Category Archives: Poems

The Original Apple

I met a muse who was born a goddess.
She played down her powers, until she met me, then
served me the eternal wine, promised barrels of honey.

The original apple, she said, was mislabeled:
a classic case of failed marketing.
The apple was nothing but the right breast of Eve,
a metaphor lost on uncreative men.
No woman cared to explain it.

She will guide me to light up the night sky,
showcase vast deserts,
bring distant mountains into focus.
She’ll show me how to shorten winter,
give flowers more color, denser scents,
and make water more refreshing.

She hopes I meet my heroine
among the newcomers,
before I deplete my energy
to the point of an empty tank,
or worse: stay untapped until I rust to death.

My heroine is out there but I’m not sure where
or which country she belongs to
or what century she comes from. What
books have her name. Whether
the ocean could preserve our fingerprints.
And what mountain houses our goats.
All I know is her eyes have a fire
that ignites inspiration.
Her lips flood the world
with peaceful goodnight wishes.

I will find the biggest forest on the planet,
set it on fire, and send my worries and doubts
via a rocket ship
crashing into its center.

My heroine is out there and I swear to furnish the night for her.
To serve her the spring untouched, on the margins of my long arms.

With her love, we will fill the front pages
of a history written for us,
tap into the talisman’s secret channels,
and rearrange the letters of alphabets.

We will open a school for all women,
and ask them to dress the poets
in rare silk or exotic feathers
from obscure islands, urge them
to melt all the world’s literature
and apply that ink to their eyelashes.
In the humanities department,
a new branch will be inaugurated.

If that is not commitment, the sky must be an illusion.
The mountains will need to close down the volcanoes,
flatten themselves, and absorb their dwellers’ meditations.

Meanwhile, I deliver kisses to make the world fertile again,
make the dew learn new greetings.
I distribute smiles for the fields to expand,
and for the oceans to reveal their inner wealth.
I plant promises for the music to outdo silence,
and for love to outshine the sun.


Beach Town Midwinter

Cold and somber, the beach town
does not recognize itself.
Unlike during summertime,
it is deserted now.

The long nights of the winter
are a relief.
They save face
from daylight’s humiliation.

She feels like a beach town midwinter.
The alleys are empty,
the streets wet,
and the ocean is left alone.

Although the waves are louder,
they yield no interest.



A young soldier picnics in the countryside,
searches for butterflies and long-stemmed roses.

Fresh air runs through his rifle. The woman beside him
sports a long skirt and a camera around her neck.

The fields are blunt and honest;
with their secrets extended, their flaws exposed,
they feel intimate.

Here, the birds’ singing and trees’ whistling
are welcoming songs. The winds
in their contradicting directions
don’t disrupt old women’s prayers,
and the laughter of their children.

The soldier and the woman exchange moments of solitude
with their inner worlds. For fear of living on the margins
or rendering their presence obsolete, they open up
through a language marked with loneliness.

The woman thinks of a future
where her own daughter takes the dog for a walk.
The tough questions asked at parent-teacher conferences.
The many long hours
during history classes to sit through.
And the introductions around dinner tables.

What do you do? they will ask.
Their inevitable reply is interesting, no matter her answer.

Except when her listener has a reservoir of emotions,
like someone raised in the countryside,
where dancing was a doctrine,
and connecting with others is a way to draw strength.

Only then she could reach back
to the deep wounds of a past alive.
Although protected, the past is still haunting,
and exhausting to retell.

She devours her listener’s soft touch,
the sincere and passionate gaze.
A heart is opened: tender moments are born.
A shared experience she will revisit often.


Praising Bureaucrats

Never intimidated
by the enormity of the tasks at hand,
a bureaucrat will keep at a job meticulously
without showing signs of fatigue or boredom,

indifferent, and with the determination
of someone looking to level a mountain
using nothing but an index finger
to pull down one inch of dirt at a time.

To make the mission succeed,
other bureaucrats join in, just in time.

I have come to appreciate
the slow motion of the bureaucratic train.
Even if it derails, it can still get back on track.

There is wisdom in being slow:
ask the turtle how its shell grew tougher
with each slow step it took.
The thickness afforded her
much desired protection.


Mustafa, the Gravedigger

Late in the afternoon
when the wind picked up,
the sky darkened.
The people on the streets
rushed home.

On the field was Mustafa, an Egyptian volunteer translator
in Lesbos, turned gravedigger; he rose up
to a burning duty: to offer a dignified burial
to his fellow humans.

After bodies piled on the shores of Greece,
Mustafa decided to bury dead refugees,
Syrians and others. To honor
their decomposing bodies
and let them rest in peace.

Today he buried two women
and a seven-year-old boy.
Laying down the body of a child hits him hardest.

The last person to touch this boy’s body
before trusting him to earth
in this foreign land
is a brother in faith, a student migrant
who managed to cross
the cold-hearted Mediterranean
safely to Greece.

