Archive for the month “November, 2012”

The bombs are dropping, but some keep looking at the stars

In Gaza, My Gaza!









And another war in Gaza

Another day in Palestine

A day in prison

And we live on

Despite Israel’s very much identified flying objects

That we see more than our family and friends

And despite Israel’s death sentences

Like lead

Cast upon the head

 As we sleep

Like acid rain

Gnawing at our life

Clinging to it like a flea to a kitten

And stuffed in our throats

The moment we say ‘Amen’

To the prayers of old women and men

Despite Israel’s birds of death

Hovering only two meters from our breath

From our dreams and prayers

Blocking their ways to God.

Despite that.

We dream and pray,

Clinging to life even harder

Every time a dear one’s life

Is forcibly rooted up.

We live.

 We live.

We do. 

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Martyr’s funeral

Shots in the air
accompany freshly baked martyr's soul
in its ascent
pointed fingers reaching for heaven.
Gravity intervenes
hitting back home
at the end of the funeral
where his mother unveils.


Clouds and thunder
no longer scare me
(they never did
but now I love them more)
they bring your touch to me
pushing away veiled ghosts
pattering raindrops of tears
of joy and loneliness
soft salty sweet tears
washed away in the infinite blue
sea sky
silky underdress
of our uncelebrated
secret sacred existence.


Last election
we sat down mesmerised
hand in hand
at the sexy US ambassador's villa
early wee hours tickling us
dawn of excitement
as masses elected
audacity of hope
with stubbornness of love.
Have you noticed
he's been re-elected?

5 November

Parliament stands
as a mere tribute
to a failed plot
chairing dispensable recipients
of rainbows of money
ballot sheet checkbooks
chess playing rednecks
sipping dripping gold
from master chambers
underhand envelopes
summoning soulless sluts
calling divisions on end
legislating own pensions
shelf-life and afterlife perks
poking pokerfaced bankers
harem of wankers
wining on dollar-stained blood
squeezed out of

Bitten moon

Photo by Imane Al Doubali /
the moon looks like
a bitten piece of cake
white sugary biscuit
mini mellow morsel
surreptitiously snatched.
I know it is;
you bit it, didn't you?
I napped for a while and you bit it.
I left it out there
for you
within arm's reach
knowing you won't miss it
nor resist it.
You can have it all
I have a full moon in my pocket
to lure you back
to the open night fields
by the river
where we'll sleep in arms of grass
and cover ourselves in stories
never-ending tales
as fantastic as you.

Thanks to Ammoun for the picture! Check her great blog

Fog — Carl Sandburg

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

— Carl Sandburg

Petty poets

Petty poets
touchy pets
pandering to themselves
in front of luna park mirrors
holding onto their pompous universe
until it bursts.

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