tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63098462011-09-16T22:36:26.243-04:00ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comBlogger611100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-86472997972697206362011-02-10T10:52:00.009-05:002011-05-26T11:00:01.755-04:00

He lived in a Samsonite hardside briefcase cat & all... In it were stacked, notes from Stockholm, lies from China, sometimes cries, and cigar smoke. Tobacco dust, like his tears found the corners when he couldn't wipe them off his spectacle rims. Those were old too...but comfortable. In that case, arguments of what might have become of Cambodia, in the sixties, but never transpired.

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-71172600283015137232010-10-12T17:11:00.008-04:002010-10-14T16:44:26.464-04:00

They speak strange wordsthese people that come from my landthey grow legs and horns for sanguine storiesthat sit on chairsthen rot as they unravel and run...They trace images in the airthat only God can readthey bite their native tonguesas they utter these new wordslike 'them' and 'us'These people from my landhave released their grasp of their rootsThe seas of enstrangementhave filled the hallows

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-22879522024950913222010-07-16T00:17:00.005-04:002010-08-03T14:37:39.911-04:00

(For Emily Henochowicz) Sniped in the eyebefore my visioncould savor the next ‘thirsty pixel’.Blue skiesnow charcoalnow crimsonand then no more…Clouds pushing hardfor a way out of my socket…Blue tearsstreams and riversand then this droughtcarves its bed in my face.Know they, that I can spellmore names for colorthan they ever tasted in theirmothers’ wombs?Know they, that Yahwehdesigned different

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-20764709620280812392010-02-19T17:35:00.005-05:002010-02-19T17:43:26.311-05:00

You have a beautiful house in a faraway country.It used to be your home...But I don't have a country anymore Mother...I don't anymore, have a country. They laid Aunt Nahida to rest, with all the rest, tormented, questioning, her burial in a faraway country. She too, no longer has a country. You put the cobalt-blue china vases away Mother.The Rahal paintings, you placed, on the walls of a house of

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-47411151685722187582009-12-09T19:06:00.003-05:002010-03-31T13:48:53.707-04:00

She brings parts of that part of the world here...She brings sunin Turkish coffee cupsShe brings news of freshly-brewed waron the TV channel that doesn't play herethe story of the made-in-Abu Ghraibcorpsethat no one could identifyat the neighbor's garden gateShe brings smiles from better timesShe brings hopethat people over therecan continue to liveand carry onto the next war...

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1742858142665218012009-06-17T23:22:00.008-04:002009-10-26T21:57:22.144-04:00

Moist damp wallsand frivolous cats used to run their long tails in the slits between the hinges of the doorsNow the creepers run the windowswhere bullet cracks capture the smeared drops of last breathAnd cold gardens of pain lingerwhere some wished they could have blended with the weeping soil Now it is...Then it had laughedwhen the sun tickled its belly to beautiful morningsThose days the palms

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-72303540337754893142009-01-27T14:39:00.017-05:002009-10-26T22:04:12.487-04:00

I, the terrorist,watched the bread break off my brother’s bleeding teethHe had never tasted blood-flavored bread...I, the terrorist held my breath,as the bricks from my kitchen ceilinghit my forehead…Yet, I could still stand…I, the terrorist,took the rut-filled road to get waterfor my suckling infant.I lost a few fingerson the way,to a precision sniper…I, the terrorist,dug-up some dirt waterwith

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-15132925318530603582008-10-28T10:06:00.019-04:002009-06-29T20:01:18.709-04:00

Pale pink you picked those bricksAhmed went to get themfrom ‘Kasra wa Aattash’and the Egyptian laborermispronounced his Islamic name…Pink, you thought or maybe sand-colored,as you decided where you wanted to place themand plant a home in the heartsof your growing children.Strong, you thoughtso they would not breakas times tried themand the wars did…Under the sunyou would touch up the hueswith

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-13239100943945778852008-09-09T10:28:00.002-04:002008-09-15T12:04:00.332-04:00

Where do birds dig their graves,brown and black ...and blue?They crawl at the end of their timeinto nothingnessthat we will never know...They respect each others privatelast minutewith God...before the final accession.They turn their headsthe other waywhen loved ones die.Then turn them againto bestow all the love of the skiesand flight...in parting.

