January 31, 2017

A stranger called Liberty

Filed under: Poetry,Sociopolitics — by Zuhair @ 5:56 am


Here lies a nation built on stolen land,

to where they brought victims

of kidnapping and called them slaves,

where chances for freedom were slim


if your skin was not a shade of white;

a nation that celebrates its occupation through slaughter and trickery,

to this day, feasting with mashed potato and roast turkey.


Here breathes a nation that screams

Freedom, Justice and Equality

and calls itself great, a place where ‘dreams become reality.


Yet it is this nation in which we see

the white policeman still abusing

the African American after years of fighting;


this great nation, in which we see the same greed

for power that fueled colonization

extending its talons into borders that are not its own and calling it liberation.


Here stands a nation that shows off a large green statue

it named Liberty,

while it has failed to liberate itself from its own corruption and immorality;


a nation that boasts an anthem everyone has heard,

an anthem that shouts out to the unfree,

and welcomes them, but does not free them, because in this nation, you can be anything you want to be.


Yet you are so shocked that she has turned you away?

History warns you of this every day.

For it has no secrets from those who look

up the nations that came and took.


October 10, 2016


Filed under: Poetry,Religion and society,Sociopolitics — by Zuhair @ 6:42 pm
Tags: ,


Which Islam is it you practice,

that makes it correct to burn the virgin

who knows she is too pure for your sin;

that allows purposeless battle,

dismisses the real jihad, and puts faith out like a candle;

that allows the theft of freedom,

disguised with a cry praising the Lord, and a distorted promise of heaven?

But you do not know who God is.

He is not this;

not this falseness you have created, this self destructive spiral,

a coward’s excuse to carry a rifle;

not a free pass to tarnish a little boy’s childhood,

by teaching him that to fight is good;

not that he should play,

And he should pray;

but that he should kill and die, for that is your translation

of the divine manuscript and the way of a god of your creation.

Sins you have purified,

ideologies you have manipulated, and righteousness you have denied

to build control over the minorities,

to misguide the masses.

You spread the fear of a faith, that preaches love and clemency,

that is the embodiment of rightfulness and beauty,

when it is you that should be feared, not your God,

because you lack the fear of the Lord.

What religion is this you preach? It is not of Muhammad, Abraham, David, or Moses.

You are a misguided puppet of earth’s greater forces.

A preaching, a calling, a faith that

only the will of the Greatest  Heavenly Force can combat.

July 22, 2016

The Game

Filed under: Poetry,Society — by Zuhair @ 7:46 am


They took the youth
and sliced their heads off.
It was Zinki? What’re they made of?
Funds from around the world?

19 girls, they put in iron cages
as punishment for dignity. He throws
them into agony, while the masses witness the throes
of the fire and smoke that engulf them.

Are these just stories?
Can we believe what we hear?
They are so far away from here.
Truth is biased.

You leave a home that you have,
and come to a land like you are its heir,
But complain about the humid air.
It’s a home you do not need, but you steal it still.

Innocents are dying because of you;
children, women, men. They are our pearls.
But you keep sewing your ‘home’ with blood stained purls.
All for the sake of a political agenda in religious clothing.

And when ‘terrorism’ knocks on your door,
your uninformed women take your children in their arms,
and uninformed men take up their arms
in the form of media-polished loss and grief.

You take your moments of silence,
so the world forgets those who have been bred
in war, with not even a morsel of bread.
They weep for you, because they understand.

It is everywhere now, the disease of war;
Africa, Syria, America, Nice …
The world has been brought down to its knees.
We are all but pawns in a greater world.

How aware are we? How much do we really know?
We listen; we watch them die.
We watch as their blood becomes dye
to their earth and their soil.

The players watch each other move their Knights.
When threatened, protected, they run,
and hide, forgetting how they have wrung
the earth of the blood of the brave, that spills into the universe.

While a bomb goes off, homes come down
and a little boy prays,
for the absence of humanity, there is no praise.
But there is no condemnation either.

Not from the men in sharp suits,
seated in security, oblivious to the groan
of the countries that have not grown,
but have been murdered by their own.

We can protest, and we can shout
but the pain will not lessen.
We shall forever be haunted by the lesson,
that our leaders have failed us. They are not human.

November 1, 2015


Filed under: Poetry — by Zuhair @ 7:30 pm

In a space, void of light,

a mesh of emotions gnaw at us;

we drop, struggling to hold on

to what we know is already gone.

Yet, we remain,

ceasing to complain

for promises keep us afloat

those we spoke, those we wrote.

