Haiku # 675

Batroun, Lebanon, March 2020

My touch in her skin
a wave at dawn unfurling
a white frothing sea

~

Minuit…
dans son visage brule
la flamme du sommeil

~

His touch
a warm sunlight filling
the cracks in her soul

~

Batroun, Lebanon, March 2020

Spring twilight
I sip my tea and gaze
at the rising moon

Haiku # 534

Returning from the fields
the light of the moon washing
the dust off my face

~

Sur une branche de lune
l’oiseau perché écoute
le silence de la terre

~

Batroun, November 2017
Batroune, November 2017

From the empty chairs
her silhouette watching
the dark rolling sea

Free Verse # 394 (a bag of poetry)

Wanderer
chasing flowers
fallen from her hair,
on the pathways of the world
traveling
carrying nothing
but a bag of poetry.

~

A woman who can grant me
the love I always longed for,
between us the silence
of the poem-sky.

~

Summer in a vineyard…
grape by grape
from her skin falling,
a wine burning velvet
in the cup of poetry.

~

batroun-february-03-2017
Batroun, February 03, 2017

Shriveled kisses
in the midst of winter…
figs clinging still
to the promise of the sky

~

Writing always follows
a sacred ritual,
her fragrance burning
along the edge of the pen.

~

Poetry is always a companionship, an intimacy between two beings.

~

Humans are doorways opening unto little ponds or great oceans, water bodies as small or as great as the deeps of our longing, the rootedness of our understanding and love.

Free Verse # 384 (my book of love)

batroun-november-2016
Batroun, November 2016

In my book of love
and so long as I can remember
I’ve been writing you
a poem each day,
and each day
I’ve been burning
this poem in your heart,
its smoke the incense
that fills my lungs,
the perfume that scents
the vineyard of my nights and days.

~

He drew her to his chest
like the arms of the forest
draw the falling leaves
in heaps over the breast of the earth
to eternal sleep and rest.

~

Dawn finds us,
two bodies shivering wet
interlocked inside the fist
of a single heartbeat,
the vapor of our skin
mist drifting in the wind,
filling the rivers and forests
with love’s ancient voice,
a soft moan unfurling its dew
on the cheeks of the green earth.

~

Like darkness in the wine
she resides in my soul,
the ferment of my longings,
my ache and hope.

~

Avec toi je marche
à l’infini des étoiles,
à la place d’où est tombé
le premier des poèmes.

~

Dirt under my fingernails,
dust on my clothes,
all day since dawn
in her vineyards I toil,
at night I fill my soul
with the wine of her mind.

~

My breath at dawn…
petals burned
in the fire of longing,
their ashes
in the rising sun
an aura of fragrance
whispering your name.

~

…and I with my ear
on night’s heaving chest
hear your name uttered
in wisps of dew and starlight…

~

The owl on your favorite teacup
hoots in the lonely night,
‘where are you? where are you?’
no one crossing over
to touch me with your light.

Haiku # 431

No words to say
only heartbeats hushed
in the ear of the moon

~

Quieter each year
only speaking
with the light of the moon

~

Misfit heart…
a patchwork of poetry
inked in silence

~

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Batroun, November 06, 2016

Ending the day
her breath, a shawl
wrapped around my neck

~

batroun-november-06-2016_1
Batroun, November 06, 2016

In my teacup
steeping
the white leaves of the moon

Free Verse # 374 (alone in my fortress)

Alone in my fortress
of tea and poetry,
a trail disappearing
amid worded trees,
lost inside the pages
of books and memory.

~

She is there for a moment,
a verse of poetry,
a wandering firefly
vanishing in the moon.
She is there for a moment
but then she disappears,
the moon remains
and the heart wonders.

~

Bravely she carried her heart
like an altar burning with strange fires
where only the purest poetry
can be given for a sacrifice.

~

Silent long enough
the word will speak,
poetry will come.

~

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Artist unknown

Autumn’s red leaf…
his seed in her
a nimbus moon

~

batroun-october-2016
Old streets of Batroun, October 2016. My photo.

Wandering old streets…
the footsteps of those long gone
falling like dew.

~

batroun-october-2016_1
Batroun, The Phoenician Wall, October 2016. My photo.

The sun has set,
through the waves of the night
I sift
searching for a curl
of your voice
to tuck against my heart,
a spark from your eyes
to light a candle
in the darkness of my soul.

~

I live off the solitude
of poetry,
a hermit
wandering the hillsides
collecting simple flowers
to plant in her hair.

~

Her navel, the birthplace of the moon.

~

This night
poses her hands
on my shoulders
like a forgotten lover
who wants the world to burn
with desire for her kiss,
so I burn and kiss her
with the lips of poetry.

Free Verse # 351 (the prophecy of her skin)

Mad with the prophecy
Of your skin
My hands prowl
The streets of the night,
My fingers coursing
Like burning rivers
Into your womb
Of poetry.

~

In each woman
A hidden core spins
Birthing the whole world.
To touch a woman is to live
In its velvet mystery.

~

O cloistered heart,
However high its walls
No garden is hidden
From bee and butterfly.

~

Kfarhay, March 13, 2016
Kfarhay, Batroun, Lebanon, March 13, 2016

All the roads spread
From the root source
Of her heart.
Traveling I always
Roamed through her veins,
Swam in her blood.

~

We have not met
But at night
My dreams and hers
Collide
And rain in showers
Of breathless stars.

Haiku # 220

Amid fallow hills
the river of dusk…
fading birdcalls

~

In a dark tree
a wounded bird
sings his last song

~

Why linger
when you can fade…
leaf in the sky

~

On my pillow
a flower’s lost fragrance…
thick cover of night

~

A moment’s solace…
the trees dancing
with the evening wind

~

Batroun, July 07, 2015
Batroun, July 07, 2015

In the glow of sunset
my heart alone travels
a ship without sails

Reciting Neruda

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The sea at Batroun on April 12, 2015

Reciting poetry as the sea goes on singing, careless, eternal, folding me under its waves like a creature made of salt dissolving into the eternal womb that shaped him. Maybe tomorrow I’ll find myself flung amid the sunlit curves of a woman, seashells bloomed into white flowers, sipping at her pores; or I’ll be a string of pearls rocking against her warm breasts, adorning them as dewdrops made of milk, the froth of the sea; or I’ll be a dash of salt etching into her skin the restless tears burning in the belly of the sea. Alike, for now my bones melt, and this song that I am is thrashed into oblivion under the hammering waves of the infinite monster, this beautiful blue beast.