a talk with god
Conversation with God.
Saw God at dawn he was naked had loose skin
on his stomach after given birth to the world,
he looked like Saddam Hussein when soldiers
humiliated Iraq by pressing his face down into
the dirt and we knew they had not come to free
that country, but to install a puppet regime.
Gave God a burnoose and a cane, prodded by
a soldier, who called him a dirty Arab, we left
the burning town of Tyre. God is in everything,
he smiled at the solder’s remark, as the soldier
was about to strike God’s face, he froze into
a statue and was carried away in a stretcher.
I said to God: “why don’t you freeze the hole
army, bend every gun so they shoot themselves
in the ass?” “That’s enough from you, don’t be
vulgar, God said. “It’s about free will, you are
not marionettes, but my flesh and blood, you’ll
get it right one day even if it’s going to kill me.
rate this poem: 
Shipwreck
Shipwreck.
The Barents was unruly, grey and cold, the ship
was afire from engine-room to bridge; abandon
ship! The crew dutifully did, but her captain
stayed in case she didn’t sink and tugboats came
claiming her. He went to hide in the fo’c’sle,
away from the heat of the fire, but wasn’t alone
the cook sat there playing his mouth harmonica
trying to calm the sea; it relaxed, but remained
mortally cold; and the fire burnt itself to cinders.
For three days they lived on burnt potatoes and
exploded cans of tuna fish; the cook played on
keeping the sea unruffled and driving the captain
quite insane. When tugboat came the captain said:
” She is mine!” ”And mine” the cook modestly
murmured. The lifeboat was found, tableaux of
deadly art. In a tranquil bay, on a isolated stretch
of the southerly coast, in a church made of timber
from schooners of the past, there was a funereal,
the captain’s, he had succumbed to incessant grief.
Few mourners came, but the cook was there.
rate this poem:
the banal & obsolete
The Banal & Obsolete.
So many lost words out there blowing on
dry asphalt, obsolete looking for a meaning,
at times picked up by a poet, but quickly
disregarded, who wants to called old fashion?
Take the word “Fuck,” shocking first time
it appeared in a sentence applying to the sin
of sex that might entail pleasure, or if within
marriage: duty, jutting jaws, serious erection.
“Fuck” has gone all oral now and only plays
on the tongue as a banality; no self respecting
sentence, struggling for order, deep meaning
and military precision, will dream of using it.
rate this poem:
breasts
Breasts
In a picture-book about Africa, at
the children’s section in the library,
we saw naked female breasts, big
ones, small, elongated and nubile
ones that pointed up. Unthinkable
showing a white woman’s breast,
but black breasts were in the same
section as lions, zebras and rhinos.
Boys’ smutty hands, pages falling
off, giggle behind literary shelves.
rate this poem:
lebanon the med pearl
Lebanon, the Med, Pearl
in Beirut 1964 I met, at the pristine beach, a Saudi Arabic princess, but it’s so long time ago that it could be that she
was just a young woman cleaning a princess’s flat. Mind,
I didn’t really meet her, saw her stroll along the promenade looking like a fairytale, gold earrings putting the sun to
shame. There were of course more easy women around, but
none of them were of royal blood, they had handbags and
wore too much make-up. Beirut then was were the rich played and poverty was ignored, till someone became morally upset
and a new war began; who can blame them, oil wells belongs
to the state and not to sheiks. …And than there was a new country, like a thistle under the saddle of a horse, wild with anger, untameable ever since, but life in Beirut was so easy
then, the days, long ago, when I mingled with royalty.
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Wanting It All
If I choose I know that I
Will strip away my sanity,
For either way I know I’ll lose
So that is why I cannot choose.
rate this poem:
Inept Relations
Many days I think of words spoken
Blending with moods and moments
And images of your smiling eyes,
The smell of your skin,
The pounding of my heart
At the nearness of you
And the completely inept way
We trudged through feelings
Like children in snowdrifts.
Many nights I wrestle
With lost chances and times
When you or I could have said
One thing, and the skies
Would have opened,
Pouring and releasing us
From this self imposed
Prison of fear and tension
And pent up longings.
Sadly reasoning, my mind so connected
With my heart, I understand
The goodness that saved us
From grave mistakes, though to me
These mistakes seem worthy of reflection
Because you are so beautiful
And I am at a loss of knowing
How to purge you from my memory,
How to reconcile this loss.
rate this poem:
I`m Lebanese
I’m Lebanese.
Today I’m a Lebanese, see the world with
an Arab’s eyes, what I see of the west isn’t
a pretty picture; many occupation by foreign
armies now it’s the US/Israel who callously
kill babies in their mothers’ arms, but these
fiends shall not win, we will prevail.
Today I salute of the Hezbollah they have
made us proud, showing that the enemy’s
brutality is but cowardice. They, the brave
soldiers of god, that it is us Arabs, Moslem
or Christian, who fight the war on terror
coming from the west.
rate this poem:
The hyena
The Hyena.
When sun baked dust settles there will be a vacuum
called peace, they will be there waiting, the big firms
and builders ready to reconstruct Lebanon, millions
to be made; dross will be forthcoming by nations who
feel the burden of guilt and demonstrate it, for future
references. “We are all brothers, are we not?” It’s easy
to clear a blocked road, built high rise flats and bridges,
but how do you clear a path to the heart of man clogged
by grief, anger and hate? How do we repair shattered
minds, by sending in a team of psychologists? “It was
all for the best, dear.” Unless the hyena, that laughs in
the night, can be trained to be a guard dog, a defender
of its weaker neighbours, should we cage it or failing
that, expel and make the beast lair-less?
rate this poem:
bad silence
Bad Silence.
The past mustn’t be forgotten, it’s a useful
compass for the now, but it shouldn’t be
an excuse to commit atrocity against people
who has a clear conscience, unlike Europe
which cowardly, as before, fail to speak up
and prevent the slaughter the innocent in
fear of being called names. So the awkward
silence continues, a nation has lost its soul,
the crocked cross will be hoisted, someone
will say:” Typical, they are all like that.”
Lambs blood spilt, the raven of hate opens
its night wings and flies again.
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