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1977099589547635172008-08-12T02:44:00.009-04:002010-05-21T12:15:22.697-04:00

You are my Godas immense as my eyes can senseand as infinite as my first fetal memory.You are my Godtoo big to be confinedto the books of ancientor endless times...You are my Godnot bound bythe hollows of sickly principlesstringent or lenientnot shackled to lettersof meaningless thinkingthat changes and changesand changes again...Those who knew youspoke of youand those who dreamtthey didput words

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-19848756392020655502008-07-07T17:28:00.009-04:002008-07-08T12:07:57.777-04:00

In our diasporathey build a 'Kingdom of Walls'first to separate us from our rootsand thento separate the roots.In our diasporathe concrete of a living memory is cracked.They plant weeds of amnesia in the cold cracksto suffocate our roots...And our roots cryAnd our roots rot in the dampness of their tearsAnd then our rootsare no more...Our nostalgia climbsthese concrete wallsand the journeyknows

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-45908512093346023102008-06-09T15:44:00.020-04:002008-08-14T11:25:51.368-04:00

as I trace my steps back and forthin a corporate commercial building on the third floornext to a set of white iron rails and carpet where the stains of last winter still linger...Last May I had called her from this staircaseand she described what it meant living the way she wasdodging bullets while trying to keep her children sane.I had not heard her voice in two winters and in spring when I

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-32043091295219548212008-05-25T22:43:00.021-04:002009-06-29T20:07:54.084-04:00

All I want from my country which was pushed out of a train windoware my father’s last smileand the torn pages of his unfinished book…All I want from my country which was gang-raped back in a Baghdad alleyare the remnants of my mother’s shredded scarf… All I want… All I want from my country which was slaughtered in the global public squareare my sister’s last words before her tongue was

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-47378795255819195542008-05-09T17:02:00.002-04:002008-05-21T14:54:41.321-04:00

And it rained like God wanted to 'pour his heart out'and look for those who listened...It rained like he wanted the world to endin secondsbut it didn't.There,was where the war was.And there,was where we all stripped ourselves of memory.Windows gasping at the endless clouds of nights,witnessing sparks like sunbeams stifled,like the sun was reluctant to sleep eternally,after the last star had spat

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-88077400352335843192008-02-19T20:01:00.004-05:002008-02-20T11:26:52.514-05:00

I dreamt a pigeon's featherand it uttered your eternal namethere on the wet road homeit sat in the rain,immersed in wait.Cringing at the sight of my tiresnever tiring the burden of wordsyou spelt in a rainbowon its backpicking its feathers clean of the confused mudclearing its sanity away“no haste...somedayyou’ll arrive here tooin your tatters of a spiritand tattoos of long-lived

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-33964816171324930722008-02-07T14:46:00.002-05:002008-09-05T14:03:56.100-04:00

Don’t talk too loud;they do not want to hear the truth of what you sawbecause they didn’t invent it…Don’t use those wordsthey pulled them out of the local dictionarythree massacres ago…they will not make sense anymore.Darling, be quiet.Think your thoughts…in silence…This telephone has ears…The books of historywill tell the sonthat his father killed for ‘liberty.’They will not tellof the other

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-4554418952966699002007-12-31T00:56:00.002-05:002008-07-03T23:01:14.679-04:00

The smell of freedomcame with peach;orange-like soap sudsunder a low-ceilingof showering promises.A small iron-framed windowin the tile wallinto the dark unknownits handle too wetfor fresh minds to grip.Faces awashed with the assumed knownflicking mental floaters ofeasy experimentationinto endlessness...It all came to blossommany seas later;here.The specimens of by-productsof time's testslined up

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-33631858152439906222007-12-31T00:47:00.001-05:002008-05-09T17:07:57.482-04:00

There were dreams for a housescratched on paper …at odd moments when the cornerof an available room was freeand the light sufficient.Dreams for a homewhile on the runfrom dream-killersand home-destroyers.Thoughts of reunionunder a roofwhen blood matteredand distance had drawn too long…Her scratches as emblematic assunshine on sunflowers;groping for a realityloudly passing away.Silently scratched