Here, they are dead,

our minds and souls stay unwed;

but all is well in the other dimension.

This is but a temporary station.


Image: Both, Jan. 1645. A Rocky Landscape with Peasants.

October 1, 2015


Filed under: Poetry — by Zuhair @ 1:05 pm
Tags: , , ,

It is not the flower

that chooses its own colour,

nor the sun that

controls its heat.

It is not the fuzz of the dandelion

that chooses its function,

and while the chameleon

may choose its location,

its disguise

is but circumstance.

It is not the berries

that choose their own poison,

nor the butterflies

that choose their brilliant pattern.

It is not the caterpillar

that decides to be a butterfly,

nor is it the dew

that chooses, so quickly, to die.

And so it was not me

that made this possible

but you, that chanced upon me

to cause this miracle.

dewdrops on roses

Image: Dewdrops on roses. Zeeniya Zuhair. 2015.

September 15, 2015


Filed under: Poetry,Society — by Zuhair @ 3:35 pm
Tags: , ,

I seek the most perfect words

and the most faultless rhymes

to declare my numbness

to all emotion,

except that which exists in me for you,

for the plain reason

that in being unable

to present it physically

with my being,

I attempt daringly

to convey it with my ink.


Image: William Micheal Harnett. Still life with ink bottle, book and letter.

September 13, 2015

The names

Filed under: Poetry,Religion and society,Sociopolitics — by Zuhair @ 2:46 pm
Tags: , ,

I know Aylan Kurdi

and the others who came

but didn’t live,

to see the end of this game.

Game makers,

in your fancy suits,

The floor is red

but you wear boots.

I know my sisters,

Noor, Raneem and Najla.

and my brothers, Baalousha and Aslan,

Almataouq, Aashoor and Jumaa.

Game makers,

you cannot run forever,

the lives you have taken

will be avenged by another.

I cannot join them

but I know the freedom fighters,

young Ahed Tamimi,

Rachel Corrie and the others.

I have no weapons with me;

I have everything to lose

but I also have my prayers and my love,

and I have my words and my views.

If that is all I have,

then that is what I will give,

because they are fighting death

while I live.


Image: Retrieved from on 2015.

September 6, 2015

A place to go

Filed under: Poetry — by Zuhair @ 2:31 pm
Tags: ,

Let us disappear

into the lush forests of nature,

the magnificent canyons

with deep corridors;

 the green islands

surrounded by turquoise waters;

or the grey and red beaches of Santorini,

to watch the orange sun as it rises and sets patiently.

Let us vanish

into the giant walls

of lost civilizations,

China’s grassland and mountain

that lie around the giant dragon,

into Europe’s fire and ice,

the volcanic islands,

as they slowly sink,

or the coral reefs that guard them, red, blue and pink.

Let us dance

in Mexico, amongst the crystals

buried inside their caves,

the still blue lakes

and their green neighbours,

the cotton castles of Denizli;

the springs and pools of Turkey,

or with the green, grey and azure of Lika,

the waterfalls of Croatia.

Let us frolic

with the migrating monarch butterflies,

the living jewels

of Socotra,

or the emerald green,

turquoise and aquamarine

that play with the pink and blue marble of South America,

or the orange and white daisies of Namibia.

Let us go where lovers go;

be but be invisible,

Let us pray and let us play

Let us be but be unseeable.

namaqualand daisies

Image: Retrieved from on 06/09/2015.

September 1, 2015


Filed under: Poetry,Society — by Zuhair @ 4:13 pm
Tags: , ,

Nothing in this existence can compare

to this, so rare;

so beautiful,

so magnificent and full,

for this belongs to

us. To me and to you.

And I shall not steal,

nor shall I refuse to feel;

for as long as you endure,

so shall I.


August 18, 2015

A melancholy state

Filed under: Poetry — by Zuhair @ 5:45 am
Tags: ,

The beautiful moon cannot glow,

and the rivers cannot so softly flow;

The shy plants cannot turn away,

and the silent night,

sprinkled with secret sounds,

cannot be stolen by day,

as long as we are so separate,

as separate as the moon and the sun,

and the sand and the sky

in so melancholy a state.


Image: Charles Codman. Cabin in the Woods.  1828.

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Rich Harris Poetry Blog Contact via Twitter (@richie_rich77).

Beauty of Modesty

Women in Islam

Amal Ahmed Albaz

Journalist; Poet; Speaker. Superman’s got his cape around his neck; I've got my hijab around my head.


The Children of the Ummah

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