Free Verse # 447 (What does the poet do?)

What does the poet do?—He listens to the silence.

~

Sealed in a kiss
this gift of longing
I received from you
is an ever aching thorn
burning in my heart

~

His kisses on her skin
grains of incense
left to smolder
and cover her
in a sharp fragrance
of jasmine and lust,
filling her lungs
with a slow fire
burning up to her mind,
spreading through her blood,
maddening her senses
with an ever growing yearning
to be claimed by their bond.

~

A lifetime is too short
for me to say what I see
when I look in her eyes

~

What helps you live prepares you to die.

~

With poetry I long
to photograph her soul

~

With you, my unknown women
always seated next to me,
I long for an earth-shattering connection,
deeper than the sea,
wider than the sky.

~

Dressed in the form
of the woman I love
God came to me,
and our union was His prayer,
and our kiss His holy wine.

~

Drinking her lips
I slowly take in
whatever God had meant
by blessing the wine,
by giving existence
His breath of life.

Haiku # 680

Drenched in mist
my heart is a landscape
of eternal longing

~

Long after we parted
her perfume lingered
on my trembling hand

~

Moon in the window
the sound of my heart
breaking before dawn

~

Still caught in my throat
the words I dared not say
at her funeral

~

Buddhas in the snow…
their bald heads wet
with dreams of summer

~

Thawing snow…
the Buddha’s head dripping
with dreams of summer

~

The high mountain…
climbing to a world
of wind and mist

~

All the women I loved
in my memory they bear
the image of your face

~

In my secret life
I find her beauty
in everything I see

~

…اسمها
حتى شعري لا يقوى
على كتابته

Haiku # 679

A day for listening…
in the pine trees
the blowing wind

~

Brume matinal
ma vie semble comme un rêve
qui n’a jamais été

~

Tous les mondes possibles
fondus
dans notre baiser

~

All the possible worlds
melted
in our kiss

~

Beyond the grave
all I’ll take with me
is a ribbon of her scent

~

Rien pour t’offrir
sauf mon cœur
au bout de la nuit

~

I looked into the darkness
and I saw your face…
moon in the sky

Free Verse # 446 (the region of my heart)

Love is the shortest distance between two hearts.

~

Dark brown
her eyes take me back
to the forest
I went into
and never came back –

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Floating on the night air
the smell of jasmine
and orange blossoms
reminds me of her hair,
the way the light glides
along its waving curls,
the way, when I touched it,
I felt a lock open
in the region of my heart.

~

All the kisses
that clang to her skin
flowered in the moonlight
as I undressed her,
silently, slowly,
my gray beard
into her softness pressing
line after line
of poetry.

~

Touching her is a process; its name is poetry.

~

Each year runs
a little faster
since the day I saw
my first white hair

Each year runs
to find my heart
a little quieter
as autumn comes

~

For the poems to come
I close my eyes and imagine
her face

~

Unlabeled
this pulse tying
my heart and hers

Free Verse # 445 (a lonely cabin)

She hated the camera
yet when I photographed her
with poetry’s lens
she looked into my eyes
asking me to bare her
a little more, a little deeper,
to photograph her soul.

~

When I touch you
my heart is still,
like a star being reborn
into the vastness of the sky.

~

Her light is nourishment for my soul.

~

Dawn
on the still breeze
I feel a window
open between our hearts

~

A lonely cabin in a lost wood,
fire in the chimney,
empty bottles of wine,
his voice reading
as her head rises and falls
to the heave of his chest
while his arm surrounds her,
the falling night outside
hiding them
from the eyes of the world.

~

Her perfume of choice –
all that touches her skin
burns with the poetry
of his touch

Free Verse # 444 (with his touch he fuels her fire)

To love her
is to touch her heart
where a hidden world
lives silently
waiting to be known
and be filled with light

~

Je t’aime, il lui dit,
non pas avec ses mots,
mais avec sa présence,
avec son attention,
avec ses yeux.

~

With his touch
he fuels her fire,
clothing her
in the silk of kisses
and tender words,
listening to the heartbeats
pulsating in her skin,
uncovering the love
in her yearning eyes,
feeling through her
to her depth
that is wider than the sky.

~

Self-sufficient
or so I thought
until I felt her presence
and learned what it means
to be alive

~

في صدريَ ملاكٌ اسمُهُ حُبُكِ.

~

Love, my silent tormentor.

~

Not over her skin
but into her soul
his gaze glides
rushing and frothing
in seas and rivers
and reaching deep down
into an endless sky

~

He breathes out
and she aches
to breathe him in,
cradle his breath,
a fire growing
inside of her.

~

Every day
I start it with a poem,
my own way of looking
into your eyes
and telling you I love you,
you who is not here but lives
in the beatings of my heart.

~

Each dawn this ache in my chest
with your soft voice says –
‘here, I am inside of you,
wherever you go
you always carry me
in your heart’

Wandering Thought# 91

What is a poet?—a poem that plays hide and seek with itself; a poem that needs long walks in the sun and rain for it to find itself; a poem that takes a great deal of time to decipher the light in its darkness; a poem that is wasteful with much of its life for it to experience a few precious moments; a poem akin to an open wound, aching and pouring. A poet is a man without a face, standing in the crowd, in his heart feeling and recording everything. A poet is a sky buried in a man, filled with endless distances. A poet is a failed attempt. A poet is an unreachable man. A poet is not ink but life made invisible. A poet is no one. A poet is.

Haiku # 673

…قمر الشتاء في النافذة
قلبي الفارغ
من كل الألوان

~

Patiemment j’attends
le retour de mon cœur
battant dans le tien

~

Valentine’s day…
in her living room
the empty vase

~

Between us
a silent world
traversed by a sigh

~

بيننا
عالم صامت
تعبره تنهيدة

~

قبر الشاعر
تنهيدة ضائعة
في عالم من ريح

امرأة

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