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-31854160226781205152007-07-08T12:32:00.000-04:002007-07-08T12:48:10.688-04:00

In the hallows of my soulthe brown birds singOne tried to build a nest of stoneand broke a wingThe windows of my eyes are shattereda dead house I standand all of God’s sun will not bring inenlightenment…Too long the ghosts of tomorrow have wanderedunabatedthrough these aging wallstoo longthey have made this arid structuretheir homeThey walk this soul in silencefor them the brown birds singhating

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-42966667883993959502007-04-11T16:51:00.000-04:002007-07-08T12:36:36.767-04:00

The children shouted for the game they could loseand palms were raisedwhere dust drops drippedand voices booed.And it was up to Samiwho just turned tento venture into the world of Baghdad trashto recapture the trophyfor a part-time gloryperhaps…So he stepped towards the pile of thrills and woesthe smell of the rot remotely touching his toesan indefinite heap of suffocated shocks,end-snipped

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-14040504900048072322007-03-21T19:30:00.001-04:002007-03-22T09:56:18.766-04:00

The day I lost my hairmother had dragged me out to shopthe wait for lulls in incessant crossfirehad not come to a stopand the children were hungryfor more than just candycheck points where faceshad traces oftrashed deathsdying answers in stillborn questionsstruggling to extractthe last breath of a meaningfor the waitit was then that the shots hailedinto the skull of a walking dolland life

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-53954994316648542212006-11-24T16:24:00.001-05:002008-01-04T11:20:42.505-05:00

Pinned to my heart…this torn map and bleedingnostalgia drips at my severed valvesLashes yearning for the blind white to coverall the crimsonIt grips the pit of pain where my stomach isAnd nausea now has no nameIt comes in flashes of red around Baghdadin flames at the crying Shrine of Mousa Al-Khadimwhile Abu Hanifa descends into flakes ofblack despairThey both want out…"These are not our

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1163866989418448082006-11-18T11:23:00.000-05:002006-11-22T09:58:49.805-05:00

Under the earththey look upwardsthe poet and he who tried to pick the wordand she who tried to dissect itShe who appreciated with tearsher bed sores still carved in her backeven under the earthHe who enjoyed iced-coffee as he savored every characterand flipped the torched memories of places touched into flurries of ruminationsthat rested on lowered metal rimmed glassesShe who would fume with

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1157751106367358572006-09-08T17:18:00.000-04:002006-10-04T03:38:54.103-04:00

On Fridays the sun shone,like it never would on any other.I would have called it 'Sun Day',but we rested on on that day,while the sun kissed our skins.On Fridays mosques' voices were more vibrant.People left their flip-flops at the door.Some said it was tradition.Some said it was to cool their feet,on the marble floor,in a place of prayer.On Fridays, cars honked greetingsand people smiled

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1152283701802711912006-07-07T10:47:00.000-04:002006-11-24T16:31:49.122-05:00

And somewhere from across the roofsa voice called my name;maybe it was God…incognito.The skies of Kirkuksmiled back in Turkish…And the dome of the tomb of the sacrificed soldiershone in the rainwhere doves danced to the drumming dropsas if to make light of the grave questionsIt also rained where Jonahhad laid his head to rest.That was in Mousl,and the dirt road around his shrine was as ancientas

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1150606278752387282006-06-18T00:51:00.000-04:002006-06-29T13:38:24.623-04:00

The red earth on the boots reminded me of my rootsthe color of Iraq…the blood inside cried,yet I couldn’t touch itmy contamination phobia forbade me…But my eyes could reach out and try to touch the fluttering souls that emerged from them…For days we pronounced the names of the fallensome just starting,most not evenand some towards the end of their journey.The ghosts bellowed back…Some of us heard

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1148949491673391462006-05-29T20:17:00.000-04:002006-05-29T20:38:11.686-04:00

