poem
POETRY / Cyan is my name when I talk about you
I'm tired of living with this nagging thought that we'll cross paths someday, /You and I
POETRY / Seventeen
Seventeen Springs cloaked in December, Have flown by.
POETRY / Relaxed reminiscences
(For Lutfa, Nayeem, and Aarong Herbal Hair Pack)
POETRY / The hills
They say the hills have eyes Iridescent, all knowing, and deathlike.
POETRY / A Desire or death eats away at my corpse. You are basking in the sun
Do you want my hands/ Will they be enough to keep you warm
POETRY / Can loneliness be a disease?
Am I allowed to hold on to you? / But you are waves of serendipity, / Moving forward in each clutch
'Resist': Sehri Tales selections, Day 11
The top selections in poetry, flash fiction and artwork for Day 11 of the Sehri Tales challenge; prompt: Resist
POETRY / Sleepy ghost flight
You have made ice out of my heart;/ we were once nothing–you brutalise me
POETRY / To the Newton of Gaza
Words were never my greatest strength/ But the arsonist's child will read them
'Rescue': Sehri Tales selections, Day 2
The top selections in poetry, flash fiction and artwork for Day 2 of the Sehri Tales challenge; prompt: Rescue
‘Ignite’: Sehri Tales selections, Day 1
The top selections in poetry, flash fiction and artwork for Day 1 of the Sehri Tales challenge; prompt: Ignite.
My inner rebel & I
How do I tell her, that things often don't work out the way you expect them to, / And that you are, in fact, alone in this
In another life, I’d still live as her
I've lived as her;/ I've known my mother’s plight.
My Parents’ Window
Years later, when I would no longer live in my parents' room and grow to have my own,/ I would disregard all the hours I had spent by the window staring at beetles hiding.
Sweet shop vendors
We will chase after stringless kites, Down the road
Tongue
I heard myself speak today It made me want to Cut out my tongue.
Bloom
But I bloom like a flower:/ Soft and strong.
Spring
Autumn transcended Winter– / Crispness in the air fell pale.
palestine is my grieving mother
rise, rise—now evening dies: sun-born in valleys with burning olive trees—where women like me plod one day at a time,
