Haiku # 693

بنيتُ لكِ في قلبي
كنيسةً صغيرة
ملأى باسمِكِ

~

In my heart
I built a small chapel
filled with your name

~

Her deep eyes
a perfect day
to fall in love

~

ما أحبَّ الرجلُ امرأةً إلا ولمسَ الشعرُ قلبهُ.

~

أنظرُ في عينيها
ثمَ أقبلها  واحدةً واحدة
أزهارُ بشَرتِها

Landscape

As I hold my pen
her skin under my fingers
stretches into a landscape,
each word I write
spins a little vortex,
a turning Sufi, a small flower,
all spreading across her skin,
spreading like a fire,
dripping into her soul
and coursing deep down,
filling her with more love
than she can understand,
with unbearable gentleness
opening her wide,
opening her to God,
opening her to the sky.

One by one I kiss
the flowers of her skin,
then look into her eyes.

Haiku # 692

In their eyes the stories
we’ve long forgotten –
animals in the wild

~

حتى بعد أن تستحم
تجد رائحتهُ
على بشرتها

~

Mon cœur
à chaque moment du jour
s’envole vers toi

~

وحيداً في الليل
لم يُبقِ الشعر مني
الا قلباً يرتجف

~

If I could choose
one place to touch you
it would be your heart

~

لو كان ليَ أن أختار
أن ألمُسَكِ في مكانٍ واحد
لاخترتُ قلبكِ

~

I do not write for readers; I do not write for the pleasure of writing; I write so I would not forget; I write to remember.

This Conversation

We do not know each other
yet the poem
has always connected us;
in a world of change
this poetry ebbing and flowing
between our hearts
is the only constant,
carrying secret messages
between our souls.

You and me
we’ve always had this conversation,
wordless and mystical,
formless and flowing with pure essence;
without beginning or end
we’ve always been wrapped
around each other,
and this pain that wounds our souls
is the evidence of the place
where we enter each other.

Now, in silence,
I send you this word
to travel on the wind
and find your lips.

Free Verse # 452 (the road to the world)

Sensibilisé par la poésie l’être aime profondément, avec passion et en totalité.

~

I do not write
I only feel my heart quiver
as I touch your face

~

In my mother’s hands
there’s always a seed
growing roots and leaves;
my mother’s hands are always green.

~

I woke up today
to find myself aging,
and you still
a voice echoing
in the distance,
somewhere far away.

~

Poetry is the heir of the mystical essence of religion.

~

The road to the world has always seemed to me to lead through a deep wood.

~

The poem gives me eyes to look at the world beyond my own death.

~

ضاعت بنا السبل
فانتهينا عاشقين
كلٌّ في بلد
 نكتبُ الشعرَ ليلاً
ونحنُ ننظرُ إلى النجوم
علّنا نجدُ فيها شيئاً
من بريقِ الأملِ

Tanka # 210

She didn’t feel
the frost on her skin
until it melted
under the warmth
of his fingertips

~

مشّطتُ شعرها على مهل
وقبّلت الندى على كتفيها
ثم جلست بينما استلقت هيَ
وأمسكتُ القلم وسال الشعر
حبرا على بشرتها

~

Things break,
people die,
friends and lovers
go into the night
and return no more.

Adam and Eva

Like wine in a cellar
this art of touching her
is something that has brewed
for a lifetime within me;
now and then it comes out
as poetry,
now and then
when it cannot be contained
and its flashes
flood through my veins
and its wave carries me
to the wood where we always met
in the deepest recesses of my memory.

I remember to come back
to the future where we are
and I complete the circle
as I write to you know
this love that is within me.

Haiku # 689

The rain is falling…
in silence we sit
listening to the rain

~

كالتائهِ في الليل
بين الكلماتِ أتبع الضو
 الات من بعيد

~

Winter evening –
in my heart the slow burn
old memories…

~

Everyone have left
the road of my life
deepens into the sunset

I lost my sister to cancer on February 03, 2015. This week the doctor told me that my mother’s cancer is terminal, and that her life expectancy is a few months at best.

Wandering Thought # 104

Contemplation has always had to battle against the values of the market, but in no age did these values reign absolute as they do today. They are upheld religiously — and therefore, invisibly — and have sneaked in to transform every institution and discipline, including that of philosophy, from the ground up. In addition to having made the life of man uninteresting and small, they have also made him increasingly stupid. Soon he will have to relearn his most basic skills — seeing, hearing, reading, thinking. They never allow him a moment’s rest as he is constantly pushed to perform and produce. They are the ultimate tyranny, seen by none, upheld by all.

Wandering Thought # 103

When you remember, which comes first, the image or the feeling? I venture to say that it is the feeling that calls out the image and frames it, giving it its depth, hue and texture — it sears it, as though in fog. Many feelings remain after being uncoupled from their original images, and so they create images of their own. This is well known to all poets and artists.