After the boy was laid in his grave,
he was greeted from the grave next to his
by an old Greek lady.
He made an effort to introduce himself:
Sami is my name, and this is Leila next to me.
She is not my mother.

Last time I saw my mother was
the night the planes bombed Aleppo.
She trusted me to her cousin, my aunt.
I cried that night and my mom kissed me,
and promised to catch up once we reached Greece.

Syria is my country. The day I was born
the sun was high, and my father the owner
of a successful sweetshop.

Before the war and at school,
my teacher spoke often of a Spring—
Arab and splendid. I imagined green fields,
butterflies, happy children, and cookies.

I imagined our school
with wide windows, big backyards,
and lots of crayons of various colors.
I love to draw happy faces, and birds.

But the war was ordered:
many were killed, displaced,
their lives suspended.

Nothing has changed then, the woman on his right said.
I have lived through two devastating wars.
Futile murder, savage
and inhuman; the systematic killing
of innocent people— being Jewish was their crime.
It left shame on our humanity.

In the name of something or other,
our continent killed 60 million.
In the name of something abstract,
humans take away
the most concrete thing of all: precious life.

I see you are tired. It must have been a rough trip.
You need some sleep. Your mom will find you.
I know that because mothers keep their promises.
My name is Maria, and I wish you a very good night, my dear Sami.


Inch Closer

I swear to each strand of your hair,

I will inch closer

each time I deliver a light kiss.

For that is the only letter I can write

with courage and humility.




Meta-4 Reading this collection of poems is like going for a hike in a rich and diverse terrain, with occasional rare sighting of exotic birds with their blue plumes, that share their hopeful songs, and observe you in silence, attentively.

During this hike, you will see a full spectrum of the four seasons. It will rain until you are soaked, then the sunshine will come unannounced; high and splendid, the sun will submerge you, guide you, and warm every inch of your skin.

Clothes are optional. Recreational swims are welcome.



Handkerchief, as words go, is an outlier.
Why not call it a damn rag instead?
Or any other name that is short
and less presumptuous,
conveying no more than what it is.

I think of a drunk, boastful German man
making up such a name:
we call it handkerchief in the motherland.

I see the word only in text:
no one ever utters it.
Each time I read it, it feels foreign,
imposing, doesn’t belong.
It lowers its head
and elbows its way through.


Story’s Spell

My brain wanders as I read a novel.
I follow the fireworks triggered by the ideas
spread through its pages. Sparks
as abundant as the icing
on a delicious cake.

My eyes bulldoze the words across neatly stacked lines.
I build the mental puzzle of a world inhabited
by characters on the move.
Where what happens next matters desperately.

Chasing the storyline is like running up
seven steep flights of stairs
not stopping to catch my breath.
Although eager to arrive at the ending,
I dislike the forced rush.

I put down the story, take a bath, and close my eyes,
searching for quietude. Some details of the plot
are escaping, like the rubber ducks engulfed in the steam.

Then conflicting needs arise.
Not wanting to take a prolonged break,
not willing to start over,
picking up another story to begin a new ride.

It is like driving a long stretch
on a fast lane of a German highway.
Afterwards, I am happy to leave the car behind.


Moroccan Couscous


A Dish for the Ages

Having couscous for lunch
is a quest for comfort, down memory lane.
A few imposed traps stand in between
my remembering
partly due to a distant past,
and self censorship.

My earliest memory of this dish
may have been when I was seven.

Couscous, chickpeas, and raisins.
Cinnamon, chicken.
Its steam greets the mouth.
Warmth at first. Then heat.
Aura-rich, mix of flavors.

The cabbage on the plate stands high
as a mountain protecting its citizens.
The round ball is cut into four pieces.
Served with a hint of triumph.

Zucchini, a green stretched tongue
of many love affairs, is hot.
The heat is held inside it with passion.
Like a prison guard in charge of a ruthless criminal.
Even with caution, the heat threatens your lips, makes your throat cringe.

Carrot begs to differ. An orange opposition.
It accentuates— adds color.

Turmeric. Salt. Pepper, and double that in ginger.

The mystic ingredient is not my father’s magic hands.
Nor is it his lucky strikes at delivering savor.
It is simply olive oil.
It makes an ordinary dish into a giant of a character.

35 years later, I stand at the kitchen
recalling an act I watched almost weekly every winter.
I now play a father tormented with a heavy legacy.
Eager to please his son. The guests.
When I cook couscous I disturb the neighborhood
with a frightening smell that makes even the most civil stomach roar.

My son will still feast on couscous for awhile.
Dismiss it for many years. Then come back to it
with pressing urgency.
Maybe an intellect to support his quest.

On a good day of health, fresh mood,
a lot of rain, or to celebrate
I will satisfy his request for a fine couscous.

I wish he would remember
that his mom liked hers with
tomatoes, potatoes, squash, pumpkin,
and she swore that her favorite was
served with fish instead.

He knows the act by heart.
He would happily play my part.