Posted in Poetry on March 28, 2007 | Leave a Comment »
How it fills me
The word,
The abrupt but definite,
Irreversible awareness
Of death.
A lot like death itself
Not flaunt but proud
A thought I
Inwardly wear
To adorn my soul.
Truly,
How will I feel
Facing death
The way I face my
Breakfast ,
Every morning
Unarmed and resigned.
Death grows from a word
Blooming on the tips
Of my fingers
Firm breast buds
Of what I could
Have done.
Posted in Uncategorized on March 25, 2007 | 5 Comments »
Gracious God!
One can not feel good about what one has unless one disgraces what the others have.I was reading this article at “Peshku” and just could not resist the temptation.The article expresses an admirable concern about the people who convert from Islam to Christianity, and who apparently live in fear because of their choice.Real as [...]
Posted in Bitchiness on March 24, 2007 | 7 Comments »
Shred the boredom. Horizontally. Vertically. Bug it with a fork, like food leftovers.Sitting beside the table, staring at me, are all the characters and shapes my boredom ever fit into. They are all sighing, frozen in a state of disappointment.Even the paperclip guy is bored or is he simply being bitchy (so to say)…? Silence…then [...]
Posted in Poetry on March 20, 2007 | 4 Comments »
Slowly fill the room
Those gently pouring sounds
That seed little joys.
My silence grows
In white sheets,
A self restraint
Internal silence
Like a not so ripe fruit.
Be it a futile dream
I do dream of love
As a part time job,
Maybe, escaping
A dialectical overdose.
But I know of the day,
So I wait.
My sense of duty
Twirling in a sufi dance.
The unrest [...]
Posted in Uncategorized on March 15, 2007 | 3 Comments »
Long live the internet for making us connect with so many people (though often the wrong ones),
for making us live like cadavers in our own homes, for making us live (already) as a memory in our children`s minds ,
for giving us the chance to flirt at any possible moment of the day or night.
Long [...]
Posted in Poetry on March 11, 2007 | 2 Comments »
The dancer sleeps.
Through my fingers
And the air,
Mute, extends my chest.
More than the lack of change
Its expectation hurts.
Meanwhile
little words
Sprout, under
theatrical lights.
For some reason
I remember
Softly burning wood
While the storm
Uncynically persists,
Outside
And I am little again
Wondering who will
My husband be.
Bletebzz
