They wonder why
She sits there
Speaking language she didn’t choose
Getting much too close
To forgetting her mother tongue
Wings sealed in a box
Her brown locs
Painted blonde
They wonder why she changed
She only did it
To survive
All articles filed in love
Forever
Forever is a long time
But when it comes to you
Forever is the minute
I didn’t give up on you
Self Love
Don’t forget to nurture your soul
…
You lost your pieces
Those that made you, you
And now you wander
Forgetting what you loved
To do
Sorry| Short Poem
They poisoned the dogs in my street
They said I can no longer give them food to eat
But I’d always eat half my plate
Save it for midnight
When it’s much too late
Then I go running with the wild dogs
They poisoned the dogs in my street
And I still refuse to eat, the food on my plate
.
.
Image Credit HERE
Science
It wasn’t about the things we knew
But about the things we’re yet to discover
The earth reveals a view
Like no other
And I stand amazed by every particle
Wishing to unveil everything a bit better
Love
Brother my chains are heavy
Sister, give them to me
The Tree and Me
Not much difference between you and I
Branches bare
Extended to the sky
Feeling the leaves falling
Insanity calling
And our heads remain high
We’re not different, you and I
Our roots extended beyond our view
And we are judged by where we were planted
Not by what we do
We bare fruits that offend the palate of few
But oh they don’t know the healing that we can brew
.
.
Image credit HERE
The Pond, Part 2
An unexpected visitor
The bird that sat on her window, it looked familiar as if it belonged to a different place
She can see that the city was not his place
Maybe he followed her train to where the trees don’t grow
Where the cars’ noises block the voices in her head
She can no longer hear her best friend—the inspiration
Looking out of her cold studio apartment’s window, she can’t see the stars
Her lover’s words resonate in her ears, he was right—she misses counting the bright pins in the sky
That yellow cheerful bird’s singing covered all the other noises around her
She wondered if he had been a messenger, if he carried a letter from The Pond for her
Although her apartment stood high above the man-made trails beneath
It was no match to the mountain she used to live on,
The broken kitchen counters that he’d promised to fix,
The cotton filled pillows, the wooden chair he proudly carved.
She closes her eyes humming with the bird, harmonies she once knew so well
She can smell it, the pond’s stench—what she hated and loved so much
But it escapes her before she can capture it; she wished to paint it on her pale grey wall
The memories were too old, and the paint has run dry.
Trees
The dead trees cried to me once
It is cold here
Help me—too big to have a shelter, too attached to my roots to move
The cold winters took away my loyal leaves
Left me with naked branches, lonely
Cover me…help me
But I didn’t hear them; I was too cold to pay attention
(By me, written March 2010)
The Pond, Part 1
A hesitant kiss on the cheek, close to her mouth,
He doesn’t know what to do, can’t stop the train.
Soon she’ll be gone.
The frogs in the pond, he yelled, they are begging you to stay… it’s not just me!
These trees! They cried all night while you laid between the sheets.
And you know the cricket, that one that you asked me to take outside, he sung by our window all day long…it’s not just me dear, it’s not just me!
She couldn’t look him in the eye. One way ticket is all she can afford. Is all she wanted– secretly.
The vibrations of the ground told him that the train is near.
There’s nothing he can do
He looked at her, with a sad smile: “look at me darling!”
“You know, the mountains won’t meet the flat ground you’re going to…the smell of hot concrete will make you miss the pond’s stench. The stars! They won’t be visible dear! Won’t you miss the stars?”
Her cold hands that he held on to were so warm once.
She wasn’t in love anymore. The pond was a thing of the past…she’s ready for the next train.
She didn’t even pack her cloths
A hand bag is all she took, filled with papers and colored pens… and a dried old flower that he couldn’t remember giving to her.
She hasn’t stopped loving him; she just needed a new muse.
Her fuel was inspiration and the pond has run out.
(By me, written Feb 2012)
