, and stripped.

When smuggled,
They reach dead-end.
They say dreams are valid.
But the dreams of a Palestinian
are like his existence.
Deniable, `

My dreams crush 3 km into the sea.
Get uprooted like the olives trees.
My dreams are apartheid walled.
Get deflated like a balloon on barbwire.

On surveillance camera, watched.

Yet my dreams are real and big.
They survive and revive.
Planted the sky

Cultivated in Palestine.


A Lady in lilac


“Fresh, forlorn flower
Looked like a lady in lilac.
Grew inside a grand golden gate.
Spent, slept, stared.
Stood, and stood then seated.
Wept, wished to be winged with winds.
Wilted while waiting.

A lady in lilac looked like
A frail, forlon flower.
Inside a grand golden gate,
Spent, slept, stared.
Stood and stood then seated.
Wept, wished to be the winds.
She waited and waited…
Till she wilted.”

Gaza: From dawn to dusk


Caught between a rock
and Gaza.
Gaza is a hard place.
Boxed into the trenches of abyss.
Jawed between the teeth of darkness.
Slowly filtered off life.
Sea left to salt.
Remembered when the night gnaws the dusk.
Forgotten when the dawn makes the almonds husk.
Dusted, trumped, rusted, crushed.
Like a piece of rusk.

The dim din.
The ticking bomb.
The sand clock
The Pandora box.
Gaza is a rock.
coarse, hoarse.
Gaza is a hard place.
Rose and fought.
Filters in light.
Remembered with pride.
Forgot to recline.

From dawn to dusk…
when crushed like a rusk
When the almonds husk
Gaza never succumbs.

Sleep (a lullaby from Yarmouk)


don’t freeze,
I will rub your feet.
I am here.
watching you breath.
They say when you sleep deep
with angels
you will eat.
don’t freeze.
Your tiny feet.
warm, I will keep.
Your fears,
I am your shield.
don’t mind my tears.
With angels you’ll eat…
Angel, you will be.
Don’t mind my tears.

Full. Stop.


Move on.
From one stop.
To a final stop.
Unstoppable. Stops.
A Full stop.

Full. Stop.
In a sea.
Escape. Fire. Waves. War.
Sunk bottom.
Dark. Shock. Chocked.
Unstoppable. Stop.

Drone. Black Hawk.
Run. Blur.
Drop. Dropped.

An interview with a mother-second question




The interviewer thought that the frank answer was a herald of a long conversation that will result with some relief. However, she wasn’t feeling the same. She was thinking of the next question. She promised herself to answer. She promised herself to sincerely answer. She promised herself that she’d seek answers.  She owes it to herself.

“Talk to me about motherhood..” the interviewer calmly said.
Her eyes opened wide like a window giving birth to strong light. She knew that this question was coming, but she also knew that she didn’t have an answer or she’s still doesn’t have a clear answer.

She took a deep breath that lasted long enough to reel back all the memories of her being a mother. She gave the interviewer a half-faced look, and said “do you want an answer, or you want poetry?!”

The interviewer said:” I want you to give me an answer that if you say it to others, they’ll judge you…”

She chocked a smile and said:” I don’t know what I think about motherhood, but I know that too much is expected from me…”
“I’m expected to trade my feelings for being a holy creature whose under feet there’s a heaven while I can only feel that under my feet there are toys, vomiting, and little hands clutching me”

“I’m expected to sacrifice my freedom to nurture someone’s else life with love and freedom…”
“Sometimes I wake up not wanting to sacrifice anything, not wanting to nurture anything. I just want to have some tea on the couch and enjoy some silence. And when I feel this way, guilt eats me up. And I feel inadequate not just to be a mother but a human being…”
“I don’t know…”

“I know that I love my kids, I know that I would anything to protect them and be there for them…”
“But…” the interviewer interrupted.

“But sometimes I wish I can just figure out who am I without shouldering this great responsibility…”
“guess that’s what motherhood is…”

“unconditioned sacrifice, responsibility, and patience, and those feelings are rarely done without a pinch exhaustion, frustration, doubt even boredom…”

“but these “negative” feelings are still  outweighed by unconditioned sacrifice, responsibility, and patience…and love…”

“Everyday is like being on an uncharted island. You want to discover things to survive. But sometimes you step on some field on cactus and you get pricked. Sometimes, you find yourself in oasis where you find water and dates and feel just fine…”

The interviewer looked at her and said:” now that’s poetry.”
She chuckled and said:” and not good one”