Their khubuz, their abbayaas and their football,floated down the road like a dusty dream.The only one who witnessed it all, was the thrush on the telephone wire.The voice of the Muezzinspoke of war.He whispered secretsin his clear shouts for prayer,but nobody had the slightest doubt,busy walking the streets of life,they never bothered about,an exhausted Iraq,pining for the perfumeof hot khubuz,

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1148947778461545812006-05-29T20:03:00.000-04:002007-04-03T11:19:54.602-04:00

"Where you there?I mean when the bombs fell?I heard they fell in your area too.Sorry, I couldn't providenail-bitten fingers as ear plugs.It's not the worst of human pain...you know.Sorry if the dust made your nostrils itch...Sorry if it choked you...But then, you had left choking...I remember you behind the window,came to get me,that close you were ,.and that much I'd wanted to go.I loved you;

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1148947408105520222006-05-29T20:01:00.000-04:002007-07-08T12:53:55.505-04:00

He was buying rockets,this young man I respect,making 'cool contracts'!And my brother was helping fire them...My best friend, Nouha,way out in Kerbala,saw them fall...Out of the rubble, she crawledand left,her nephew, her auntand her motherunderneath forever...This is the true story of my friend, Nouha who lost half of her family when the Iraqi army was ordered to turn against its own people

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1142551612502742822006-03-16T18:20:00.002-05:002008-07-03T23:02:12.493-04:00

It was a different world…with pink tipsand smaller cornersIt had leapt out of a crystal bowljust set on the table…Zinnahs’ eyes stared backwhen the hedges barkedand the leaves clapped at the distant human laughtershe could not recognizeIt lay by the seaacross the roadfrom where we crouchedwhere tree stumps had stood to protect our backsagainst the approaching ocean windsThere the rocks were brown

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1140417824151623652006-02-20T01:43:00.000-05:002007-11-12T13:58:46.375-05:00

First, the dark wet dirt, the hint of ammonia, reminded…It was why I was there, face down…this dirt…my dirt…my landThe stench of red…was that blood from my nose? I remembered Jasim’s ‘shaved-off’ nipples at Abu-Ghraib…Far away, Fatima’s face was crying…Mohamed, tugging at her nipple, will surely miss me…This foreign sole of a ‘made-in the US/China-Manufactured’ now familiar boothad kicked this

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1139004440020158542006-02-03T16:29:00.000-05:002006-02-14T15:26:30.566-05:00

The smile of Nimrud broke with the last fireShe looked on, teeth charred…at the descendents of her Assur in piecesNot in her wildest ivory dreamscould this nightmare have proceededLong ago Hamurabi had set the rulesonly to watch thembreakHe had held fastto all he hoped forgenerations to last-except for this oneThis time the fall of Baghdadcame with an infinite bang…

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1136221343809982682006-01-02T12:02:00.000-05:002006-01-02T12:09:17.353-05:00

That’s how we lived…incredulous of pajama powers and ‘dishdasha’ hoursstuffed with Turkish nostalgiadripping of toothpaste on the morning sink.Then came the ‘kahi’ and we sat and ate,the syrup dripping from our plates,in our bedroom attire.Ours was a smell of mintand fresh water,fried eggs and hot khubuz.It all floated in Aunt Khadija’s kitchenand finger played at  the next door neighbor’s

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1135966417177845222005-12-30T13:12:00.000-05:002006-02-01T12:54:59.036-05:00

Shoes for Zayoon;a purse for Mama;Jeans for Ahmed and…a flower for Dad;kisses in the air, for the chairhe last sat on,and words for the last bookshelf he reached for;memories for the couch;more kisses for that brown couch;and tears for the breakfast table-especially the spot where he last rested his palms;DVDs for Hassooni-maybe a stuffed ‘Pooh Bear’?an embrace for Alyaa;make-up for Alyaa –my

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1130298103044212242005-10-25T23:41:00.000-04:002005-10-25T23:41:43.046-04:00

Those amongst us,the godly ant-steppers,watching the life wriggleout of an ant…Those within,the god-deniers,sucking the shock out of bewildered eyesat something different…,oblivious of screaming antennas…In someone’s pockets,from holes of boredom,trickle the ants, tired and struggling.Theirs is a life,granted by God,ignorant of pious killersand ardent atheists…Theirs is a faith,no godly

