Doorless Key

These letters are want the days
That I’ll remember few,
When we galloped fields of sage
And valleys of featherfew.

There you hummed a poets lines,
When of sage rose grape vines;
And threaded the night a gown
With lamp lights that littered town.

I couldn’t as a stranger pass
As you dressed a virgin land,
A language braided of the past
With a homeless heart and handless hand.

So  your hills I braved
When you unearthed to me,
As we with night behaved,
Where you conceived a doorless key.




A Mourning Harvest

Have  I found my self in a child’s breath,
Lost amongst the olives branches and figs,
Or in the language of  blossoms themselves
Mourning in her basket at dawn?

“Take me back, take me back” I call to her,
“I still do not know from where I came.”

The illusion of our choice is called away
In the broken road to the market;
Cobbled musings, dreams of an old mans coffee,
Sown by the roadside seamstresses of our past.

“Who are they, do they not see you?”
Her basket sways innocently forgotten.

And in the shouts of Ramallah’s market,
The mourning of the day is cultivated.
I am left to a stranger by her hands,
An in those hands I remember being taken away.

Atop my Home

The sky was then my roof,
Upon our years, stories.
I felt winds that carried
Humanities treaties…

The sky spilled into
The stairwell
And swept me down,
I passed a century
And near the bottom was found.

Black birds flew above
Shedding their iron feathers
Laying their cloth of ruble,

How their whispers spelled trouble.

With me was the sky
As heavy as the years,
And with me i thought i should
Then have it, even so, near.