Category Archives: Poems

Beach Town Midwinter

She feels like a beach town midwinter.
The alleys are empty, the streets wet,

and the ocean is left alone. The waves
may be louder, but they yield no interest.

Cold and somber, the beach town can’t be
recognized. Unlike summertime, it is deserted now.

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

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Harvey

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.

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Praising Bureaucrats

The enormity of the tasks never intimidate them,
bureaucrats 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 soon join in.

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 provided her much desired protection.

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Mustafa, the Gravedigger

Late in the afternoon when the wind picked up, the sky darkened, and people were rushing home. Mustafa was on the field was. He is an Egyptian volunteer translator in Lesbos, turned gravedigger; he rose up to a burning duty: to offer a dignified burial to his fellow brothers in faith. In this foreign land, Mustafa is a student, a migrant who managed to safely cross the cold-hearted Mediterranean to Greece. A case when a student visa offers a safe way out.

After bodies piled on the shores of Greece, Mustafa decided to bury dead refugees, Syrians and others. To honor them and let their beat bodies rest in peace. Today he buried two women and a seven-year-old boy. Laying down the body of a child hits him the hardest. Being the last person to touch this kid’s corpse before trusting him to earth.

After he laid down the boy in his grave, the old Greek lady from the grave next to his greeted him. The child 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 mom was the night the planes bombed Aleppo. She trusted me to her cousin— my aunt. I cried my heart out that night as my mom kissed me and promised to soon join me once we reach Greece. My father was the owner of a successful sweetshop. At school, before the war, my teacher spoke often of a spring— Arab and splendid. I imagined green fields, butterflies, happy children, and everything sweet. I imagined our classroom to have wide windows, big backyard,
and lots of crayons of various colors. I love to draw birds and happy faces.

The men ordered the war: many of us were killed, displaced,
our lives suspended. Nothing has changed then, the woman interrupted. I have lived through two devastating wars.
Futile murder, savage and inhuman; the systematic killing
of innocent people— being Jewish was their only crime. It left permanent stains of shame on our humanity.

In the name of something abstract, people take away the most concrete thing of all: life. In the name of something or the other, our continent killed over sixty million people.

I see you are tired. It must have been a rough trip. Your mom will find you. I know that because mothers keep their promises. My name is Maria and I am pleased to have known you my dear Sami.

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Meta-4

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.

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Handkerchief

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 utters it.
Each time I read it, it feels foreign, imposing,
an imposter that doesn’t belong.
It lowers its head and elbows its way through.

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Story’s Spell

My brain wanders as I read a novel. Its ideas,
spread across, trigger fireworks that I follow.
Sparks as abundant as the icing on a delicious cake.

My eyes bulldoze the words across neatly stacked lines.
I build a 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.

Conflicting needs arise: not wanting to take a prolonged break,
not willing to start over, picking up yet another story
and begin a new ride, hopefully a wild one too.

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

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Moroccan Couscous

couscous

A Dish for the Ages

Cinnamon, chicken, couscous, chickpeas, and raisins.
Steam greets your face. Warmth at first. Then heat.
Aura–rich of mixed flavors.

My earliest memory of this dish may have been when I was seven.
At home, my father was the cook. My mother did everything else.
Having couscous for lunch is a comfort, down the memory lane.

The cabbage stands high as a mountain protecting its citizens.
The round head is cut into four pieces. Served triumphantly.
Zucchini, the green stretched tongue of many love affairs.

It greets your lips with cautious heat. Makes your throat cringe.
The heat is held inside it with passion like a prison guard
in charge of a ruthless criminal.

Carrots beg to differ. An orange opposition. They accentuate,
add 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,
which turns any ordinary dish into a giant and adds character.
Thirty five years later, I stand in the kitchen recalling an act

I watched almost weekly every winter. I now am a father
tormented with a heavy legacy. Eager to please my son, guests.
I disturb the neighborhood with a frightening smell

that makes even the most civil stomach roar.
My son will still feast on couscous for a while. Then dismiss it
for many years, and later come back to it with pressing urgency.

Maybe an intellect to support his quest. On a good day of health,
fresh mood, rain, and to celebrate I will satisfy his request.
I wish he would remember his mother likes hers with tomatoes,

Maybe an intellect to support his quest. On a good day of health,
fresh mood, rain, and to celebrate I will satisfy his request.
I wish he would remember his mother likes hers with tomatoes,

potatoes, pumpkin, and she swore her favorite was served
with fish instead. He knows the act by heart. The delight of
preparing and serving couscous. I bet he’d happily play my part.

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In the Company of Wise Animals

The white horses play flute as they fly.
An elephant enters the room, alone.
The land widens around wild animals.

Birds look for serpents who have, long ago,
abandoned trees and headed for rivers.
Monkeys can’t do business in here.

Trading during daylight is outlawed.
Last time a goat wanted to sell its milk,
offended neighbors growled at her.

Awakened before naptime was over,
furious dragons set the forest on fire.
The rain was on an extended sabbatical,

and winds, caught by surprise, amplified
and expanded the disaster. Eight cheetahs
summoned to look into the matter.

After much deliberation, they declared war
on the neighboring forests. They used emergency
powers to enforce curfews and impose sanctions.

Meanwhile, working chickens carried on,
undeterred, delivering eggs to all world’s citizens.

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