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1130298017833099972005-10-25T23:38:00.002-04:002011-03-07T15:37:32.511-05:00

My silent expressions underneath these merciless skies, Eyes, steadfast in their shock and smiles of wonder at the unknown you carry in your pale Western hands... Eyes, fixated on a camera lens staring at your expectations of my surrendering a story, and yet nothing comes. But the blood on the street tells it and the bodies torn apart, struggling to release their inner selves... Their faces

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1130296504608394682005-10-25T23:06:00.003-04:002011-03-01T15:44:57.712-05:00

Before the sun sets on the other world Minutes accumulate on my cell phone Pleading reassurance That all are alive And I am missed, by some Before the sun sets on the other world, The words reach out to grasp the warmth Of the going rays In ways Only the East can spell Minutes and time zones Love disperses amongst the lines of Missed emotions And longing Fingers betray the anguish As phone

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1130295981550143732005-10-25T23:03:00.000-04:002005-10-27T16:29:28.766-04:00

I am the causeI am its blood and checkpoint toleranceI am the refugee tents in tattersI am the soiled headless dollin that ditchwhere your made-in-the-US missile fellI am the cross of NativityI am the bell tollershot to deathI am the muezzinwhose voice was snipedI am the holes inthe prayer rugyour machine gun shatteredI am the causeI am the broken rooms in your bulldozerI am the eyes you want to

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1123111592871997772005-08-03T19:25:00.001-04:002008-08-08T07:17:42.960-04:00

I want those photos.Alia stood grand;the most beautiful Iraqi model we knew,and met in San Francisco,when the Iraqi Fashion House had a house…She had more than one face, and a multitude of minds,the psychiatrist, at Stanford, said…but that did not make her less glamorous,or her Babylonian clothes less glowing.I really want those photos.But the House fell down upon them.It came down with a US

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1115158607840913552005-05-03T18:14:00.000-04:002006-01-17T10:29:22.576-05:00

(on his grave stone)You still stop byAnd ask the same questionsEvery time the answers are differentThey change colorEvery mental event adds a hueAnd I struggle with this sphere of a multitude of lightsThat I can’t travelYou blink and look onCan’t I see it?And I can’t stop byBecause the skies have put my name on their forbidden listMother’s heart can stop any day nowAnd Reem’s eyes may bleed by

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1111512448796475402005-03-22T11:53:00.000-05:002006-02-01T13:42:12.346-05:00

Mother's dreams died on the couch yesterday,and so did Thamra's mother, next door.They were sleeping soundly and no one heard them go...Ahmed and Abu Shaker tried desperately to revive them...But no ambulance would come...It was Mother's Day, and the shots could be heard overhead.The dreams were motionless.'The helicopter's close', Mother said.It has come to sweep your dreams Mother.Wake up!

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1109818026861661912005-03-02T21:45:00.000-05:002006-01-17T10:35:23.876-05:00

For the love of your face that captures my brother's beautiful eyesFor the love of your tiny 'skinful' fingers and 'fleshful' cheeksFor the love of all that’s in me, that’s in youAll that you now cannot seeFor the love of you, my little instance of my bigger brotherMay God bless your tiny nose a thousand timesMay he guide you as it grows with your curiosityAnd may he carry you into all the worlds

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1102112906623871542004-12-03T17:07:00.000-05:002006-01-17T10:37:26.913-05:00

You reek of red...the military bugles sing in crimson,and the peasants chant, their song of scorched earth...The leftists left no leaf unraped;the rightists, no faces, unravished,an aura of blood floats over the wounds of your weeping earthand yet your spirit stands erect…Ah Fallujah! Mother of the ghost warriorsStill-born in a boot-mutilated masjid…kicking and screaming for another life…to come

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1101153989503228932004-11-22T14:50:00.003-05:002008-07-03T23:12:10.652-04:00

