Plunged into the blue waters, where we’re unburdened by the gravity of our landward lives. We are weightless and free all the children of the sea. Loaded with pockets of air the barrel of my head forgot how to breathe; I sink to atmospheric tides that serve me with fresh shots of oxygen. The gas trapped on land got too stale for me to breathe. Slowly I pass through the threshold of 15 metres under the Dibba Rock and my air-sick ears didn’t take long to adjust. I stay naturally buoyant suspended between this world and mine, I breathe life between the ocean bed and surface line. Here is the kind of place where I could put down my roots, live out an idyllic being, imagining my life in a coral townhouse. But for me to stay, would be severely fatal. I’m just a visitor and my visa is about to expire, I look back one more time as my head breaks out to the surface and the sun stings. I blinked.
Burning rust on the horizon I settle on the bottom of the ocean floor,listening to fish folk stories that yearned to taste the blues of the sky. Dead skeletons of a dead fish lay on the shore, done with all the flipping and flopping, he lay there with his mouth open. Like he had begged for the ocean to take him back. But, it didn’t. It didn’t like most do. Do dead fish have a heaven or hell? Do they have a bucket list or some type of story to tell. Or do they end up like a washed up trick choking depths of unseens sights? Did he wonder what the sky tastes like or did get sick from all the salt in the sea life. Did bigger beasts of the seas put him up to a fight, or was he the one to stay far away from their sight. Has he seen the bottom of the ocean in all its glory, or just swam where the bubbles could rise. Did he swim along the great white sharks in circles or has he spoken to ancient eels from different tides? Has he hovered near sea turtles swimming on their backs for millenniums.
What to him was a mystery? A fish out of water, separated by land and sea.
Golden sunset glow drips down my skin, slanting the shadows and drifting the blaze of the hot summer gaze. I want to smear the sunset with something other than the orange light, how about I paint it with the colour of your deep brown eyes? Bold on your eyelashes that guard the windows of your soul. Like picket fences caging the wild horses that refuse to be tamed, every time I look into the colours of coffee-roast, I ask for to be named.
It’s well past midnight but you’re still on the roads, bending over the handlebars with the wind in your bones. Asphalt streets curve and stretch, your hamstrings work overtime forming heads of sweat. Nothing like flying through the cemented jungles on a metal frame that is driven by your pedal. For each push and pedal beneath your feet, cycling your way never leaves you beat. Put your metal to the steel and you will see how life on wheels.
He knocked over the cup spilling all the milk onto the floor,
the topless cup swirled in the flux creating imaginary snow angels.
He accidentally fell into the milkiness of thoughts in white;
Like a ball of dust in a storm rolling to the tunes of a sultry breeze.
The al naseem twist his views as it whistles and howls past,
his dangerous heart seeks dark pretty strangers that will never have a name.
He blew rings of smoke into his lungs before he stubbed to give up yet again.
Filling his veins like the delicate stream of warm milk on the floor.
Fear in his bones of the unknown, he feared the routine,
as the empty carton of milk sat on the edge of the table.
Wishing it would all end his lungs withered.
He gathered the streams of white into a frothy puddle:
the more he gathered, the stickier it got.
Don’t cry over split milk, but it was the crying baby who gets it.
The fool just sits there with his wounds being salted by the passing sea breeze.
She is a lunatic and a beauty on the edge.
In a world that screams for her to change everything she wants to be,
She celebrated every fall by dancing in her favourite gown.
She flew sixty feet above the ground because her spirit never learnt how to crawl.
She threw her heart around and made mistakes, like loving never caused her any heartbreaks.
She didn’t do things the normal way, she questioned every why without raising her hand high.
She read books of poetry and drank her white wine,
She loved her alone which filled most of her time.
Through this was where she mapped her way across the world,
The streets she would walk and conquer what the tides hurled.
One poem at a time, she wrote her wordsinalign;
It was her mind that was ammunition, it was what men marked as a waste of time.
Pretty faces win arguments more often than the ones with hearts that win wars.
What were people hoping to express, if all they see is four walls.
A tornado of love and chaos, when she opened her heart she filled the skies with fireworks,
Painted her destruction coloured walls with shades of the rainbow.
Like a wild card entry that knew she didn’t have to be like the rest,
It was love that she spoke about in a world that was deaf.
While people wore small holes in their large shoes,
She ran around with larger holes and drank her booze.
She was proof of what happens when you cross the grass,
Smirked at every person who said “Thou shall not pass”.
Being alone in a country you don’t know can get lonely. They said.
But have you ever wondered how it would feel like to be lost in an unknown land with no one you know as coming home to an East?
You walk the tall streets with signs written in words you can’t speak.
You sit down in a coffee shop that makes your coffee bitter and strong, and you listen to the bustling noises of the door swinging open, footsteps on the staircases, the blender crushing the beans and the music that faintly plays in the background of supercars and trucks that make traffic a struggle to get through. Because they are always going somewhere.
There is something about this coffee shop on SZR as I sit down to write poetry, I wonder how many conversations have happened on these tables before me. Has anyone laughed, cried, sorted out their break up, made up, kissed, said words they wanted to take back or sometimes didn’t. Has anyone written them into a song, a poem or maybe a letter even? I am sitting here where life has woven their conversations into poetry and left me as a spectator to arrange words like birds sitting on an electrical line. Imagining emotions that give me chills in my spine.
I love this solitude that stirs my soul like the wind does to the sand dunes piling them on like salted honey during the most beautiful sunset you have seen. I like to lose cities in myself, like the lovers who have lost themselves right here on this table. I want to carry the ache they have across all the countries I set foot into and heal them with every passing day.
Alone? What do you do for fun, they ask! I’m busy. As busy as the Dubai city streets with a soul as colourful as it’s sunsets. It’s not complicated, just a passion about keeping my flame alive.