Diaries with her- Part 1

She has an incisive way

of speaking to both men and women alike

a maverick; preferring to be perceived

as different,  staid and furtive

She, among them all, instilled in me

a love of life.




My Thoughts About You

It is night here

the gloomy stars, and the silent neighborhood

It is loud

my mind and you visiting quite often

holding your favorite book in one hand

and my music cassette player in the other


My music is playing

and you are reading our favorite book

intoning our favorite lines

And I lose my ability to write



My Home

Nobody leaves home

unless home is a fire

waiting for gasoline to break out

Maybe we are defensive

because home was angry

because home was insecure

was afraid of its ability

to hold my hand and walk me out of fire

Here, home is a refugee camp

bigger than our dreams

Here home is a United Nations blue tent

reminding us of their petition

requesting us to have a good life

I mean what else could we ask for?

we have food, water and shelter

but water is leaking from the tent’s roof

and my dreams are leaking too

home is the a selfish mouth

ignoring the hunger of its people

feeding millions of us with blood

and poverty

when all we asked for was food


I want to run

but all what I could run to

is a red street

is a soldier armed to the teeth

is a kid meeting their Waterloo

is my father biting the bullet

and I asked you home

where should I go?

Will I be homeless?

and you answered me with a loud, merciless voice

plagiarizing a line from Sir Winston Churchill

“I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat”

But, home

I thought of you

as my knight in shining armor

I have seen you in the river,

flowing towards my dreams

I have heard you

in people’s prayers for God

and I wondered if you have a God

or if you made God of yourself


Home, perhaps you should question

your definition of security

and safety

perhaps my lack of patriotism

is the result of your ignorance

Perhaps home is a window

or America borders

or old, deserted French streets

or corners

or movie lines

or music, tucking us into bed after weary days

or books, mapping out our dreams on pages

or boys trying so hard to love us

by promises and rings and white tulips

maybe home is me not wanting to go home

is me making home out of streets

and blankets out of the sky

is me loving roadsides

more than my bedroom

is me talking to strangers

because sometimes they look so much like home

or maybe home is my father

peeling oranges with his black nails

until the taste is a mixture of his tired hands and sweet sour

nobody leaves home

unless home is a selfish mouth

unless home is a broken heart

unless home is a refugee camp

unless home is a fire

waiting for gasoline to break out



Would You Do?

Would you love me
when I am old and fatigued
when my bones are conspicuous
and all what I carry is weariness

Would you love me
when I lay writhing in pain
and my heart shows no mercy
or forgiveness
for any soul
When I am faint-hearted
and all I do is weeping bitterly

Would you love me
when our oak grows old
and our thatched cottage
feels blue
Would you do?
Would you do?
Would you do?