When it happened,a long time ago,cheap phone cards meant the world,and the world was wrapped up in Schiphol;Phone booths where Easterners' sweat left finger prints on the damaged glass and lingered...His voice, a restless, sometimes nervous whisper,questioning his short-term obstacles...small, but looming large, already...so much like the fluctuations of his sensitive ego...-'This guy snores, he

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1093906976171788032004-08-30T18:47:00.000-04:002006-01-17T10:42:14.376-05:00

Her lines speak,her face, a mirror, hardly scratched...Clouds of questions stream through her lashes and land on the pillow.The days long gone unroll again in slow laps, around her brow...Hints of answers spark through her half-closed look....Age disperses its weariness in peace around her eyes.The tentacles of intolerancethat once were her fingers,now outstretched,groping for another lost answer

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1091431634451082542004-08-02T03:18:00.000-04:002006-11-24T16:38:56.732-05:00

I get these dreams,of rooms and faces-the so-called 'Bond of Nightmares' of planes leaving me behind,and long lost visas.On the other side, the World has set, the day is gone.On this side, they burn the Quran,and praise Jesus, while Jesus cries...Things unnamed have rooted me here,sentiments untouched, and thoughts over-protected.The question looms -Do I really want to be on this side?What is

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1084853250816872062004-05-17T23:55:00.000-04:002005-03-23T19:42:12.986-05:00

Her Morning CoffeeWashing her coffee-rimmed mugevery morning…7:30,her thank-you stared back at mefrom a pool of stains in the basin.Every morning,her spectacles of tireless scrutinyquestioned me,bribing with a painI felt satisfied existed.Every 7:30it was a different storyfrom a book of life,she never entirely revealed.They were told with compassion,with tactless affectionand strained

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1084852337670705292004-05-17T23:43:00.000-04:002005-03-23T19:39:54.043-05:00

MS. SIBAThe smell of wheat-brown bread...The smell of her,I'd sniffinto and out of her,as I would kiss her furrowed forehead.The Images Triggered :A small kitchenette,and vegetable patch in front,a small gas stove,and bare brown shelves,a tiny corridor,as ample as the life she lead,and memories mingled,with the dust of the books stacked,all around...then out of nowhere, a Gustave Dore',hanging

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1084216081261749032004-05-10T14:57:00.000-04:002005-03-23T19:37:30.633-05:00

My FatherHe lies there waiting for my arrivalfor me to bestow the farewell wishes on his tombstone before he ascendsAnd I can'tthe bombs disturb his tired earsand the dust clogs his tear ductsAnd still he waits...in his graveUp there in the sunshine,there's a shadow that he craves...his spirit blinks...Was that my silhoutte? Am I finally here?What has taken me so long?A million times the trees

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1080914886169961172004-04-02T09:00:00.002-05:002008-07-03T23:00:52.114-04:00

The Salt ShakerThe salt shaker in the illustration,red and small,symmetrical.Just the right pinches of shadows…Who drew it?Picked it up from a meal table and put it on the page?Who redrew it?Captured the salt as their own and digitalized it?The salt shakera small symbol of tastethe embodiment of the love shared and passed around on the original artist’s table,a mild moment caught and

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1076448989440454722004-02-10T16:36:00.000-05:002005-03-23T19:36:23.740-05:00

Mid-Summer Night's African DreamShanaz where are you?And where has Africa gone?Down the Indian ocean highwayOn a runaway motorcycleSinging songs of Jesus Christ, Super StarYour spectacles were respectableMy father admired your mindAnd you did well unto himWhere have the sail boats gone?They no longer sing to the ocean liner at the pierNo more Kitanges fly in the windAnd no more African hair

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1073861185542527372004-01-11T17:38:00.000-05:002006-06-03T15:24:32.623-04:00

First, there was the 1st war,and at the fronts,Asmaa's uncle was slaughtered.And, P. O. W. s were dragged through the mud,tied to trucks...Asmaa cried on the backyard bench,at Baghdad High.Then, Namu died.Dragged himself inwith a bubble for an eye,and a skin flap for a hind leg.And Tamraa tried hard,to understand why I criedso hard ...I’d screamed at the front gate guard,“shoot him!”But mercy was

