keeeptalking

October 1, 2015

Miracle

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.

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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.

C

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

August 15, 2015

A few lines of hate

Filed under: Poetry,Society — by Zuhair @ 7:29 pm
Tags: , ,

So great an energy travels through me,

defying you, you vile establishment,

plagued with stereotype,

designed to control, seeking punishment;

greedy to determine right from wrong

yet ignorant of the value of good things,

and oh! How I have yearned for so long

to escape you. Me, you sting.

So great a hope travels through me,

in rebellion against you,

in search of my spirit,

that you so hungrily sought to destroy

through deprivation of love;

through seizure

of happiness

and destruction of adventure.

So great a life possesses me

in my shunning away

of you and your wickedness –

Oh! Every day long owing to this, every day-

against you, you vile creature,

and your hunger for sadness

and your impatience with emotion,

and your allergies to happiness.

And no. The fault is not yours.

It is theirs, those loathsome beasts.

It is they who poison you,

so we blister too.

December 17, 2014

A thought ..

Filed under: Poetry — by Zuhair @ 4:59 pm
Tags:

With little feet,

they sidle slowly …

muttering, stuttering

swiftly

as they go left and right,

chattering as they bite

into the many depths;

the blues, the greens and reds

of life, of living,

of death, of surviving.

Louder and louder they get,

more and more they fret,

older and older they grow,

giving life to more –

dancing to the tune of the mood

from the innocent to the lewd;

and they are of comings

and of goings …

and they cannot be stopped

and they will not be silenced.

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Amal Ahmed Albaz

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

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