the sanctity of the fairy tales we hold close, lies in the impossibility of those places. I marvel and cherish such a utopia,because its beauty is in that I will never reach it,no one will ever reach it and it will therefore stay perfect forever.everything we touch we tarnish.
Tag: nostalgia
dear syria dear egypt,
i thank the forces that be, every day, that my memories of you will always be free of fear or aggression. I think of you every day and how beautiful you were then, how lucky i am to have seen you before all of this. have the faith in me and mine that your shores… Continue reading dear syria dear egypt,
on stone
my mother thriving,my father now dusty bones,my parents are like my countriesand I am the land between the deserts and the prairies.America and my home Kingdom,they are nothing alike.Like my parents, they are divided by simple things, small ideas,that still keep them worlds apart.my worlds, my parents, both are wrought with ancient passions and dust,nothing… Continue reading on stone
on tradition
to acknowledge nowwhat i never knew i didn’t know then,to remember your lonelinessin the midst of my history(unbroken, thriving, culturally relative)is to say to myself youyou and every tradition you had,you were wrong.and there is never any going back
Jordan calls to my bones In throbs of Bedouin drumbeats, Saying: here your heart is home. Like the muds of the dead sea, I have fermented in my history, And it sits heavily upon me sealing and healing my cuts and scrapes with stinging mystery. In the lights of Amman And the fields of Shatana… Continue reading
on aging
I fear for my memories of the indian ocean, drying and curling at the edges like the yellowed pages of my favorite book. i fear the helpless sag of the skin around my smile,and, with something to lose, i lie awake marinading in terrorover mental atrocities likewhat to do to accept your mother’s mortality,how to… Continue reading on aging
just a reminder:
even a drop in a bucket still makes ripples.
On scarring
The ones on my arms from Catching corners and cat claws, They’ve faded and blended and I I do not remember the stories behind them. I look at your letters some days and hope for the same mercy there
On melting
It might be the heat but it feels Like early summer breeze: The valley is hollow and swollen, waiting For sun then rains and Sticky sweat on lover’s necks and skirts to ruffle from now to then It might be summer but it felt Like home, Like in all the melancholy of late afternoon heat… Continue reading On melting
On weekdays
why does it feel so good to dwell and wallow,and why do all the pretty songs make me sad-worthless questions that I use to deflectlike a windbreakerthe gusty surprise of my empty yard, there is just wood to shield my walls from this windy dayand the subsequent pressure of staying uprighthas all my sturdy weeds… Continue reading On weekdays
Garbanzo Bae 