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1073856073086504972004-01-11T16:13:00.001-05:002010-03-11T15:22:03.604-05:00

You drain the words out of my famished mouthwhen you scream,a sun-drenched cry of dripping dates and palm-green nostalgia.You, a thought in the womb before birth,and all the lines of crimson of afterlife...You, a bosom of Tigris-scented compassion,thrown across a desert of aimless caravans.You, a wan wanderer, in the pages of my history...Did you know that your rains washed away my name,minutes

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1073726580711172482004-01-10T04:22:00.000-05:002004-01-11T18:00:21.933-05:00

Last- minute Cravings His clasp tight on my leather shoulder as he consoled me on the death of Jabra Like him, he had smelt of sunlight on wet pavements. Later, he had smelt of cheddar cheese as I’d stooped to kiss his cheek. His clasp was now Frail and yellow. High and away His constellation had expired Yet, he was still craving lemon ice-cream And, Leena was always going to ‘Frosty’s’ to get

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1073726520341461752004-01-10T04:21:00.001-05:002010-06-12T22:52:06.659-04:00

An Afternoon Chat in His OfficeWe tackled the ‘Concept of Death’while Death squatted on his shoulders,played with what was left of his hair,and gazed at me as a likely prospect.Dark clouds would pass, behind himwhen Death would block out the sun,and still we spoke of sunrise.I was preachingthe Rules of Thumbfor the game of ‘going’and all the while,I was fingerless.....‘Rage, Rage, against the

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1073726419529826122004-01-10T04:20:00.000-05:002004-01-11T18:01:08.026-05:00

WET ANTS And after they brought in coffin no.11, I stopped carrying ants off the wet basin, into tile cracks. -not unless their antennas screamed for help. I couldn't carry ants! My shoulders would shiver -though they were really lighter than coffins... I wish I could've carried all those khaki limbs out of those blood baths into some haven in time's endless crevices, but God never

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1073725703126645502004-01-10T04:04:00.000-05:002005-06-29T13:18:25.866-04:00

Father...At night when in peace with God's wordsthe ones that I will to read for youyou comeyour spectacles reflect a yearningI know I have to wait for you in slumberFor there you can talk at your dear heart's easeYou smile, like you would when you need me to smile tooYou say nothing...That is until yesterday...I have brought you these my dear...I choose not to think...I cannot fathom...I dare

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1073725433325308972004-01-10T04:03:00.000-05:002004-01-11T18:02:04.963-05:00

Remembering You And so begins the coffee process I stare… Another blank paper goes by… Scribbles of memory enlighten the drab outlook. You arrive, Alive And suddenly, you lie…there underneath the earth, without your glasses, without your smile, without the light in your eyes, Without anything Are you here as I remember? As I relive your presence, relive your words and wish them back? I want to

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1073725244306606412004-01-10T04:00:00.000-05:002004-01-11T18:03:24.040-05:00

Missing You Saying your name is like calling God Your eyes call back, a sad old song in them and yet they smile I realize it is only the wall paper on my screen… I think the energy in my computer stems…from where you lie in the earth…far away Your hands are soft and wise in the picture…they will always be Even God will feel it when he welcomes you to heaven… You are wearing your favorite blue

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1073725067545287912004-01-10T03:57:00.000-05:002004-01-11T18:04:02.210-05:00

An Urge An urge to trace your words in ivory memories An urge to touch the age spots on your fingers and kiss them An urge to talk to your eyes and wipe the slow tears from under the glasses An urge to tug your spirit home…here… An urge to tell you I love you… An urge to let you know that I know, nobody loves me as much as you do… An urge to ask your mind all that I will need to know tomorrow…

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309846.post-1073724973895272102004-01-10T03:55:00.000-05:002005-06-29T13:13:50.356-04:00

FatherI wish I could sit with you….somewhere in heavenOn wicker chairs, brown and silentAnd stare at a serene sunrise quietly….I wish I could put my finger tips on your armMy head on your heart and breath in a new morning with youSomewhere else…away from this worldI wish I could pause foreverNot think, not dreamJust feel your presenceSmile and rest eternally, like you…And all this time we would

ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.com